WHEN the men had gone Aline lay thinking, dreaming, building castles in the air. What a narrow escape she had had! Life seemed full of troubles and dangers. Here was she whose life had been a series of misfortunes and now she had only just escaped death, and there was Ian, whose escape had been as close as her own and who was still in uncertainty and peril. He not only had misfortunes but was in danger all the time. “It must be terrible to live in perpetual anxiety,” she thought. “What a pity Ian is a heretic,” she mused; “it means that he is never safe anywhere and it hinders his chances. He is obviously very clever in spite of his humble station. Only think,—if he had not been a heretic he might have become a prince of the church; after all the great Cardinal Wolsey was only the son of a butcher and Ian is better than that. I think his people had a little bit of land. Why, some of these yeomen round here are almost like gentlemen. Ah! but if he had been on the road to a cardinal, I should never have seen him and so I should not be interested in him at all.
“Now I wonder,—but I suppose he could hardly be as clever as all that; but why should he not become a127 great doctor in a university?” and Aline drew herself a vivid picture of Ian as a sort of Abelard gathering thousands of students round him wherever he went. But the picture was spoiled when again she remembered that his heresy would stand in the way. “How cruel they were to Abelard,” she said, “but marry, they are worse now, and that was cruel enough.”
Then her thoughts turned from Abelard to the heart-rending picture of Heloise and her love for him. “She was clever, too,” she thought, “I should like to be clever like that. Why should not a girl be clever? The Lady Jane was clever, as father was always reminding me and then they chopped off her head, alas! So is the Lady Elizabeth’s Grace. I dare say the Queen’s Grace will have her sister’s head cut off, too. I believe the best people always have a sad time. Poor, poor Heloise!”
“I wonder,” she reflected, “if I ever could love like that, with absolute entire whole-hearted devotion, giving up everything for my love,—my friends, my honour, and even the consolations of religion. And yet I believe that’s the right kind of love, not the kind that just lets other people love you. Well, if one can’t be clever or love or do anything that is best without suffering, then I think I would choose the suffering. But, oh dear! it is very hard, I wonder if things get easier as one gets older. I am afraid not. Yet fancy having the praise of one’s love sung by all the world hundreds of years after one was dead! That must have been a love indeed. Ah, Heloise, I should like to love like you when I grow older. Yes, I would rather be Heloise with all her sorrow than the grand ladies who marry128 for wealth or position or passing affection and do not know really what love is at all.
“Yes, and I think I should prefer to marry some one very clever, some one who really in himself was superior to other men, a man with something that couldn’t be taken away like riches or titles or outer trappings of any kind. Yes, my knight must be clever as well as brave. I should like some one like father. But I think I should like him to be great and wealthy, too, although these other things are best. It would be rather nice to be allowed to wear cloth of silver and gold chains, but I suppose that is very silly. I wish father were alive now to help me. I should like to be clever myself, too, and there is no one here who can give me aid. Master Richard does not care about these things; I wonder if Ian would be any good. It’s marvellous what he has picked up. I wonder if he knows Latin. But that isn’t likely. I shall ask him next time I see him, but I suppose I really ought to try and sleep now.”
12 The sumptuary laws very strictly regulated what people were allowed to wear according to their rank.
So she fell asleep and dreamed; and dreamed that she was dressed in velvet and cloth of silver and a gold chain; and a knight in shining armour was kneeling at her feet and calling her his most learned lady.
Aline did not get well very quickly. It was not many days before she was able to get up, but she was much shaken and easily tired, so that she was hardly able to do more than walk a little bit about the house. She was quite unequal to going upstairs and although at her particular request she had gone back to her own room, Richard Mowbray himself used to carry her up when129 it came to bed time. Sometimes he would even carry her out on to the moors, and altogether he paid her more attention than he had been wont to do. This made his wife more jealous than ever and, although at the time it prevented her from ill-treating the child, it only made matters worse afterwards.
One afternoon when she had somewhat gained strength, he carried her out across the court and up the nine steps on to the library terrace. “I am going to take you into the library,” he said as he set her down, while he opened the door. Aline was pleased, as it was now some weeks since she had entered the room.
He seated her in the glorious oriel window at the end, with its beautiful tracery and fine glass, and put her feet up on the window seat. The lower part of the window was open and revealed a wonderful view of the rolling purple moors, while in the foreground was the glassy moat, blue as the heaven above, bright and beautiful, as though nothing untoward had ever happened there.
“It is a nice, quiet retreat this,” he said, “but it was more suited to your great-great-grandfather who built it than to me. My father used to spend a great deal of time here as a young man, but latterly he was almost entirely at his other place in Devon as it suited his health. Of course that has gone now; we are living in hard times, although we still hold the old Middleton property, which is our principal estate; Holwick is only a very small place. But he always took an interest in this library and right up to the last he used to send books up here to add to the collection, but his own visits here must have been very rare.”
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“What was my great-grandmother like, did you ever see her, sire?” said Aline.
“Yes, Aline Gillespie was a very beautiful woman, and exceedingly clever. She was also very gentle and a universal favourite. My great-grandfather, James Mowbray, was almost heartbroken when she married, although he was warmly attached to your great-grandfather, Angus, but it meant that she had to go and live in Scotland. My grandfather was fond of her, too, although he was always a little bit jealous.”
“Do you remember her, sire?”
“I saw her now and then and remember that she used to give me presents, one was this well-wrought Italian buckle, which I still wear on my belt. She was very fond of books too, and there was some talk of my great-grandfather having intended to leave her half the books in this library; but he died rather suddenly and I imagine, therefore, that he had not time to carry out his intention.”
“I suppose then that she would often sit where I am sitting now. How interesting it is to picture it all.”
“Oh, yes, she had a special ambry in the wall, that old James Mowbray had made for her. It is there behind that panel, with the small ornamental lock. I think that the key of it will be about somewhere. The library keys used to be kept in the little drawer in this table at the end.”
“I did not know that there was a drawer,” said Aline.
“I fancy it is made the way it is on purpose, so as not to be very conspicuous. You cannot call it a secret drawer though. I doubt if that kind of thing was in the old man’s line, although he had some strange fancies.131 Yes, here they are,” he said, pulling out the drawer. “See, this is the ambry,” he went on, opening the cupboard as he spoke. “Would you like it for your own treasures?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Then you can have it.”
Aline’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, thank you so much, that is delightful.”
“I am not certain what these other keys are for,” said Master Mowbray. “This is, I think, the key of that old kist which used to have some papers that were at one time of importance relating to the house. If you like to rummage over old things you may enjoy having a look at them. I think that you are a good girl and that I may trust you, but you must remember always to lock it and put everything back. One of the other keys is, of course, the key of the rods that hold the books and the remaining key I have forgotten. You had better take your own key off the bunch, but keep them all in the drawer as before.”
He put the keys in the drawer and came back and sat on the seat opposite her. “I have never heard you read,” he said, “and Audry tells me that you are a fine reader. I have almost forgotten how to read myself, so little do I practise it nowadays. Are you tired, child? Would you read me something?”
“Yes, sire, if it would please you,” she said.
“You can call me Cousin Richard,” he replied. “I remember how my aunt, your great-grandmother, whom you slightly resemble, once read to me in this very room, when I was a boy.”
“Oh, what did she read?”
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“There was one story, a poem about a father who had lost his little daughter, and saw a vision of her in heaven.”
“Oh, ‘Pearl,’ a lovely musical thing with all the words beginning with the same letters. I do not mean all the words; I do not know how to explain it; you know what I mean.”
“Then there was another one about a green girdle and a lady that kissed a knight.”
“Yes, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’; it is a pretty tale.”
“But I think what I liked best of all was Sir Thomas Malory.”
“That is what Audry likes best,” said Aline; “she thinks that some of the books that I read are too dry, because they are not stories, but I am not sure that I too do not like ‘The Morte d’Arthur’ best of all.”
“Read me something out of that.”
She turned to the well known scene of the passing of Arthur. Master Mowbray leaned back against the window-jamb and looked across at her in the opposite corner. The late afternoon sun was warm and golden. She was wearing a little white dress, which took on a rich glow in the mellow light. Over her hair and shoulder played the colours from the glass in the upper part of the window. She knew the story practically by heart and her big eyes looking across at him seemed to grow larger and rounder with wonder and mystery as she told the tale.
Under the spell of the soft witching music of her voice he was transported to that enchanted land, and there he saw the dying king and Sir Bedivere failing to throw133 the sword into the water:—“But go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold ... for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead!” Then followed the passage where Sir Bedivere throws in the sword and the mystic barge comes with the three Queens, and as Richard Mowbray looked over at the little face before him he saw in the one face the beauty of them all. So on the wings of a perfect tale perfectly told he forgot the perplexities and anxieties that encompassed him, and himself floated to the Land of Avilion while he gazed and, like Ian Menstrie, was lured by the same charm and began to wonder whether she were not indeed herself from the land of fa?ry. “‘For I will go to the vale of Avilion,’” he repeated to himself, “‘to heal me of my grievous wound.’”
“Yes, this is a healing of the wounds of life,” he added. “I never realised before that beauty had such power. Come, child, it is time we went,” he said aloud and gently lifted her in his arms; “we must see what the others are doing.” So he carried her out on to the terrace that ran in front of the library and down the steps and across the quadrangle to the great Hall. There they found considerable excitement; a packman with five horses had arrived from the south and every one was making purchases who had any money laid by.
“Now that is a fine carpet,” he was saying as he unrolled a piece of Flemish work. “It was made at Ispahan for the Shah of Persia and is the best bit of Persian carpet you will ever see. That would look well in my lady’s boudoir. I would let you have that for five florins.”
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He did not seem very pleased at the master’s entrance at that moment; Richard Mowbray glanced at it and remarked, “But that is Flemish weaving.”
“Did I not say Flemish?” he said. “Oh, it is Flemish right enough; it was made for the Duke of Flanders.”
“And if I had said it was Tuscan I suppose it would have been made for the Duke of Tuscany.”
“Ah, master, you make mock of me; see, here, I have some buckles of chaste design that might take your fancy or these daggers of Spanish make, or what say you to a ring or a necklace for one of the ladies?”
“We have no moneys for gauds and vanities.”
“But beauty will not bide, and when you have the money it may be too late; you would not let it go ungraced. Prithee try these garnets on the Lady of Holwick. They would become her well, or this simple silver chain for the young mistress,” looking at Aline for the first time. “By my troth she is a beautiful child,” he exclaimed involuntarily.
“Ah well then, my friend, good wine needs no bush.”
“Nay, sweets to the sweet, and for fair maids fair things.”
“Truly you are a courtier.”
“Ay, and have been at court, and those of most courtesy have bought most of my wares.”
“Enough, enough, what have you of good household stuff, things that a good housewife must buy though the times be hard. Come, show my lady such things as good linen and good cloth.”
“You bring him to the point,” said Mistress Mowbray; “yes, sirrah, what have you in the way of linen?”
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“I have linen of France and linen of Flanders; I have linen fine and linen coarse.”
He unrolled several samples as he spoke, and Mistress Mowbray selected some linen of Rennes of fine texture, which she said would do to make garments for Audry and herself. “And your supply of clothes that you brought from Scotland is in need of some plenishing,” she said, glancing at Aline. “There will be work for idle hands. Here, this stout dowlas will stand wear well, and be warmer too.”
13 A very coarse sort of canvas used for underclothes by the poorest classes in the sixteenth century.
Aline felt the blood rush to her face, but she said nothing. It was not that she thought much about her clothes; indeed she had the natural simple taste of the high born that eschews finery, yet a certain daintiness and delicacy she did desire and had always had, and it was a bitter disappointment, a disappointment made more cruel by the public shame of it.
Walter Margrove, the packman, looked at her; he had not travelled amongst all sorts and conditions for nothing and he took the situation in at a glance.
“Yes, Mistress Mowbray,” Aline said at length, “I shall have a great deal to do.”
Richard Mowbray had left the hall, but old Elspeth who was standing by said, “I will help you, childie.”
Mistress Mowbray scowled at her, and muttered,—“Well, I hope, Aline, that you will work hard,” then turning to Margrove she asked to look at other wares. Such opportunities did not often occur in a remote place like Holwick and it was very difficult to do one’s purchasing at a distance; so although she only bought things136 of real necessity she laid in a large supply from the packman’s stock.
On these occasions the surrounding tenants were allowed to come up to the hall and Walter Margrove, when Mistress Mowbray had departed, started to put his things together to take them into the courtyard. The children stayed behind to watch him for a few moments and as he was leaving the Hall he pressed a small packet into Aline’s hand and said in a whisper, “Do not say anything; it is a pleasure, just a small remembrance.”
The packet contained the small silver necklace that he had been showing before. It was not of great intrinsic value, but was of singularly chaste design and though exceedingly simple was of much beauty.
Aline was immensely surprised at the unexpected joy, and for the time it quite made up to her for her previous disappointment.
As the packman went into the courtyard a great crowd gathered round him, both chaffering and gossiping. “Who is the beautiful young mistress that has come to Holwick?” he asked.
“Oh, she is a distant cousin of Master Mowbray,” said one, “but you have no idea of the things that have been going on since you were last at Holwick.”
“What things?”
“Why, the child has been nearly killed,” said old Elspeth who had followed the packman out. “Poor wee soul, it makes my old heart bleed to think of it even now.”
Elspeth then recounted the tale of all that had taken place.
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“Then why is Mistress Holwick not more grateful? She seems to have saved her and her good man a pretty penny indeed.”
“The woman is crazed with jealousy or envy or what not,” said another.
“But the child seems a lovable one to my thinking,” said Margrove.
“There has never been a better lassie in Holwick is my way of looking at it.” It was Janet Arnside who was speaking; she had come up to see Elspeth, and take the opportunity of buying a few trifles at the same time. “My boy just owes his life to her; she has been down to us times without number, and I have never seen anything like the way that she gets hold of one’s heart. I cried the whole day long when I heard of her being hurt like that, and it just makes me rage to hear the things that they tell of Mistress Holwick and the child. It would have been the worst thing that ever happened to Holwick if anything really serious had befallen her that night.”
“Ay, ay,” said several voices in chorus.
“And why should not the bairn have fine linen, I should like to know?” she went on.
“It is a downright shame,” said a man’s voice.
“Well, neighbour,” said Janet, “I am not the one to interfere in other folk’s business, but I am not the only one that the child has blessed, not the only one by a long way.”
“No, that you are not, mistress,”—“No, indeed, think of my wife’s sickness,”—“Think of my little lass,”—“Ay, and mine,”—“And my old father,”—said one voice after another.
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“Can we not do something, neighbours?” said Janet. “Why not speak to Master Richard himself?”
“It is an ill thing to meddle between husband and wife,” said Margrove. “By my halidame I have a half mind to speak to the jade myself. She cannot hurt me.”
“No, but she can hurt the child more, when you have gone,” rejoined Elspeth. “Look here, it is not much, but it is something; let us get the linen ourselves, and it will help Master Margrove, honest man, at the same time. I shall be seeing to the making of the clothes and I can make a tale for the child and prevent her speaking to Mistress Mowbray. The Mistress does not pay that much attention to the little lady’s belongings I can tell you. She leaves it all to me, and bless you if she sees any linen garments I shall tell her that they are of those that came from Scotland.”
“Ay, ay, agreed, agreed,” they all shouted. “Give us the very best linen you have, master, and some of your finest lace and we will clothe her like a princess under her kirtle.”
“I’ faith, you are the right sort, but it is no profit I will be making on this business; no, you shall have the things at the price I paid for them and not a groat more, no, not even for carriage and I will give her some pieces of lace myself. See here are some fine pieces of Italian work. This is a beautiful little piece of punto in aria and this is a fine piece of merletti a piombini: But stay; she shall have too a finer piece still, something like the second one; it is Flemish, dentelles au fuseau, from Malines”; he drew it forth as he spoke and fingered it lovingly amid marked expressions of admiration from Elspeth and the other woman.
“It’s nothing to some beans that I shall give her,” interposed139 Silas, the irrepressible farm-reeve. “They are French, you know, from Paris,” imitating Walter’s manner.
“Be quiet”; “stop your nonsense,” they all shouted.
“I am not quite sure,” he went on dreamily and quite unperturbed, “whether I shall thread them on a string to wear on her bosom, or cook them for her to wear inside; but certainly she shall have them for nothing; not a groat will I take. I should scorn to ask the price they cost me.”
Jock, the stableman, stepped forward and struck out playfully at Silas. “He always carries on like that,” he said; but Silas dodged aside and put out his leg so that Jock stumbled and collapsed in confusion into Walter’s arms.
“A judgment on the stableman for insulting the reeve,” said Silas, marching off with mock solemnity.
As he reached the gate he turned back. “No offence, Walter; put me down for ten florins for our bonnie little mistress. I’ll bring it anon.”
The others gasped at the largeness of the sum as the good-natured face of the reeve disappeared through the archway.
Soon after, the crowd thinned away and Walter was packing up his things, when Aline happened to come to the hall door. He saw her and went quickly to her and before she could thank him for his present of the necklace he said, “If at any time there is anything that you would like me to do out in the wide world, a message for instance, remember that I am always ready to help you.”
“I do not think that there is anything just now,” she said.
“Then God be with you,”—and he was gone.
ALINE had rather overtaxed her strength and had a slight set-back, so that it was some time before she was strong enough to climb down the stairs and visit Ian again. He was feeling very dejected that day. His collar bone and his ankle had healed; but although in some ways better, he was beginning to feel the want of fresh air and it told not only upon his health but his spirits. He was also desperately anxious to get on to Carlisle where it was arranged that he should hand over the papers to Johnne Erskyne of Doun, but he was by no means fit to travel on his dangerous errand. The worrying, however, made him worse and what he felt he required was some gentle exercise to get up his strength.
Altogether it was with keener pleasure even than usual that he saw Aline come. “Oh, I am so glad to see you,” he said; “Audry has been telling me the dreadful things that have happened, but I want you to tell me something yourself. Sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you can.”
“But I am not an invalid now,” said Aline, “and do not need special comfort. How are you; are you not tired of being shut up here?”
“Yes, indeed, and you too will be wanting some fresh141 air to put you to rights again. Audry says that you did not suffer much pain; is that so? But it must have been a terrible shock; you may well take some time to recover.”
“I am getting on marvellously well,” said Aline, “and I have been thinking that you might be getting out a little bit. You could sit out near the mouth of the cave if one of us kept watch, and after dark it would even be safe to walk a little.”
“Yes, I have been thinking that myself,” he replied. “I have been looking round this room to while away the time and have found some interesting things. I wonder, by the way, what is in that old iron chest there. It does not seem to have any lock, which is most strange.”
“Yes, we must find that out,” said Aline, “but really so many things have happened and there has been so much to do that we have not had time to think about it.”
“Well, amongst other things I have found some rapiers,” he said, “and have been practising thrusts and parries, by way of getting a little exercise, but one cannot do much by oneself. Two men imprisoned in this place might keep themselves in fair condition, although it is rather short of air for such activity; however, that cannot be.”
“Oh, let me see the rapiers,” said Aline. “Ah, here they are,—and helmets and leather jerkins and gloves. I am going to dress up,” she added, laughing.
“There now, what do I look like? You must dress up too; I want to see how they suit you.”
Ian put on a helmet and the other things while Aline executed a graceful little dance round the room. When he had finished she said roguishly, “Do you know anything142 about fencing? I have seen people fence. They stand something like this,” putting her right foot rather too far forward and turning it outward and not bending the knee sufficiently. “Shall I teach you?”
“No, but I might teach you,” said Ian, quite innocently.
“Well, but do you know anything about it?” and Aline smiled mischievously.
“I ought to do; when I was a wanderer in Italy I learned a great deal that is entirely unknown here.”
“Stand on guard then, and show me something.” As he moved, she appeared to copy his attitude. “Engage,” and mechanically from long use he brought down his sword. In a flash she disengaged and cut over. He parried; she made a remise, and was in upon him with a hit over the heart.
Aline burst out laughing while Ian was thunder-struck. She took off her helmet saying, “We must not have any more to-day as I am not well enough, but we shall have some fine times later on. It was rather a shame though, but I could not help it, it was such fun. I was a little afraid that you would be too taken aback to parry at all, and that would have been very dull. I hope you are a good fencer really; there was said to be no one in Scotland who could come anywhere near my father.”
“Oh, that is how you come to know so much about it,” said Ian, sitting down. Even the slight effort had been too much.
“Yes, my father taught me and told me that I was getting on very well, but I have had no practice since I came to Holwick some eight months ago. Things are143 much harder than they used to be. Father used to give me much of his time. You see he had no boys and so he always said that he would like me to know the things that boys know. And yet I do not know that I am altogether fond of them. But I have always loved swimming, and fencing is delightful. Somehow I never cared particularly about riding, but I have come to like it in the last week or two, since I have started again. It takes me away from the Hall and that is a great thing.”
“I always loved riding,” said Ian. “There is nothing like a good horse at a canter and the wind rushing over one’s face.”
“Yes, I do not know why it was. Of course we never had good horses after I was eight years old.”
“Why do you want to get away from the Hall?”
Aline did not speak at first; then she said, “Well, you see it makes a change.”
“Is it Mistress Mowbray that is the real cause? Come, little one, tell me truthfully, doesn’t she treat you well?”
“There is always a great deal to do, cleaning and mending and, when there is nothing else, there is always spinning and carding.”
“Well, I suppose that we must all of us do our share of work.”
Aline could not keep back the tears, which welled into her eyes and made them glisten. “Yes, it is not really the work, I should not mind the work. Indeed I am used to very hard work indeed; because, before the end, I used to have to do almost everything at home.”
“What does she do to you, child? Has she been losing her temper again? Come, tell me.”
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“I do not like to say, but she does all kinds of things.”
“Well, never mind if you do not want to tell me.”
“No, I do not mind telling you; it is that I am not sure how far I should say anything to any one at all. But you will never see her and it does relieve one’s feelings to be able to speak to any one.”
“Then come and sit by me and tell me all about it.”
Aline came and sat by him on the old settee. “You see it is not exactly because she hits me that I mind, although I have never been hit by any one before; but she is always doing little petty things that in some ways are harder to bear than being knocked about;—for instance, when we sit down to breakfast there are always two pitchers of milk, which we have with our porridge. They are neither of them quite full, and she takes one of them and pours out some for herself and Cousin Richard, then she looks into it to see what is left and generally pours most of it into the other pitcher. After that she hands the full one to Audry and the one with only a little drop in the bottom to me.”
“Does Audry know?”
“Of course not,—dear Audry,—I am sure if it would benefit Audry I would go without milk altogether. I would not have her know for worlds; she would quarrel with her mother over it.”
“What else does she do?” Ian asked.
Aline then told the story of the packman. She did not yet know what had been done by Elspeth and the others about the linen, but she pulled up the necklace which she was wearing under her dress and shewed it to Ian. “Now is that not pretty? I have always wanted a necklace and father had promised only a little while145 before he died that as soon as he could afford it he would get me one; so I try to think of it as if it was father’s present.”
The tears again gathered in the beautiful eyes and this time one rolled over on to her cheek. She brushed it away hastily; but Ian drew her gently towards him and kissed her for the first time. “Sweet little maiden,” he said, “I hope that God will be good to you after what you have been through in your young life.”
“I do not like the priest here,” she continued; “of course I like Father Laurence, but Middleton is too far away and when I went to confession the other day I said something to Father Ambrose about father, but he was not a bit kind and sympathetic like our dear old priest at home. I always keep a candle burning for father; that is what I mainly spend my money on, and I wanted him to tell me how long he thought it would be before my father’s soul would get to heaven; do you think it will be very long, and will my candles help him? Somehow I do not see why God should make any difference because of our candles; suppose my father had had no little girl to burn candles; or suppose that I had had no money, that would have been worse still.”
“These things are very difficult, sweet child, but I am sure that the love of your little heart that happens to show itself in buying the candles must meet with its own reward, whether candles themselves are necessary or not. But I am afraid that I cannot be of much use to you, little one, because I am no longer of the old faith.”
“Tell me something about that then. Father said that he would tell me when I got older.”
“I do not want to unsettle you,” Ian said; “but of one146 thing I feel sure,—that God would never deal harshly with a child that believed what it had been taught. When we get older it is different, just as it is in the other responsibilities of life. That is largely why we are put here in this world,—to learn to think for ourselves and take up responsibilities: things are not made too easy for us, or we should not have the high honour that God has given us of largely building our own characters,—of making ourselves.”
Aline sat quiet and thoughtful for some time. “Master Menstrie,” she said at length, “I am not so very young now and I think that I should like to begin to know something about these things.”
“You have not read the Bible, I suppose,” said Ian.
“No, it is wicked to read the Bible.”
“Why?”
“The priests say so.”
“But how do you know that they are right? After all, what is the Bible? It is the word of God, and although even the Bible was written by human beings, it is largely the words of our Lord himself and the writings of people who actually knew him or lived in that very time.”
Ian talked to her for some time, and then Aline said that she would like to read the Bible.
“There is no reason why you should not,” he said, “but you must remember that you are undertaking a great responsibility, and that though it may bring great joy and comfort, it will be the beginning of sorrow too, and you are very young,” he added, looking at her wistfully. “I have a little English translation of the New Testament,” he went on after a pause, “which I can147 lend you, but Audry was telling me the other day that you could read Greek.”
“Oh, only easy Greek,” said Aline. “I have read some of Aesop and that is quite easy, but father and I used to read Homer together and that was delightful although more difficult.”
“Did you read much? What did you like best?”
“Oh, yes, I read a great deal; at least it was really father reading, at any rate at first. I did not do much more than follow, but I got so used to it at last that I could read it without great difficulty. There was so much that I liked that I could not say what I liked best, but there was little that was more delightful than the story of Nausikaa. I shall never forget her parting with Odysseus.
“Father told me that the Lady Jane Grey read and enjoyed Plato and Demosthenes, when she was about the age I am now, besides knowing French and Italian thoroughly. I have read a little Plato and have tried Demosthenes, but I did not care about him so much.”
“I love Plato,” said Ian. “After the Bible there is nothing so helpful in the world. You seem to have done very well, little maid; but can you read Latin?”
“That is amusing,” she said, “because I was going to ask you if you could read Latin. Now I shall want to know if you can read Greek or if you read in Latin translations. Oh, yes,” she went on, “I can read Latin quite easily. I dare say there is some Latin that I cannot read, but anything at all ordinary I can manage. Yet I do not like Latin as well as Greek, and the things that are written in Latin are not half as interesting.”
“I quite agree with you. I learned Latin as a boy,148 but when I was in Venice working on some great iron hinges, my employer, who was a great scholar, took an interest in me and he enabled me to get a fair knowledge of Greek. I have steadily practised it since and can now read anything, except some of the choruses and things like that, without difficulty. However, if you can read Latin, there is no need for you to read an English translation at all, and it is much safer; as the priests do not mind any one, who can read Latin, reading the Bible nearly so much as those who cannot. I expect that there will be a copy of the Vulgate in the library; although it is very unlikely that there will be anything in the original Greek; though there might be the Septuagint.”
“What is the Vulgate then?”
“Oh, a translation of the Bible into Latin. It is really a revised edition of the ‘Old Latin’ translation, made in the time of Pope Damasus and after, largely by St. Jerome in the fourth century.”
“I shall go and have a look as soon as I can.”
Ian sat and looked at her without speaking. She certainly was a most unusual child, but he was by no means anxious to trouble her mind with disturbing perplexities. There is a good deal to be said even for the priests, he reflected; responsibility may be too crushing altogether.
“Well, I have to go and do some spinning and Mistress Mowbray will be wondering where I am; but you will give me lessons in Greek, will you not?”
“Certainly, we will start next time you come to see me. See if you can find some Greek books in the library. Good-bye.”
Aline departed and sat at the wheel till supper and then went up with Audry to their room.
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What was her surprise as she looked at her bed to see it covered with neatly folded little piles of beautiful linen.
Child as she was she knew at once that both the linen and lace upon it were of exceptional quality.
“O Audry dear! what is all this?” she exclaimed.
“Well, you will never guess, will she, Elspeth?” said Audry, turning to the old nurse who had stolen in to see how the gift would be received.
“Nobody could bear that you should wear dowlas, hinnie,” said the old dame, “and so practically every one in the neighbourhood has had a hand in what you see there. Janet Arnside made this camise, and Martha, the laundry-maid, made that nightrobe. Joseph, the stableman, and Silas bought the bit of lace on this. Edward bought this larger piece of punto in aria here. I made these with the tela tirata work with my own hands and I do hope you will like them.”
“Indeed I do,” said Aline, bewildered as much by the demonstration of widespread affection as by the altogether unexpected acquisition. “Elspeth, you are a dear, and, oh, it is good of them, but what will Mistress Mowbray say?”
“Mistress Mowbray is not to know, that’s what they all said; if she did, marry, she would say that we were all doited, and you would not let her think that, would you, dearie?” said the old woman slyly. “You will be careful not to get us into trouble, for we meant it kindly.”
Aline was quite overcome and they went through every piece and learnt its history.
“I cannot help liking nice things,” said Aline.
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“And why should you not?” exclaimed the old woman; “it is only vulgar when you put dress before other things or think about it every day. Old Mistress Mowbray,—your grandmother, my dear,” turning to Audry, “used often to say that it was the mark of a lady to dress well but simply and not to think much about it.”
“I should much prefer simple clothes except for great occasions,” said Aline, “if only for the sake of making the great occasion more special; but even then I like the rich broad effects that father used to talk about with long lines and big masses and full drapery rather than elaborate things. Some of these newer styles I do not like at all.”
“Yes, I agree with you,” Audry chimed in, “but I should like to wear velvet other than black, and I have always longed to have some ermine.”
“Well, unless they alter the laws of the land for your benefit, childie, you will have to marry a baron; but you should be thankful for what you have got. I should soon be tried in the court if I started wearing black velvet,” said Elspeth.
14 The sumptuary laws regulated what each rank was allowed to wear.
“Does your ambition soar to diamonds and pearls, Audry?” asked Aline, laughing.
“No, I will leave them to the princesses and duchesses. But look here, Aline,” said Audry, with an air of triumph, picking up a particularly beautiful smock, “I bought all the material with my own money and made it every bit myself, and Elspeth says I have done it very well.”
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“You darling,” said Aline, and kissed her cousin again and again. “Oh, I do feel so happy.”
“But you have not finished,” said Audry, “and here’s a parcel you have not undone.”
Aline picked it up and turned it over. On it was written:—“From Mistress Mowbray.”
“A parcel from Mistress Mowbray; how strange!” and the little smooth white brow became slightly wrinkled.
Inside she found a note and a second wrapping. The note ran as follows,—
To Aline Gillespie,
Finding that others are concerned about your garments I have made it my duty to let you have something really appropriate to your condition at Holwick and that will express the feelings with which I shall always regard you. I trust you will think of me when you wear the necklace, although the contents of the pendant are another’s gift.
Eleanor Mowbray.
X Her mark.
“How does she regard me and what is appropriate to my condition?” queried Aline as she undid the second wrapper.
To her astonishment and amusement it contained an old potato-sack made into the shape of a camise. After what Mistress Mowbray had said about the coarse dowlas, Aline was half inclined to believe the gift was genuine. But, as she smiled, there fell out a red necklace made of small pieces of carrot with an enormous potato as a pendant.
“Now, whoever has done this?” she cried, breaking into a merry peal and looking at Audry and Elspeth.
They both shook their heads.
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She examined the potato and found that it had been scooped out and held a packet very tightly rolled up, within which was a piece of Walter’s choicest lace. On the packet was written, “To Somebody from Somebody’s enemy.”
“From whose enemy?”—said Aline,—“Mine?”
“‘Who chased whom round the walls of what?’” Audry observed. “I expect the two somebodies are not the same.”
“Well, but whom is it from?”
At this moment Aline caught sight of the upper part of a head trying to peep round the door. It vanished instantly.
She paused for a moment and then gave chase down the newel-stairs. Round and round and round lightly flashed the little feet and she could hear great heavy footsteps at much longer intervals going down, apparently three steps at a time, some way below her.
She reached the bottom just in time to see the figure of Silas dash into the screens; but he vanished altogether before she had time to catch him and thank him for what was obviously his gift.
The next day after dinner Aline ran out gaily across the quadrangle, lightly reached the eighth step in two bounds, covering the remaining step and the terrace in two more, and was in the library ready to prosecute her search. She had a long hunt for the Latin Bible in which after much diligence she was successful.
She then thought that she would try the key of the old chest and on opening it found it half full of ancient parchments concerning the estate. She discovered that they were quite interesting, but she did not linger looking153 at them just then. The chest was divided one-third of the way from the front longitudinally up to about half its height and it was possible to put all the parchments into the front half.
Aline moved all the papers and then got into the back part of the chest to see what it felt like, before she did anything else. Just as she did so, she heard the library door open and her blood ran cold. In a flash she wondered whether it would be better to get out of the chest or to shut the lid. She decided on the latter, and was just able to shut down the lid quietly when she heard the footsteps that had first gone into the other part of the library turn back in her direction. She had luckily taken the key in her hand with which the chest could be locked on the inside and succeeded in fastening it with hardly any noise.
The steps approached the chest and then a voice said, “I thought Aline was in here;—and what was that noise?”
It was Audry’s voice so Aline ventured to laugh.
“Good gracious, what is that?” exclaimed Audry, and after a click the lid of the chest, to her still greater astonishment, lifted itself up. She sprang back and then in her turn broke into laughter, as Aline’s head emerged from the chest.
“What a fright you gave me!” said each of the children simultaneously, and then they both laughed again.
“You dear thing, Aline,” and Audry flung her arms round her cousin. “Oh, I am glad that it is you, but you must be very careful about that kist; I do not think that we had better use it unless one of us is on guard. How did you find the key?”
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“Cousin Richard gave it me; I forgot to tell you, but he does not know anything about the secret room as, oddly enough, he happened to say, when speaking of secret drawers, that he did not think that old James Mowbray had any fancies of that kind.”
“He would have found that he had rather elaborate fancies of that kind if he knew what we know, would he not, you little wonder-girl;—what adventures you do have;—whatever will you drag me into next?”
“Anyhow I never had adventures till I met you, so perhaps it is due to you.”
“Oh, no, you, not I, are the wonder-girl right enough; you have great adventures by yourself.”
“Let us come down and see Ian,” said Aline.
“All right; you go down this way,” Audry replied. “I want to know how it acts; I’ll wait to see you safe down and then I will go round the other way.”
“No, you would like to try the new way; I will go round.”
“Thank you, very well.”
A few minutes later the children met again in the secret room, and Audry explained how simple and convenient the new way was.
Aline then produced the Bible and after a little talk she read several chapters, translating as she went.
It was a new world to the children and Ian watched their faces eagerly as she read.
Audry, in her impulsive way, was taken with the simplicity of the story. Aline, who was an unusually thoughtful child, was surprised, but reserved her opinion.
It was the beginning of many such readings. At first155 Ian said nothing; but, when they had finished reading two of the gospels and began to ask questions, he talked with them and explained many difficulties. What amazed Aline was the entire absence of any allusion to any of the ceremonial that had seemed to her young mind to form so large a part of religion. Also the simplicity of the appeal, to come directly to the divine without any intermediary, attracted her greatly in a way that perhaps it would not have done when the old parish priest of her earlier days was a really beloved friend.
Ian was disturbed in mind; he saw that the children were gradually but surely being influenced and that the old faith would never be the same again. But it must mean trouble and affliction; the district where they were was staunchly Catholic, and the measures that Mary’s advisers were taking were stern and cruel. That little face with its associations of bygone years, and its own magical attractive power that seemed to hold all but a few of every one with whom Aline came into contact! How could he bring lines of pain there? And yet how could he withhold what meant so much to himself, this which seemed to be a new and living light? Then that awful vision of George Wishart rose up again before him and with a vivid intensity he thought he saw the form of little Aline standing by him in the heart of the flames. There was too that awful prophecy of the horrible old woman about Aline’s path being through the fire. Surely there could be nothing in it? The perspiration stood on Ian’s brow: he caught his breath. Slowly the vision cleared away and there were the children seated before him. What if things, however, should come to this! His very soul was in agony torn this way and that.
HOLWICK generally pursued the even tenour of its way from year’s end to year’s end, with nothing more eventful than a birth, a death or a marriage. Aline’s adventure therefore, was likely to remain a staple topic of conversation for many years. But now there was a strange feeling in the air as though something further were going to happen. An atmosphere of uneasiness enveloped the place, an atmosphere oppressive like a day before a thunderstorm. It was nothing definite, nothing explicable, but every one seemed conscious of it; it pervaded Holwick, it pervaded Newbiggin on the other side of the river. Ian and the children were particularly aware of it. The placid life of the Tees Valley was to be stirred by things at least as striking as Andrew’s villainy.
It might have been old Moll’s ravings, it might have been the stirrings of religious troubles that had started the apprehension; but there it was, something not immediate but delayed, a presentiment too vague even to be discussed.
One day Thomas Woolridge was walking down from the Hall through the rocky ravine under Holwick Crags. It was a dull grey day with a strong wind, and the rocks seemed to tower up with an oppressive austerity out of all proportion to their size. He was157 in a gloomy frame of mind and kicked at the stones in his path, sullenly watching them leap and bound down the hill.
“Steadily there, neighbour,” said a voice from below, “do you want to kill some one?” and the head of Silas Morgan, the farm-reeve, appeared above the rocks beneath.
“Methinks I should not mind an I did,” answered Thomas, “provided it were one of the right sort. I am tired of slaving away under other folks’ orders. Who are they that they should have a better time than I have, I should like to know?”
“They all have their orders too, man; who do you think you are that you should have it all your own way? There is Master Mowbray, now, who has just set forth to York, because the Sheriff bade him.”
“And a fine cursing and swearing there was too, I’ll warrant ye,” said Thomas. “Master Mowbray doth not mince matters when he starts a-going.”
“No, but he doth not pull a face as long as a base-viol. Thomas, if so be that I had a face like yours, I would put my hat on it and walk backwards. Be of good cheer, you rascal, no one doth as he pleaseth from the Queen’s grace downwards.”
“That may be so, neighbour, but you’ll not deny that some have an unfair share of this world’s gear.”
“No, by my troth, that is so; but I do not see how you are going to set it right. Besides, oddsfish, man! you would never even get as large a share as you do, you lazy varlet, if you got what was meet. I have never seen you do a stroke of work that you could avoid”; and Silas gave Thomas a dig in the ribs.
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“Here now, sirrah, you let me alone,” Thomas said gruffly. “Why should we not all fare alike?”
“All fare alike, old sulky face! Not for me, I thank you. I would not work for a discontented windbag like you. What’s your particular grumble just now?”
“I’m not grumbling.”
“Not at all, you are saying what a happy life it is, and how glad you are to see your fellow creatures enjoying themselves.”
Thomas lifted a stone and threw it, but Silas jumped aside and it flew down the rocks.
“I’m not grumbling so much at the Mowbrays, but at that Gillespie-wench. There have always been Mowbrays up there; but that wench, she has nothing of her own, why should she not addle her bread the same as you or I. One day she had the impertinence to start ordering me about and made old Edward and myself look a pair of fools. The old ass did not mind, but I did and I am not going to forget. I am sick of these craven villagers louting and curtseying at the minx and she no better than any of us. She gets on my nerves, pardy! with her pretty angel face.”
15 The earlier form of curtsey.
“Well, I am glad you admit you are grumbling at something, but you have less cause to grumble at Mistress Aline than any one in Holwick, you graceless loon. So here’s something else to grumble at”; and Silas gave Thomas a sudden push which made him roll over, and then he ran off laughing.
“You unneighbourly ruffian. I’ll pay you out,” said Thomas, as he ruefully picked himself up and started down the steep.
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He went on to the hamlet and, on his way back, he met Aline, who was going down to see Joan Moulton. Beyond all expectations, by getting Audry to sue for her, Aline had arranged that Joan should be moved to Durham and she was going to pay her last visit.
“It’s a fine day, Mistress Aline,” observed Thomas as he reached her. “I hope you are keeping well. The falcon is doing splendidly, I notice. I shall never forget your kindness to me. By the way, I found some white heather the other day, and I meant to tell you I took up the root and transplanted it in your garden.”
“Oh, was that you, Thomas? You are good; I noticed it at once, but somehow I thought it was Mistress Audry’s doings. I love white heather.”
“I am fain it pleaseth you; well, good day, Mistress Aline, there is no time to waste and some of us have to work very hard betimes.”
On the way up to the Hall, just before he reached the crags of the ravine he saw some one else. It was old “Moll o’ the graves.”
“How now, neighbour,” he said, “I have not seen you for a long time, but what’s the good of your hocus pocus? Where’s that fine hank of wool I gave you, and those two cheeses and the boll of meal? That Gillespie bitch is still running round; and you said that before a year was away she would be gone. But Andrew’s little play didn’t work, damn the fellow. She’s alive yet, I tell you,” and he put his hand on the old woman’s shoulder as though to shake her.
“Hands off, you coward,” said the old hag. “Why do you not do your own dirty work? Andrew was worth half a dozen of you. Pah, you devil’s spawn!160 If you touch me I’ll burn your entrails with fire, day and night, and send you shrieking and praying for your own death. But I tell you, that skelpie may not have to die by water. There are other ways of dying than being drowned. I cannot read all the future, but you mark my word, and I have never been wrong yet, she will be gone by the time I named. Little Joan will go as I said; and if we are safely rid of one you need not fear for the other. The stars in their courses fight on our side,” and she laughed an evil laugh. “There is no room in this world for your weak-minded gentle creatures, bah! cowards, worms, with their snivelling pity. Does nature feel pity when the field mouse is killed by the hawk? Does nature feel pity when a mother dies of the plague? Does God feel pity when we starve a child or beat it to death? Let him show his pity for the victims of disease, for the beings he has brought into the world, humpbacked, blind, halt, imbecile, ha! ha! ha! No, the forces on our side are the stronger, and the innocent, the gentle and loving must go. I hate innocence, I hate love; and hate will triumph in the end.
“Do you think I love you, you coward?” and she advanced slowly as though to clutch his throat with her skinny hand, laughing her demoniacal laugh. “You are on our side, but you are a worm;—Thomas, I spit at you, begone.”
Thomas looked at her in terror and slunk away till the old woman’s mocking laughter grew fainter. “Faugh! she was mad—mad—what did it matter? And yet, suppose she took it into her head to put a spell on him, the same as she had done on little Joan!161 What then? But he would be even with Aline yet; Andrew was a clumsy bungler, he would see if he could not secure a more efficient agent.”
Thomas had allowed his imagination to dwell round his grievance against Aline until it had grown to colossal dimensions. She could not even smile on any one without him reckoning it up against her as an offence. The thing was becoming an obsession with him.
But what did the old crone mean? Something certainly was going to happen; did it involve Thomas, or was he himself to be unaffected by the play of forces? The feeling was unpleasant and he could not shake it off.
After meeting Thomas, Aline had gone on to Peter’s cottage. She found that the dying child was weaker than ever, but she still seemed to cling tenaciously to life. She raised herself a little when Aline came in and her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness.
“I shall never see you any more, Aline,” she said. “And I have several things that I want to say to you. They are going to take me away. I know they mean to be kind, yet I would rather have died quietly here. But listen, it is not about that that I want to talk,” the child went on excitedly.
“Hush, dear,” said Aline, taking the small frail hand in her own and stroking it, “you will tire yourself out.”
“Can you put your hand under my pillow, Aline? You will find there a little packet.”
Aline did as she was asked.
“Now undo it.”
She opened the small parcel and found in it half a groat that had been broken in two, a child’s spinning top and a short lock of dark curly brown hair.
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“He was my playmate,” said Joan, “and he used to help me every day to carry the water from the spring up to the house, and he said that when he was a big man he would marry me. I know I am going to die soon and no one loves me but you, so I want to give you my secret.”
“O Joan, darling, you must not talk like that,” and Aline stooped and kissed the sad little face on the pillow, while her tears, in spite of herself, would keep welling up and rolling down her cheeks.
A faint little smile spread over Joan’s face as her thoughts wandered away back to the old times in Kirkoswald and talking half to herself and half to Aline she said: “His name was Wilfred Johnstone. Oh! Wilfred, Wilfred, if only I could kiss you good-bye! but I shall leave your top and the half groat and your dear hair with my beautiful little lady, and some day she may see you and give them back and say good-bye for me.”
“O Aline,” she went on, trying to raise herself as she put her arms round her neck—“give him this kiss for me and say that if I had grown up I would have been his little wife as I promised”; then, pressing a kiss on Aline’s lips, she fell back exhausted on the bed.
“I will do everything you ask,” said Aline, and sat by her for a long time, but the child did not speak again.
At last the evening began to get dark and Aline knew she must be getting home. “Good-bye, sweet Joan,” she said and for the last time printed a kiss on the child’s forehead. “I wish you could have said good-bye,” and she turned to the door.
As she turned Joan’s eyes half opened. “Good-bye,”163 she murmured, and Aline went sadly from the house.
“They are going to take her away from me and I believe I love her even more than Audry, but it is all meant for the best. Oh, I hope and I hope that that horrid old witch was not telling the truth.”
Aline lay awake for a long time that night thinking of Joan and old Moll and wondering how she would find Wilfred Johnstone; and when she slept she still dreamed of her little friend.
The next morning they carried Joan away on a litter. The journey was to be made in three stages of a day each. Aline would have liked to see her off, but unfortunately Master Richard had specially arranged to take the children with him on a long expedition and make an early start, and he did not wish any interference with his plans.
He had been so very kind in making the elaborate arrangements about Joan’s journey and future welfare that Aline did not like to say anything, though it cost her a pang.
They mounted from the old “louping on stone” in the lower courtyard and were not long reaching Middleton. Master Richard had some business in Middleton, and afterward they turned up the left bank of the Tees.
It was another grey day, but the water looked wonderfully beautiful down below them, and Holwick crags rose majestically away to the left. The bleakness of the surrounding country enhanced the richness of the river valley; but the wild spirit of the hills seemed to dominate the whole.
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On the way they passed through the village of Newbiggin. It consisted almost wholly of rude stone cottages and byres. “We have a great deal of trouble here,” remarked Richard Mowbray. “They are a curiously lawless lot; it is not only their poaching but there is much thieving of other kinds. Their beasts too are a nuisance, straying, as they pretend, on our Middleton property. A murrain on them! My tenant there, Master Milnes, is very indignant about it and is sure that it is not accidental. He also makes great complaint about continual damage to the dykes. Mistress Mowbray is determined to have the whole nest of them cleared out.”
“But the village does not belong to you, does it, Cousin Richard?”
“No, there are three properties besides mine that meet there, the Duke of Alston’s, Lord Middleton’s and Master Gower’s.”
“Then how are you going to do anything?”
“Oh, Mistress Mowbray saw Lord Middleton, and he has arranged that his reeve and the Duke’s shall come over to Holwick and meet Master Gower and ourselves. I do not expect there will be any difficulty.”
Aline thought it was rather a high handed proceeding, but she said nothing. She looked at the little cottages and then her thoughts flew over to the cottage on the other side of the river that Joan had just left. She wondered rather pathetically whether nearly all life was sad like her own and Joan’s and Ian’s. Did every one of these cottages mean a sad story? It would certainly be a sad story to be turned out of one’s home. Here was a new trouble for her. “Was it true,”165 she thought, “that all these people were as bad as Cousin Richard supposed?”
Suddenly Audry exclaimed, “Look—there goes old Moll.”
As they overtook her she stopped and shook her staff after them, crying,—“Maidens that ride high horses to-day eat bitter bread upon the morrow.”
Master Mowbray did not catch what she said, but Aline heard and again felt that peculiar shudder that she could not explain.
A week or two later the words came back to her with bitter meaning indeed. Joan safely reached her destination and the first news that came from Durham was hopeful; but shortly afterwards the news was worse and then suddenly came word that she was dead.
Aline put the little packet carefully away in the ambry. She did not tell any one, not even Audry, but some day she hoped to carry out the child’s request. There was too much misery in the world, she must see what she could do. Perhaps she might begin by doing something for the people of Newbiggin. At least she could find out what was the real truth of the case.
IT was a fine moonlight night and Ian was pacing up and down by the side of the stream. He walked very fast, partly because the season was getting cold and partly to calm his mind. He was agitated concerning the future and troubled not only about himself but about Aline. He was now distinctly better in health and felt that he would soon be well enough to leave Holwick Hall. There were many difficulties. First there was the immediate danger of getting away unseen. Then when he had performed his mission in Carlisle there was the problem of the future. He would be safer in Scotland, but he did not want to be too far away from Aline. She might need his help.
Again he felt that sense of apprehension, almost of terror; something was going to happen, but what? Which way was he to meet it? This threatening, uncertain atmosphere, what did it portend?
Aline seemed touched by it. He had not spoken to her about it, but he had noticed it in her manner; indeed they seemed mutually aware of it as he looked into her eyes.
In any case he could not go to his father’s house. Should he go to Scotland at all? The country he knew167 was in great confusion, torn between her fear of France and the Regent, Mary of Guise, on the one hand and her hatred of England on the other.
He was strongly tempted to go and fight, if fighting were to be done, and the very documents that he carried might be the things that would bring matters to a head. On the other hand if there were no fighting he felt drawn to do something more for the faith. He had no home duties and he hated inactivity. At last he settled the matter. Of course the papers were to be safely delivered first, but neither the fighting in Scotland nor Aline’s need for his help could be reckoned on as a certainty. He would stay in Carlisle and be in reach of both. As for the reformed faith he had for some time come to the conclusion that the calling of a packman offered the best opportunities for spreading the word. This, however, would require money which at present he had not got. He would therefore try and find work as a smith or a carpenter in Carlisle until he had saved the money.
That matter was settled then; and his health was now such that his departure must not be long delayed. He stood still and looked up at the clear sky. The roar of the waterfall not half a mile away filled the silence of the night. It was very peaceful and the hills were bathed in a sad mysterious beauty. But through all the calm lurked a suggestion of dread.
Dare he leave the child behind at all? Yet if he took her he would be putting her to greater risks every moment than the worst she could suffer from Mistress Mowbray. Besides how could the expenses be met; for the scheme would be impossible without horses; as,168 although he himself could escape alone on foot, immediately Aline disappeared a hue and cry would be raised? His mind grew tired with thinking and finally he began to build wild castles in the air, in which he took the child with him on foot and fought pursuer after pursuer, until he was slain himself, not however before he had managed to put Aline into a sure place of safety and happiness.
He had wandered rather further than usual down the stream and decided that he had better turn back; moreover it was late and it would soon be daylight. He retraced his steps until he came within a few paces of the opening that led to the cave and was intending to enter, when he caught sight of a dark figure seated under a small birch tree that had found a sheltering place in this hollow on the bleak moor.
It was a woman and she was watching him. The shock was so sudden that he had the greatest difficulty in preserving his presence of mind. He decided to continue in the direction he was going as though bound on some definite journey.
“You like the night-air, stranger, for your travels,” she said in a shrill voice. She evidently did not mean to let him pass her.
“Ay, mother,” he said, “a night like this is as good for travel as the day.”
He gathered at once who it was from Aline’s description. It was “Moll o’ the graves,” and she seemed to rivet him to the spot with the gaze of her unholy, but still beautiful eyes. She was holding a bone in her claw-like hands and was gnawing the flesh off it. He could not help noticing that she yet had excellent teeth.169 Could she by any chance know who he was? In any case she had seen him now, so he might stand and see if he could draw her out. However, she went on,—“I’ve heard physicians recommend the night air for travellers with a sick conscience.”
“Then if that be the case,” he answered, “it might apply to you as well as to me.”
“Perhaps it may,” she said, “but I enjoy the fresh night air for its own sake:—
O Moon that watches from the sky,
We see strange things, the moon and I.”
crooned the old woman, beating time with her staff.
“Do you know this part of the world?” she said suddenly.
“I cannot say that I do,” he answered.
“Then you miss things that are worth knowing. There are all manners of folk about here from the Master of Holwick to miser Simson, from bullying Eleanor Mowbray to gentle Janet Arnside, and from tough, withered, bloodless old Elspeth to fresh tender morsels like Aline that dropped in the moat,” she said as she grinned, shewing her teeth, “and I know the fortunes of them all.”
The old woman was eyeing him keenly, but he managed to betray no particular interest.
He thought, however, that he had better move away lest she should ask him such questions that he would lose more than anything he would gain from talking to her. He was thankful she had not seen him go into the cave.
“I think I must be moving on,” he said.
170
“Will you not wait and hear your future told?”
“No, I thank you; that can bide.”
“It’s not good anyhow,” said old Moll with a vindictive light in her eyes, “it begins with heartache and goes on to worse.”
“Good night to you,” said Ian and started up the gully.
“Are you not coming back to your hiding place in there?” the old woman called maliciously. “I saw you come out and I shall be sitting here till you come back.”
“Horrible old villain,” he said to himself, but he called out, “No, it’s all right for a temporary shelter, but no one could stay there.”
Things indeed looked serious, how was he to get back? But he could not bear the thought of not saying good-bye to the children. Besides they absolutely must know that part of their secret had been discovered.
He decided that unless the old hag roused his pursuers he was fairly safe; he could keep out of sight in bog-holes or the like during the day. If some one came very near, he must chance it and move on. True there was some risk, but Aline must know.
The old woman was in the hollow where she could not see him; so he crept round and hid himself where he could watch without being observed.
When daylight came he saw her rise and go into the outer cave; but he could not see what further she did.
She then came back and sat down. Hours passed on, but she did not move. About mid-day she produced a small sack from under her kirtle and took something out and gnawed at it as before. She did the same again towards evening.
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Ian felt faint and hungry, but determined not to give in, even if he had to wait another night, though as he would have to go some twenty miles before he dared ask for food, his plight was becoming desperate.
He crept quite close to her on the bare chance of her going to sleep in such a way that he could be quite sure of it and be able to slip past.
However, toward sunset he heard her mutter to herself,—“Well, I cannot wait any more, it will be too cold.” She rose and hobbled over to the cave, where she broke down a light switch and bent it across the entrance, as though it had accidentally been done by the wind or some animal.
She started a step or two down the little gully and then came back to her resting place and looked about. She picked up three bones. “They might tell tales,” she murmured, and, hiding them under her mantle, she walked down toward the river. When she reached the river she threw the bones into the dark water and watched them sink. But this Ian did not see.
When Moll had gone, Ian went back to the secret room. He was overwrought. This was a new peril for Aline and it made him grasp what he had not realised before,—that if the children were caught harbouring a heretic the consequences would be terrible indeed. He must get away forthwith.
He went to bed, but he could not sleep. How far had he really been wise after all, to say anything to Aline about the new faith? She certainly was a most unusual child, but perplexities and responsibilities might even be too much for an adult.
Was not my first instinct right, he argued, children172 are too delicate, too frail, too beautiful to be flung into the anxieties of life? There is a good deal to be said even for the priests, he reflected, responsibility may become too crushing altogether.
Then too, his own mind was not at ease about the course that things were taking, either in Scotland or England. On the whole he felt that the Protestants were nearer the truth, but there was a beauty and a spirituality of holiness not unconnected with the beauty of holiness itself, which he saw in the old faith and which he was not willing to abandon.
“I would not have a faith without beauty,” he said; “it would be a travesty of faith, an unlovely thing and no faith at all. If we do not consider the lilies which we have seen, we shall certainly never be able to understand the King in his beauty whom we have not seen; and, of a surety, this child flower hath lifted me higher than any other experience of my life.”
But methinks it is meet that both sides should be presented, and some day we may grow broad-minded enough to learn each from the other.
He lay awake most of the night so that when the children came down in the evening he was looking tired and worn.
They came in slowly, very downcast and sad. Suppose that Ian had disappeared for good and that they would never see him again! He was seated where they could not see him at once, but when they caught sight of him they both rushed forward.
“Oh, you are here safe and sound; what has happened? I am so glad,” said both in a breath. Each child flung her arms round him and kissed him.
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“You will pull my head off if you are not careful,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, you did give us a terrible fright,” exclaimed Aline.
“Yes, we came and found the room empty,” said Audry, “and we hunted all down the passage to the cave room; and I wanted to go through, but Aline said, ‘No, there is evidently something wrong and it might not be safe, we had better come round outside.’”
“I am glad you were cautious,” Ian interposed.
“But first we went down the other passage and found nothing, and then we set out. Aline said we must be very careful in coming near the cave, so we crept round very slowly; and suddenly, what do you think we saw?”
“Well, what did you see?”
“We saw ‘Moll o’ the graves,’” said Aline, “and we stooped down at once and then ran away. She did not see us, as the back of her head was turned our way.”
“I’m thankful for that,” said Ian, and then recounted his experiences. He omitted the bone incident, but concluded by saying,—“We must be careful about that birch twig. She evidently set it as a trap.”
“Do you suppose that she discovered the inner cave, the cave room itself?” asked Audry apprehensively.
“Not at all likely,” said Ian. “She cannot stand up straight even; besides she was not there long enough; of that I am certain.”
Audry gave a sigh of relief.
“But she may tell other people,” said Ian. “You must keep your ears open very carefully.”
It was an awe inspiring prospect, the future certainly was not reassuring.
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In order to give a new turn to the conversation Aline said:—“Do you know, the day before yesterday I went over to Newbiggin and talked to several of the people? I did not ask any questions, but they told me a great deal of themselves. There evidently are some pretty fair scoundrels in the village, even on their own showing.”
“What are you going to do?” said Ian.
“I do not know yet,” she said, “I must find out some more, but I am tolerably sure that the villains are in the minority.”
“I do not suppose there is much to choose,” said Audry. “I should let them all go. Why trouble yourself?”
“But, Audry,” Aline objected, “you yourself hate unfairness; and I cannot bear to think of Mistress Mowbray having her own way with those who are innocent.”
“I think, also, my princess enjoys some other kinds of fighting than with foils,” Ian interposed.
“Well, perhaps there’s a little bit in that too; my father was a fighter.”
“Somehow, little one,” said Ian, “I cannot help wishing you would leave it alone. I feel you would be better to have nothing to do with Newbiggin. It sounds very silly, but old Moll lives in Newbiggin, and I have a strange dread of it that I cannot explain.”
“That is very curious,” said Audry, “so have I. There has been something weighing on me like a bad dream for many days. I cannot explain it. Aline, dear, you let it alone.”
“I wish you two would not talk like that,” said Aline, “because I have had exactly the same feeling175 and it is most uncanny; but I cannot give up the Newbiggin people because of my feelings.”
“Come, let us have some fun,” she continued; “we look as if we had not a backbone among us.”
She went to the sword-chest as she spoke and took out a pair of foils. “Now, this will do my stiffness good, and Audry can act as umpire.”
They had a good deal of practice since the first encounter. Ian was really a brilliant master of the art and was much amused at the way that Aline had completely hoaxed him. Aline made rapid progress and Ian used to tell her that, child as she was, she would probably be able to account for a fairly average swordsman, so little was the art then understood in Scotland or England.
After a bout or two, they sat down to rest.
“You know,” said Ian, “I think I ought to be leaving you soon. I am ever so much better than I was and it would be well for me to be away.”
“Why,” said Audry, “are you not comfortable here?”
“Of course I am comfortable,” he said, “but I cannot stay here forever, it would not be fair to you. Besides it is time that I was doing my work in the world.”
“But it would be terribly risky,” said Audry, “and after the narrow escape you had, I think you might consider you had done your share.”
“No, because I feel that I have something so valuable for people, that it is worth any risk.”
“But look how you have suffered and you will bring the same suffering to others; in fact you hesitated about telling us.”
“But that was because you are children, and somehow176 I do not feel that a child is called upon to undertake such great responsibilities.”
“I do not see why a child should not judge,” said Aline; “it is all so simple and beautiful. If it is worth dying for, people should be glad to have it, whatever the suffering. I think I feel ready to die like poor George Wishart. So if your going helps other people, even if it makes us very sad you must go. When do you think you ought to start?”
“I have a definite errand to undertake. I have never told you about it, but I am acting as a special messenger with some important papers, and I have been thinking it over and have come to the conclusion that I should be leaving here in a week at most, but less if possible.”
“What, so soon?” exclaimed both the children at once.
A deeper gloom than ever seemed to fall over the party as this was said, and although they tried to feel cheerful, they knew it was a poor attempt. No one spoke for a long time. Ian sat with his head between his hands and Aline gazed into the empty fireplace at the dead ashes of the fire that had been lit when Ian came.
These days with Ian had made the Holwick life far more bearable for her. There were her Greek lessons and the fencing lessons, but bad as it would be to lose them it would be worse to lose her friend. He was generally very reserved with her; but if she was in trouble he always opened out. She glanced up. Ian had lifted his head and their eyes met. What would she do without him?
Audry held one of the foils and drew with it on the floor. The silence was oppressive.
At length Aline spoke. “Where shall you go, when177 you leave us? You cannot think how sadly we shall miss you.”
“I shall probably miss you more than you will miss me, sweet child,” and Menstrie looked at her with a strange longing pain in his heart. It was thirteen years since any one person had filled his life as this child had done, and now he was to lose her. “Surely,” he said to himself, “life is compact of most mysterious bitterness”; but he tried to be cheerful for the child’s sake and said, “Never mind, Aline, I shall come and see you again. I think I shall try and become a packman like your friend who gave you your necklace, if I can get some money somehow to begin, and then I can pay many visits to Holwick. I believe I could disguise myself well enough, as I do not think that any one here really knows me,—the few that saw me will have forgotten me. We can meet in this room and I shall be able to bring you news and some interesting things from far away.”
“Yes, do bring me a chatelaine,” said Audry. “I have always wanted one and Father has either forgotten or been unable to get it.”
“Is there anything you would like, birdeen?” said Ian, addressing Aline.
Aline thought for a moment; why should he bring her things, he was obviously poor and never likely to be anything else? What was the younger son of a yeoman who had been a wanderer, a smith and a soldier of fortune ever likely to have in the way of money? Even her own father who had been a small Laird had never been able to purchase her the necklace that he had so desired to do. “I do not want you to bring me anything,” she answered finally, “if only you can keep yourself178 safe,” and then she added hesitatingly, “Would a Greek Testament be expensive?”
“No, not at all,” said Ian. “Would you like one, little angel?”
“Yes, very much indeed; but oh, I am afraid it will be a long time between one visit and the next, and we shall not know what has become of you,” and Aline sighed.
“I think I could write to you sometimes,” he said. “We might get hold of Walter Margrove, who suggested something of the sort to you, and for greater security we could make duplicates of the parchment with the holes that you found in the book. I could write the letter so that it looked like an announcement of my wares.”
They discussed the matter for some time and the next day set about making the parchment slips, and for the following few evenings they were busy with several preparations. Ian’s clothes all had to be mended and put in good order and they took some of the clothes that they had found in the secret room and by slight alterations were able to make him a second outfit.
They also found a leathern wallet that with a little patching made a sound serviceable article.
Ian further made a suggestion to Aline in case they should have reason to suspect that the key to their correspondence was known. “Let us take your name and mine,” he said, “to make the foundation of a series of letters and we will write the names downward like this—
A
L
I
N
E”
179 “Yes, and what next?” said Aline.
“Well, after each letter, we will write in order the letters in the alphabet that follow it. After A we will write B C D E F G, and after L we will write M N O P Q R, and whenever we get to Z we start the alphabet again. So if we write our whole names it will look like this—
180
A. B C D E F G
L. M N O P Q R
I. J K L M N O
N. O P Q R S T
E. F G H I J K
G. H I J K L M
I. J K L M N O
L. M N O P Q R
L. M N O P Q R
E. F G H I J K
S. T U V W X Y
P. Q R S T U V
I. J K L M N O
E. F G H I J K
I. J K L M N O
A. B C D E F G
N. O P Q R S T
M. N O P Q R S
E. F G H I J K
N. O P Q R S T
S. T U V W X Y
T. U V W X Y Z
R. S T U V W X
I. J K L M N O
E. F G H I J K
Now there are 25 letters in each column, and if we just put a number at the top of our communication, we shall know where we are to begin to use the sequence.”
“I see,” said Aline, “if the number is 51 we shall begin at the top of the third column; if it is 56 we shall begin 6 letters down the third column.”
“And if it was 176,” said Ian, “what should we do?”
“Well, we should have to make another column the same way and we should begin at the top of it.”
“Now suppose the number is 1, we shall then begin at the very beginning, and the way we should use the letters would be like this. Suppose this is the message,—
“Arthur Melland wishes to notifie the good people in the Lothians of the lasting excellence of his wares. His pack is regularly filled with all the newest materials and, too, all is most marvellously finished in design.
Our first letter was A, and the first A we find is the A of ‘Arthur.’ Our second letter was L, and the next L that we find is in ‘Melland.’ Our third letter was I and the next I that we find is in ‘wishes.’ Our fourth letter was N and the next N that we find is in ‘notifie.’”
“Oh, that’s quite easy,” said Aline, “and so you mark them all like this—
“Arthur Melland wishes to notifie the good people in the Lothians of the lasting excellence of his wares. His pack is regularly filled with all the newest materials and, too, all is most marvellously finished in design.
and then cut them out.”
“Yes,” said Ian, “and the only other thing necessary is that the paper should first be neatly ruled with quarter181 inch squares, and each of the key letters carefully written in a square. It does not matter about the others. But then when the receiver gets the letter he knows that the squares to be cut must be exactly an even number of quarter inches from the edge of the paper.”
“I hope I shall remember it if needful,” Aline said.
“I don’t,” said Audry.
“Why not?” exclaimed the others in astonishment.
“Because I hope it won’t be needed and that would certainly be simpler.”
THE days slipped by all too quickly and the children spent every available moment in the secret room. But it was not very safe for them to disappear from sight too often and moreover, other obligations had to be fulfilled. Sometimes they were able to arrange that one should remain with Ian while the other was occupied elsewhere.
On one of these occasions, while Audry was in the secret room, Aline went down to the Arnsides. On the way she met Father Laurence coming up from Middleton. It was an unusual thing for him to come to Holwick and Aline was surprised. “Good day, Father,” she said, as she dropped a curtsey.
“Bless you, my child,” said the old man, looking at her keenly, “talium enim est regnum dei,” he whispered softly to himself. “How profound Our Lord’s sayings were. Yes, it does one good even to look at a child,” and then he noticed that Aline seemed sad and troubled and lacked her usual buoyant vivacity. “Are you not happy, little maiden?” he said gently.
16 For of such is the kingdom of God.
Aline looked at him with an expression of wonder; “No, not exactly,” she said.
“What is it, my child?”
“Oh, many things, Father; the world is difficult.”
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They had drawn near to the side of the road and Aline was leaning against the wall; she plucked the top of a tall ragwort and began pulling off its yellow petals one by one.
The priest put his elbow on the wall and looked down at her. He was very tall indeed, with a rather thin face and deep sad eyes. He at once saw that she did not want to tell him her troubles and he had too much instinctive delicacy to press the child. He laid his disengaged hand kindly on her head, and she looked up at him.
“Strange,” he thought, “I might have had such a child of mine own; but no, it was not to be. Yes, I know what sorrow is: I have indeed made my sacrifice.
“All things work together for good, Aline,” he said aloud, “the forces of good must win in the end, but the powers of darkness are strong and the victory may be long delayed; yet it will come.”
“But the world is cruel, Father,” said Aline.
“Yes, my child, I know, and the world often seems to be victorious; but it is only victorious in the things of the world. The principle of love and the principle of beauty will outlast the world,” and he smiled a sweet smile.
Aline gazed into his face and he seemed to be looking into the things beyond.
“Be of good courage, little maiden, fear not them that have power to hurt the body. The Lord be with you, and may the Mother of God watch over you; farewell.”
He turned as he spoke and Aline saw him cross over to the cottage of Benjamin Darley. She went on to the184 Arnsides and found both mother and son at home.
“Ah, Honey,” said the old woman, “it is good to see your bonnie face, it’s a sight for sair een.”
“Mistress Aline is not looking very well, mother,” said John.
“Nonsense, John,” said Aline, and added brightly,—“I have come to ask you all you can tell me about Newbiggin. I know I can trust you.”
“Dear heart,” said Janet, “you do us honour.” She skilfully lifted the peats with the long tongs and rearranged them on a different part of the hearth and soon there was a bright fire.
“That’s a merry blaze,” said Aline; “it seems to cheer one’s heart.”
For an hour they sat and talked about Newbiggin; and the child, with what she already knew, was able to make a shrewd estimate of the true state of affairs.
After a while the subject not unnaturally turned to “Moll o’ the graves” and Aline was dismayed when she heard that Moll had been talking about seeing a man on the moors, and saying that it would be the beginning of troubles.
“What did she mean by that?” asked Aline.
“She would not explain,” said Janet; “she refused to tell any one anything more. ‘The time is not yet, the time is not yet,’ she kept repeating; ‘when all is ready and I have discovered the workings of the fates, I will tell you more than you wish to know.’”
“People have gossiped about it a great deal,” Janet went on, “but Moll will say nothing further.”
“I trust that her evil desires may be foiled,” said Aline, “but I must not tarry.”
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As she went up the street she again met Father Laurence coming out of Peter’s cottage and he seemed more sorrowful than ever.
“Peace be with you, Aline,” he said. “I have a right melancholic thing here,” holding out a letter. “But it cannot grieve thee beyond what thou already knowest. It is a letter from Durham, long delayed in transit, concerning the death of little Joan. Will you read it or shall I?”
Aline’s eyes filled with tears, “I should like you to read it,” she said.
Father Laurence then read—
“To Peter Simson in Holwick
“It beseemeth me to send thee word, although my heart is right heavy within me, of the passing of the small damsel y-cleped Joan, who came from Upper Teesdale. Of this you will have already heard: but my sister was herself sick of an ague at the time and Sir Robert Miller, her confessor, saith that her mind wandered. He writeth this for me. She herself lingered not many days,—God rest her soul,—and, when I came from Skipton, where I dwelled, she was buried.
“I only know from a neighbour that the damsel had gained health until latterly and that the end was on a sudden. She spake much of the young lady at the Hall, who had given her great bounty; and in especial would she have the shoon and the belt returned, which were new. But these same I cannot find, and methinks they must have gone to Newcastle with the other orphans who were in my sister’s house, and whom the good dame who came thence to nurse my sister, took home in her charge, and may our Lady requite her kindness.
“An thou wouldst speak to the Mistress Alice or Ellen,—the name escapeth me,—I would give thee much thanks.
“Elizabeth Parry.”
17 Named.
“But I never gave her any shoes or belt,” said Aline. “Poor little Joan, her mind must have failed her at186 the last, or Mistress Parry must have been as much in error as she was about my name. She was a dear child,” she continued, “and it is bitter dole to me. I have burned a few candles for her soul, but I have not much means.”
18 Grief.
“Trouble not thy gentle heart,” said the old priest, “I will myself say mass for the child, and no one shall be at any charge. God keep thee, Aline, as he may.”
When she reached the Hall she went to Ian and Audry and told them what she had learned, and they were much disquieted at the evil speaking of old Moll; but there was nothing that they might do and they could only hope against hope.
Ever since hearing the letter that Father Laurence had read, the sad figure of little Joan had floated before Aline’s eyes, and that night she went to the library and opened the ambry and took out the little packet and gazed at the pathetic contents. “I wonder whether I shall ever be able to find the boy, Wilfred Johnstone,” she said. “But I expect he will have forgotten already, boys never remember long,” and then she recalled a remark of her father’s,—“A boy remembers longer and is more constant than a girl, unless he has won her; but after she is won she is the more faithful.” “I should like to know if that be true,” she thought.
At length the evening came when Ian had to start. It was a fine bright night as the three made their way down the secret passage for the last time.
“How strange it has all been,” said Aline, “since we first discovered the secret room and this passage. What a different thing life means to me from what it did187 then!” She was leading the way carrying the wallet containing the food, while Audry carried a staff and a big heavy cloak.
“It has been a wonderful time for me,” said Ian, “and I can never realise to the full the marvellousness of my escape or your great kindness to me. I feel that God must have arranged it all, just because it is so strange. I seem to have every little incident written in undying characters in my mind, and I could recall almost every word of your conversations with me. Even if we never meet again, you will live with me always.”
“Oh, but you will come back and we shall meet again,” Audry interrupted, “you must not talk like that.”
“I hope that I shall,” he said, but the tone of his voice was so sad that no one spoke again till they came to the cave-room.
They lifted the stone and Ian climbed down first and then lifted the two through the opening. As he held Aline in his arms a great wave of feeling nearly overcame him altogether. For the moment he felt as though he could not put her down; it was like voluntarily parting with all that made life precious. He clasped her tightly to him for a moment and then he set her very gently on her feet. It was not too dark to see her face, and as he looked at it he realised that he had never seen it more sad and yet it had never looked more beautiful. The light was not bright enough to see the colour, but he could just discern something of its richness in the gleam of her thick long wavy hair, reaching far down below her waist. They all found it very difficult to speak and the children wished him a safe journey and a happy issue with very trembling voices.
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“Think of me sometimes,” he said, “when I am gone, and pray for me. May God be with you and do more than I can ever ask in my feeble prayers.”
He kissed both the children, and holding Aline’s little face in both his hands he said,—“Oh, if I could only do something for you, little one, I could be happy, no matter what it cost. Somehow I feel that we shall never meet again in spite of what Audry says; still that does not make it impossible for me to do something for you. Remember that I shall always be living in the hope that some such chance may come and that the greatest pleasure you can give me is to let me use myself in your service. But now I must go.” He kissed her once again and then took the cloak, staff and wallet and strode into the darkness; which soon closed round him and hid him from their sight.
After he had gone a hundred yards or so across the moor, he paused; it was almost more than he could bear; so he knelt down and prayed that all good things might come to Aline and, if it were not selfish to ask it, that it might be given to him to suffer on her behalf,—some pain, some sacrifice, some physical or mental anguish, that might directly or indirectly add to her joy or lessen her sorrow. After this he felt strengthened and even elated at the thought of the suffering that he hoped would come. It was not enough to give her happiness, the more it would cost him, the more he would welcome it.
He walked as fast as the light and the nature of the ground would permit, and when the morning dawned he had passed the wild cataract of Caldron Snout and was on the spurs of Knock Fell.
IT was a raw, damp morning and the day struggled up with difficulty. Ian was very tired as it was long since he had made any continuous physical effort and, anxious as he was to make progress, he felt that he must rest. He sat down by a stream and opened his wallet and broke his fast, while he thought out what would be the best road for him to take. So far he had been sure of the way from Audry’s description, but he was a little more doubtful about his ability to find the route further on and yet, if possible, he did not wish to ask questions of any one he met. He was just able to distinguish the sun rising through the mist and hoped that the day would brighten. From this he calculated that the wind which was very steady was from the northwest.
He knew that, when they were hunting him before, a description of him had been sent as far as Alston and Kirkoswald; so he determined to try and reach Carlisle without going through these places. In Carlisle people had more things to think about; and the incident of his escape, even if news of it had travelled so far, would by this time be forgotten. Moreover a stranger in the great border town would not arouse any curiosity.
He therefore decided that he would keep along by the highest ground following the ridge of summits. This he knew would ultimately bring him to Cold Fell,190 where the drop on every side is very marked and whence, if he had not seen Carlisle itself before, he could drop down by Naworth or Brampton.
After a long rest he turned up the steep. Unfortunately the mist, instead of lifting, grew thicker until he had nothing to guide him but the wind and the general lie of the ground. Used as he was to the hills, he always felt the eeriness of the mist seething and curling and scurrying over the heather. It was bitterly cold as the wind was strong and the mist grew so thick that he could only see the ground for a few paces. He was afraid of coming suddenly upon the precipice of some corrie or cross-gully. He had heard too of the terrible “pot” holes in the limestone district, and pictured himself falling down into one of those black bottomless chimneys, where even his body would never be seen again.
He decided to strike straight up for the top, even though it was more fatiguing, and he followed the steepest line of the ground, scrambling over the rocks where necessary. He started violently as he suddenly heard the scream of an eagle somewhere near him in the mist, and later on he was surprised actually to come upon one tearing the body of a grouse. The great bird rose and hit him, whether intentionally or not he was not sure, but he shrank involuntarily and the sight of the small mangled victim stirred his heart. “Why was the world of birds and men so essentially cruel?” “Poor little Aline,” he thought, as he looked at the little bird.
When at last he reached the height he was met by an icy wind of tremendous force from the weather side191 of the hill and it was only with extreme difficulty that he could keep his footing. Using the wind as his guide he decided on a place where the gradient was less and the direction right as far as he could judge and trusted that this would be the col between the summits.
It was anxious work and at last he began to feel that he had descended too far. He had missed the col. He was lost. Although better in health his nerves were still shaken. For a moment he half broke down. “Oh, if I could only see you once again, Aline,” he cried, “and you will never know that months afterwards the shepherds found the remains of an unknown man upon the hills.” He peered into the mist as though by strength of will he would force its secret. It was vain, the mist was blankly impenetrable. Under ordinary circumstances he was too good a hillsman to mind and would simply, worse come to the worst, have followed down stream till he came to the haunts of men, but it was a matter of life and death to him now not to come down the wrong valley. Moreover, there were the precious papers, for which he had already risked so much.
Gradually he recovered, but what was he to do? Which side had he gone wrong? He stood and reflected for a moment. The direction of the wind seemed all right, but it was very much less in force. Surely then he was to the east of the col. Oh, if only the mist would lift, but it still raced past, with its white swirling, cruel fingers. The wind sighed sadly in the rank, red tinted grass, and away below he heard the falling of many waters and the endless bleating of sheep. Every now and then some gigantic menacing forms192 would seem to shape themselves out of the mist;—they danced round him, they pointed at him, they mocked him. They were trolls, they were the spirits of death, the lost souls of the sons of men. A brooding horror seemed to sweep over the desolate hillside, chilling him with a nameless dread. He turned a little further into the wind and the ground grew more wet and mossy. This must surely be somewhere below the middle of the col, he argued, and he struck still more to the left.
Suddenly he came upon a sight that froze his marrow. It was the skeleton of a child,—some poor little wanderer who, like himself, had been lost and who never had returned home. The wind whistled through the small slender bones. They were quite clean, save for a little hair clinging to the skull, from which Ian guessed that it was a boy. He might have been ten or twelve years old. How had he come there? What had brought him to his fate? The clothes had entirely gone save one little shoe. Ian picked it up, looked at it and shivered. Oh, the horror of it! Then the mood changed and he found himself filled with unutterable pity. “Poor child, poor child,” he said; “another victim of a heartless world.” He knelt down and laid his hand on the small skull and his emotion overcame him. Then he gathered the bones together and carried them to a small hollow under a great rock. As he was doing this, his fingers came across something in the grass. It was a small wallet or purse. When he had taken all the bones he managed with some difficulty to cover them with earth and then he built up a little cairn of stones. The small shoe he put with the bones, but the wallet he took with him.
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With very mingled feelings he struggled up the slope and at last to his great relief he felt the icy blast of the northwest wind, with the ground sloping upward in the right direction. He decided to make for the very summit, the better to check his position, and at last he reached the point and then cautiously made his way in the same manner to what he believed was Cross Fell.
It was very slow work and the ground was very wet and heavy; he was footsore and stiff from lack of practice and when the evening began to close in he had made absurdly little headway.
At last he felt he could go no further and must spend the night upon the hills. He climbed over the ridge to the leeward side and dropped until he came to the heather line, where he found a dry hollow between some rocks. Tearing up a quantity of heather he made himself a bed to lie on and sat down on the soft extemporised couch. Then he opened the little wallet or pouch that he had found by the skeleton. It contained some knuckle bones and a piece of cord; but with them was a wonderful bracelet of peculiar workmanship. Ian judged it to be Keltic of a very remote date as it somewhat resembled work that a friend had found in the Culbin sands. An inscription and other alterations had been made at a later date.
The design was in bold curving shapes that expressed the very spirit of metal. Most remarkable were three large bosses of a strange stone of marvellous hue; they were a deep sky-blue, brilliantly clear and transparent, but with a slight yet most mysterious opalescence in the colour. He had never heard of such a stone and there was something almost uncanny about the way they shone194 in the dim light. Whether they were original or substitutes for enamel or amber he could not tell.
The inscription ran:—
WOE TO WHO STEALETH ME
PEACE TO WHO FINDETH ME
BUT WEAL WHERE I COME AS A GIFT OF LOVE.
It was a marvellously beautiful thing and Ian could not help speculating how the boy had come by it. “If these charms and amulets really had any power, he might well have stolen it,” he thought, shuddering at what he had seen. “But that is a thing we shall never know. However, it would be a pleasing gift for Aline, and some day I will clasp it myself on that little white wrist.”
He pictured Aline to himself wearing the bracelet and then rolling his cloak about him went to sleep.
For a few hours he slept well and then he woke with the cold. He was very tired and sleepy but unable to sleep again for the pains which shot through him. The miserable night seemed endless, he tossed and dozed and tossed again, but at last the dawn broke. It was still misty but he was anxious to get on. He opened his wallet and found it was getting low; there was enough for two fair meals, but he divided it into three portions and took one.
The wind had dropped but he had taken the precaution of marking its direction on the ground before he slept. However, that would not avail him long. He wondered what Aline was doing. He was sure that somehow Providence had intended him to help her. Suppose he had done wrongly and should meet his death and deprive her of his aid! Why was life so continually perplexing?
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When he started to move, his swollen blistered feet made every step painful, but gradually he became more used to it and struggled on mechanically.
He was going very slowly, although it was down hill, and it was with joy that in rather less than four hours he came across a mountain track running according to his guess east and west. “This must surely be the road from Alston to Kirkoswald,” he said, and feeling more or less reassured he sat down. But he was so worn out from fatigue and lack of sleep that he almost at once fell into a deep slumber.
When he awoke he found a shepherd-boy looking at him. “You sleep soundly, Master,” he said; “whither are you bound?”
“I am going to Carlisle,” he answered.
“I have been in Carlisle once,” said the boy. “It’s a fine town, with bonnie sights; but that was not yesterday. I spend all my time with the sheep and it is rarely that I get a chance for such things. No, it’s not much pleasure that they let come my way,” he added dolefully.
Ian looked at the boy, who had a fine face and was well proportioned in length of limbs and figure, but thin and ill nourished, with hollow cheeks and angular shoulders. “I am afraid they do not feed you over well,” he remarked.
“Not they,” said the lad,—“I get my brose in the morning and none too much of that and then generally I get some more brose in the evening.”
“Do you get nothing all day?” said Ian.
“Why, no,” he replied.
“Would you like something to eat now?”
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The boy’s eyes lit up as Ian undid his wallet. “Surely,” he said.
Ian gave him all that the wallet contained and smiled with pleasure as he watched the boy ravenously devour every morsel. It was the first glow of satisfaction that Ian had had since he left Holwick.
As the boy munched away Ian thought he might get what information he could; at least he would know how much more road there was before him, which was advisable now that he had nothing whatever left to eat.
“Do you know the names of the hills?” he asked casually, as though hunting for a topic of conversation.
“Why, of course,” said the boy. “Black Fell is up that way and Cross Fell is over there. If it was a clear day you could see the hills in the west too, Skiddaw and Blencathara and Helvellyn, and all the rest of them.
“I wish I was going with you to Carlisle,” he added somewhat wistfully; “a city is better than the hills; not that I do not love the hills,” he continued, “but an apprentice gets more to fill his stomach than a shepherd lad, leastways than one who has no father and mother and who works for Farmer Harrington.”
Ian’s heart always went out to children and this gaunt but rather handsome boy interested him not a little. “How old are you,” he asked, “and what is your name?”
“My name is Wilfred Johnstone and I shall be twelve come Martinmas.”
“Would you like to be apprenticed in the city and do you know anything about it?”
“That should I,” he answered; “I should like to be197 a carpenter like Johnnie o’ the Biggins, whom they sent to Thirsk last year. Some day he will be a master carpenter and be building roofs and houses and sic like bonnie things.”
“But, Wilfred, what would Farmer Harrington say if you left him?”
“Well, I cannot tell but he would not have cause to say much, for the way that he treats the men and the lads that work for him. I very nearly left him and tramped into Carlisle last week; but it’s hard to become an apprentice if you cannot pay your footing.”
Ian had two or three gold pieces left, so he took out one and gave it to the boy. “That will enable you to get to Carlisle, and back again if need be, and stay a while anyway to see if you can find a place. I might be able to help you if you can find me. See the sheep are all right to-night and then come along. I shall be about the market cross most days at noon, and if you do not find me the money will take you back.”
The boy’s eyes grew round with astonishment. He took the money and tried incoherently to express his thanks, and then after a pause he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Oh, call me James Mitchell; but look you,” Ian added, “do not tell a soul about meeting me or ask for me by name in Carlisle. I cannot help you if you do. Promise me.”
The boy looked Ian squarely in the face and held out his hand. “I promise,” he said.
Ian grasped the hand and felt the magnetism of a mutual understanding, the boy was clearly honest and true and would keep to his word. “Well, good-bye and God198 be wi’ ye,” said Ian, and turned away northward.
After they parted Ian kept along in the same manner as before and to his great gladness the mist towards evening began to lift. But he was faint and famished and felt weak from want of food. The sleep had done him some good, but he had slept too long and lost most of the day. He felt a little less melancholy after he had seen the boy, but he was still very depressed. His mind ran on old Moll and her talk about the spirits of darkness. Consequently it was a distinct shock when he caught sight of a gigantic figure looming through the mist and striding along a little below him as though seeking a place so as to come up on his level. It was many times larger than himself and in the dim curlings of the mist had a most terrifying aspect.
Ian began to run but the figure started running also. At last he stood still and the figure stopped and turned towards him. For a moment his brain, dizzy with hunger, contemplated a fight with this supernatural being. He mechanically grasped his staff and raised it, and the figure did the same.
Then the tension relaxed and Ian laughed. It was the brocken, the strange spectre of the hills formed by the distorted shadow of his own figure on the mist! In all his hill-travelling this was the first time he had ever seen it; and, although he laughed, the little incident had not helped to steady his nerves. “It has, however, one advantage,” he said; “I now know my direction from the position of the sun.”
Then suddenly the mist broke and there before him was revealed a glorious view. The sun was setting in a crimson glory and the hills of Cumberland, still cloud199 capped, were flushed with delicate colours. He was below Blacklaw Hill, and Cold Fell blocked the view to the north. Immediately in front was the great plain of Carlisle and beyond that the waters of the Solway. Far on the left a silver glitter showed the position of Ulleswater. It was radiantly beautiful and the more so, because of the contrast with the cold and darkness of the mist.
He decided that on the whole he had better keep to the hills, but it grew dark and he had to spend another cheerless night on the high ground, which was made worse by the gnawing hunger; but somehow his spirit seemed brighter, and in spite of the cold and pain he did not feel so unhappy.
When the morning broke, he set off with a light heart to Brampton, where he secured food without being asked any question and in the evening he found himself in Carlisle.
WHEN Ian reached Carlisle he secured himself a room at the old hostelry near the Cathedral, sent a message into Scotland that he had arrived, and then spent some days in general enquiries as to the possibility of getting work. In this he was not very successful, but was more so in the case of Wilfred Johnstone, whom on the fourth day of his arrival he met at the Market Cross.
Ian was sitting watching the people, when the boy came up. He had a stick over his shoulder with a small bundle containing his belongings.
“How long have you been in Carlisle?” asked Ian.
“I have only just arrived,” said the boy.
“Come along then; we must see what we can do for you. I suppose there is no likelihood of Farmer Harrington coming to look for you.”
“I do not know,” said the boy, “and I do not know whether he could compel me to come back, but he might. I am an orphan and all my folk are dead. I lived with my Aunt Louisa Johnstone until she died this winter; she had no children of her own.”
“Then she was really only your Uncle’s wife.”
“No, she was my mother’s sister. My name is not really Johnstone, but I was always called that because I lived with her.”
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“What was your father’s name then?”
“It was Ackroyd.”
“So your real name is Wilfred Ackroyd?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can call you Will Ackroyd or Willie Ackroyd, and if Farmer Harrington comes asking for Wilfred Johnstone, he won’t find him.”
“You are right, Master.”
“Come along then, Will. I have found a carpenter called Matthew Musgrave who is actually in need of a lad, so I think we can settle that difficulty.”
Matthew Musgrave was a good hearted fellow, who took kindly to the boy and the arrangement was concluded. The result was that he also began to take an interest in the stranger who had introduced him, with the final issue that James Mitchell, as we must now call Ian, who was remarkably clever with his hands, used to go round to help Matthew when he was extra busy; and gradually Matthew found him so useful that he gave him more or less regular employment.
He had decided to keep to the name of James Mitchell, which was the name he had used on the Continent when he fled from England not long after Mary’s accession. Even his friends in France did not know his real name. If ever he should return to his own country he would resume it; meanwhile James Mitchell did well enough. Moreover his recent captors knew him by his real name and it might be some slight safeguard. He smiled as he remembered how he had instinctively given the children his own name. It had seemed the natural thing to do.
After about a week Erskyne arrived and he was accompanied202 by Mortoun himself, who hoped to obtain further personal information by word of mouth, beyond that contained in the documents.
“I hear you have had some sore delays, James Mitchell,” he said.
“Yes, my Lord, I was imprisoned for some time in York and wounded and sick and in hiding for over two months.”
“You are a Scot I understand.”
“I am, my Lord.”
“And of the reformed faith?”
“That is so.”
“We shall need the services of all good Scots if there is any fighting to be done. Can we rely upon you?”
“By my troth, you may, my Lord; I shall be found here.”
Ian then put the shoes on the table and they ripped them open. The contents were practically uninjured and they talked till late into the night.
As they retired to rest, Erskyne remarked;—“Master Knox has found a good servant in you, James Mitchell. I am glad to have met an honest man with an honest heart, ay and an honest face,” he added. “Good night.”
The next morning they left early and Ian felt that an epoch in his life had closed. He also, not unnaturally thought that, having reached Carlisle in safety and found employment, his adventures were for the time at an end, but instead of that they were only just beginning.
Although Wilfred had obtained his wish, he was obviously restless and unhappy. On several occasions Ian203 had tried to get at the reason, but the boy was uncommunicative. At last he admitted that it was because he had left something behind at Master Harrington’s near Kirkoswald.
“I think I shall go over and get it,” he said.
“But that would hardly be safe,” Ian objected; “Master Harrington might not let you have it or let you go again.”
“It is not in a house,” said Wilfred; “it is hidden in a tree. I could find it easily in the dark.”
“How did you come to forget it?” asked Ian.
“I did not exactly forget it; but I had to slip away in a hurry and did not dare to go back; besides I thought I might have to return to Kirkoswald in any case and perhaps it was as safe there as anywhere. I knew it would be possible to go and fetch it and I must go now.”
“I cannot but think you are very unwise, Will.”
“But you do not know what it means to me,” said the boy.
Ian respected the child’s secret and asked no further. “Well, I shall be very anxious until you come back; you cannot do it in a day. Where will you sleep? It is getting late in the year.”
“Oh! I shall manage somehow,” said the boy. “I shall start to-morrow forenoon, Wednesday, and shall be back on Thursday soon after noon.”
“Then if you are not back, I shall be very nervous about you and shall come after you.”
“No, do not do that, Master; I shall be all right.”
Ian was not satisfied, but he let the boy set off early the following morning.
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Wilfred trudged away along the road without mishap, resting now and then and taking it easily, as he did not want to arrive before dusk. A little after sunset he arrived at the outskirts of the farm and made his way cautiously to the hollow tree. He looked round carefully, but no one was about. He then crept into the tree and felt in the corner for a pile of stones. In this was concealed a small wooden box. He took out the box and drew from it a packet wrapped in oiled canvas; within this was another with the open edges thickly smeared with tallow.
He took that off also and within was another piece of oiled canvas, but the packet was now small enough to go into his pouch, where he put it without opening it. “It would be too dark to see it,” he said to himself.
“I think I shall sleep here, it is as good as anywhere.” He waited until he was certain that no one was about and came out from the tree to gather leaves with which to make a bed and then he lay down.
Excitement and cold, however, kept him awake for hours and it was not till far on in the night that he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad day, although still early. “I have slept too long,” he thought; “it was a pity I did not fall asleep earlier.” He peeped out and there was nobody in sight, so he softly stole away toward the road.
But he had not gone fifty yards, before the thundering voice of the reeve, his particular enemy, called out,—“Hulloo there, I see you sneaking round, you young thief. But you will not hide from us again, I’ll warrant.”
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The reeve started running and Wilfred took to his heels. The reeve was a powerful athletic fellow, but Wilfred was light and nimble. He dodged under a fence that the reeve had some difficulty in surmounting, and in that way gained a little at the start.
For a time the distance between them did not alter, both were holding themselves in reserve; then it occurred to Wilfred to turn up hill; he might not be so strong, but his wind would be better. The reeve puffed and panted after the boy, who steadily increased his lead. When Wilfred reached the top of the slope he glanced round, the reeve was far behind; then he plunged down the hill where there was a burn at the bottom, and splashed through it with some difficulty, as the water was up to his waist and the bank on the other side was steep.
The reeve gained during the process and, being taller, made light work of the burn and was close behind. Terror lent wings to the boy’s feet but the reeve slowly overhauled him and could almost reach him with his arm. Wilfred could hear his loud breathing just behind him, when the reeve, tripping over a root, not only fell headlong but rolled into a ditch.
Wilfred laughed and fled like the wind; there was a thick wood not a hundred yards away and he would be safe.
His adversary picked himself up and was just in time to see Wilfred approaching the wood. He would easily have escaped, but another man appeared coming out of the wood at the same moment. “Catch him, Joseph,” yelled the reeve, and the exhausted boy fell an easy prey to the newcomer.
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The reeve was considerably hurt by his fall and it greatly increased his anger. “Where have you been, you young rascal,” he roared, “and what have you done with the sheep you stole?”
“I never stole a sheep,” said Wilfred indignantly, “and it is no business of yours where I have been.”
“Oh, isn’t it; we’ll soon see about that. Do you know what happens to boys who steal sheep?” said the reeve vindictively.
Wilfred was silent.
“Come now, what happens to boys who steal sheep?” he went on with malicious glee.
Wilfred was still silent.
“You need not be so proud; come answer my question,” and taking the boy’s arm he twisted it round till the tears stood in his eyes, but he restrained himself from crying out. “What happens to boys who steal sheep?”
“They are hanged,” said Wilfred at last; “but I have not stolen sheep or anything,” he said doggedly.
“You can say what you like, but the sheep disappeared and you disappeared, and here you are sneaking round in the early morning. The case is as good as proved,” and the bullying ruffian kicked the boy brutally.
The two men led him along to the old grange and locked him up in a small room, high up near the roof.
Wilfred knew that the reeve had spoken truly. Young lads with no friends were not of much account, and nothing but a miracle could save him.
He sat there for hours, as it were dazed and stunned, and then toward evening he opened his pouch and took207 out the little packet and unfastened it. It contained half a groat and a long lock of hair. “Oh, Joan,” he said, “I wonder what will become of you when I am gone. I wonder if any one will ever tell you what happened to me. Master Mitchell was quite right. I should not have come back. No, even for your sake it was better not to come. For now I have lost everything, everything. And there was I going to become a carpenter and lay by a plenty of money and come and marry you when I was big. They say a boy can’t love,” he said bitterly; “they know nothing about it;—I do not suppose they know what love is. If only I were dying for you, Joan, I should be quite happy, but to die for what I have not done...!”
He threw himself on the floor and sobbed and sobbed until from the sheer physical exhaustion of the paroxysms of grief he fell asleep.
Meanwhile Ian was anxiously awaiting his return. The strange feeling that had possessed him ever since the day that Aline had talked about it in the secret room and that lately had been somewhat less intense, came back stronger than ever. He could not explain it, he could not reason about it, he only knew that something terrible was in the air and that it did not only affect Wilfred or himself. So strong was the feeling that he did not wait till the next morning. He merely lay down for a few hours and set off soon after midnight, so as to reach Kirkoswald at dawn. It was one of the last places where he wished to be seen, but he seemed to be drawn by fate.
He had grown a beard while at Holwick and he further disguised himself before starting by pulling out208 half his eyebrows, which were thick and bushy, and likewise the hair above his forehead for the space of half an inch.
“No one would be able to recognise me, who did not actually know me,” he said. “I certainly do not answer to any description of myself that can have been sent around.”
He went to the different hostels and gossiped with every one. He could not ask questions at all direct, as that would have raised suspicion. He began to despair, but at last his patience was rewarded. By good luck his informant was a young farm hand who had been friendly with Wilfred and whose sympathies were strongly on his side. Like every one else, so he told Ian, he was certain that Wilfred had committed the theft and equally certain that he would be hanged; but in a guarded way he let it be seen that he strongly disapproved of such extremities.
“Yes,” he said, “they will never take him out of that little top-room except to his trial and death.” Ian longed to ask where the top-room was but felt it would be too risky. When the young fellow rose to leave the hostel, Ian strolled out. “I may as well stretch my legs,” he said.
He had turned the conversation to other subjects, but, as he had hoped, they passed the grange and he looked up and remarked casually, “I suppose that’s where the boy is of whom you spoke.”
“Yes,” said his companion, “in the second window.”
“From the left or the right?” he managed to say unconcernedly; “it’s strange what scenes may be going on behind a wall and no one know.”
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“From the left,” said his companion, “the one with the dripstone half off.”
“Poor boy!” Ian said; “how foolish to risk one’s life, though, for a sheep; but other people’s doings are always inexplicable. Where did you say you lived yourself?” he went on.
“A quarter of a mile down the path.”
“Where the oaks are? Those are good trees; there must be some timber worth having.”
Ian did not return to the subject of Wilfred and he parted from the youth as they neared his cottage. He strolled back to the grange. It seemed a fairly hopeless case, ladders would be impossible without an accomplice; moreover there was a moat that ran around two sides of the house and the window was over the moat. Could he try and save the boy by his own evidence? No, that was useless. It might be of little avail in any case, and, as he himself was a suspected fugitive it would more probably destroy any slender chance that there might be.
He did not dare to linger, but he cautiously inspected the situation and saw a desperate chance. Away on the far side was a tall elm tree whose branches came very near the battlement; the tree itself was unclimbable but another tree whose branches actually touched the first one seemed to offer an opportunity. It was that or nothing.
A very long rope was clearly necessary and how to get that without exciting suspicion was indeed a problem. Ian secured a room in the principal hostel and looked round the stable yard, gossiping with the ostlers. When no one was there he found a short length of stout210 rope, but it was not enough. At last he bethought him of his bed and, on examining it, he found that the rope carried across and across under the mattrass was nearly new. This would mean that he would have to come back to the hostel, but as he had purposely obtained a room on the ground floor so as to be able to slip out easily, that presented little difficulty.
It was a dark night and rain was falling slightly; he undid the rope from the bed which was in two lengths and spliced them and the other rope together. As he set out his heart smote him. The risk was immense. If he were caught it was more than likely he would be hanged; if he escaped that, there was a very considerable chance of being recognised as the escaped heretic and then he would be burnt. But, even without being caught, the operation itself was so dangerous that it was as like as not that he would break his neck. Was he justified in risking his life when Aline’s necessities might require him? There certainly seemed no other chance for the boy; he had thought of all the obvious possibilities of saving him, but every case was barred by an insuperable objection less obvious, perhaps, but fatal nevertheless. “Why am I made so that I always see both sides so clearly?” he said. “Other people have no such difficulties in making up their minds.”
It did not occur to Ian that even the difficulty would probably have presented itself to another man in a different way. Ian’s problem was merely when and for whom to risk his life; some of us might hesitate before risking our lives at all. However, after pondering for a while it suddenly occurred to him that Aline would wish it. That settled it; the two problems disappeared;211 there was only one problem and that was to act as carefully as possible. Aline would undoubtedly counsel that much.
He crept along very quietly; it was almost too dark; every twig that cracked, every slight stumble that he made caused his heart to beat violently.
Once he started a dog barking and had to remain motionless for a long time, but the most trying experience was that when he had cautiously stolen very near to the grange, a figure on horseback rode up and passed within a yard of him. He stepped behind a tree and saw the door opened. A flood of light streamed out and before he could get on the further side of the tree again he felt he must be seen.
Once more he waited a long time till all was dark and quiet. He climbed the first tree with less difficulty than he expected, but the branches of the two trees were further apart than he had thought. Finally he had to go up higher and lay the rope over a branch and lower himself, holding the two ends and then, after reaching the other tree, pull the rope over the branch by one end.
The rain and the darkness made discovery less likely; but everything was slippery and the difficulties were greatly increased. Having climbed up higher he started along one branch but after he had reached the furthest safe point he found that he was still a long way from the wall.
Again he tried a second branch, but, although a little nearer, it was an awful gulf in the black night.
A third time he crept slowly along another slippery branch that swayed and bent under his weight. “Suppose212 the whole thing should break, elm trees are notoriously treacherous,” he thought.
The branch was worse than the second and he had to go back to that one. This time he managed to wriggle out a couple of feet further, where the branch gave a sudden turn upward and to the left, parallel to the face of the wall. He could dimly discern the top of the parapet on a slightly lower level, perhaps six feet distant. He tied a heavy knot in the rope and swung it out to hit the stonework, so as to measure the distance. It was perhaps rather under than over seven feet. But a seven foot jump from a wet swaying branch, with a forty foot drop in the pitch darkness was a fearsome task. The thought made him feel quite sick and the nausea made his brain reel. A slight squall of wind blew up and the branch rocked and creaked ominously. He had to hold on with all his strength or he would have fallen.
When he had recovered himself a little, a thought struck him; he would double the rope and loop it round the branch and then tie the ends firmly about him under the arm-pits. The rope was not very strong; but surely, if doubled, there was just a chance of its standing a sudden jerk.
After he had done this, he nerved himself for the last effort, but before standing up, he prayed for Aline passionately, fervently, as though the intensity of his prayer should insure its answer. He then rose and, balancing himself with difficulty, leaped across. He reached the parapet; but it was wet, while the lichens on it made it like glass and he slipped down, down, down, into the void.
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He heard a laugh as of a fiend and saw Aline’s face blanched with pity; there was an awful wrench under his arms and a snap above; one of the thicknesses of rope had broken;—but he was still alive. He climbed hand over hand feverishly, without pausing an instant, up the slimy rope and then held on to the branch, while wave after wave of uncontrollable terror swept over him. His excitement was so violent that he feared he would lose his reason. He used all his will power to bring it under control; but he could not do it. Must he abandon the attempt, could he ever force himself, there, in the horrible yawning blackness to go through with it again? His teeth chattered and, do what he would, his hands shook till he nearly fell again. Then he thought of Aline and saw her swimming the river, while he rested his wounded arm upon her shoulder. “Coward,” he hissed through his teeth, “coward. But oh, Aline, if only it were for you!”
“It is for her, though you do not see how,” said a voice within.
Gradually he grew calmer, so that by a supreme effort he forced himself to tie the broken rope and again stand up. He stooped over to the left, where the branch turned, and holding on with both hands he kicked the branch till he broke the bark a little and roughened it. Then he raised himself upright and putting every ounce of strength and will into the leap, he cleared the space and landed in a crenellation. He fell and hurt himself considerably, but what did that matter?
Untying the rope from himself, he slipped it from the tree and cautiously made his way round the parapet. He had to climb three gables and there were other difficulties,214 but at last he was over Wilfred’s window. He slipped the rope round a merlon and climbed down and knocked at the window.
19 The merlons are the projecting upright portions of a battlement.
The boy, who was sleeping a light nervous sleep, woke at once and luckily had the good sense to make no noise. Clearly any one at the window was a friend; enemies came to the door.
He rose and went to the window and opened it. “Gramercy, Master Mitchell, is that you?”
“Hush, yes,” said Ian, and stepped into the room. He pulled down the rope by one end and, before doing anything else, properly spliced the broken piece lest it should catch.
They then set the bed a trifle nearer to the window and looped the rope round the bed post.
“Can you swim, Willie?” said Ian.
“No, Master.”
“That is very serious,” he said, “as this rope will not stand both of us, and it is so dark that I cannot first lower you till you just reach the water.”
“But I can climb well,” said the boy.
“That is all right then, but remember the rope is very wet.”
Ian tied the two ends together and lowered them slowly, till the rope hung looped at its middle point round the bed post.
“Now, as you cannot swim I must go first. I only hope the rope is long enough. It cannot be more than a few feet short anyway, and worse come to the worst you must take a long breath and drop into the water.215 But before letting go, when your legs are dangling, grip one end of the rope and hold it, cut the rope above and the other end will fly up and we can pull it through. I want to leave no evidence.”
Ian gave him a knife and then climbed out and gently let himself noiselessly down the rope. He found that the ends hung about two and a half feet above the water, just beyond a swimmer’s reach.
Wilfred then followed, full of apprehension. When near the bottom Ian whispered,—“Hold on, but let your feet down into the water.” As the boy’s feet reached the moat, Ian trod water and put his arms up to him. This reassured him; as the child, who could not swim, naturally shrank from the plunge into the black deeps in the specially trying surroundings.
“Cut the rope, hold the knotted end tight and let go,” said Ian. As the boy dropped, he caught him and by going under himself prevented the boy from being completely submerged.
“Give me the rope,” and Ian pulled down a long length so as to swim over. “Hold on to me,” and he swam across.
Just as they reached the bank the short end ran up suddenly, and the whole rope fell with a loud splash.
The two fugitives waited fearfully lest it should raise the alarm, but nothing further broke the silence of the night.
As they walked, dripping, to the hostel, Ian said,—“I wish you were not wet, but who would have thought of this? What shall we do?” They climbed through the window and Wilfred shivered violently, partly with cold and partly with excitement.
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“I shall leave the bed on the floor,” Ian said. “Come, let us get off your clothes.” He stripped the boy, rubbed him down with a dry towel and put him into bed. The friction started a warm glow and he was soon all right. Wilfred asked for his precious packet and while Ian was busy wringing out their clothes he opened it and dried the contents and put it under his pillow.
At four o’clock Ian woke him. “I am so sorry about the wet things, but you must make for Carlisle at once as best you may.”
“Never mind, I am warm again now, and used often to be wet through all day, when I was with the sheep.”
After Wilfred had gone, Ian replaced both ropes and put the bed right. He stayed in Kirkoswald till nearly evening so as not to attract attention, and for the same reason went on to Penrith and returned by the other road to Carlisle the following day.
He overheard a little of the gossip about the boy’s escape. The most popular belief was that he had flown out of the window with the devil. Those who prided themselves on their superior intellects said that some one had obviously opened the door and hidden him in their house, just as they had clearly done at his first disappearance. An orphan boy, however, was not of much value one way or the other, and the thing as a practical question was a nine days’ wonder; although a favourite topic of gossip, relating to things mysterious, for many a long day.
LUCKILY Matthew Musgrave, who had given Wilfred permission to go, asked no questions beyond inquiring whether he had settled things to his satisfaction.
“I had some difficulties,” said Wilfred, “but everything is all right now.”
Wilfred lodged with Musgrave, but they would often both come round to the hostelry where Ian was. On one of these occasions a number of men were seated round the fire with tankards of ale, when a big burly fellow came in and asked mine host to draw him a tankard. Catching sight of Matthew, he went up to him and clapping him on the back, he asked how things were going.
“Well enough, thank you, Andrew, and how is all with you, now that you have settled down near the old place again?”
“Oh, not so badly; it is harder work than at Holwick, but it’s good being near one’s own folk.”
Ian started slightly at the name of Holwick, but no one noticed and he guessed that this must be Andrew Woolridge. He waited a moment and then cautiously entered the conversation. “Where is Holwick?” he questioned.
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“It’s not very far south from here,” said Andrew, “on the Tees a few miles from Middleton.”
“What were you doing there?” asked Ian.
“Oh, I was working at Holwick Hall, Master Richard Mowbray’s place.”
“What sort of a place was that?”
“A fine big place, but they had not the money that the family used to have.”
“What were they like?” inquired Ian.
“Yes, tell us something about them,” said Matthew; “you have never told us much.”
“Oh, they were all right. Master Mowbray was excellent and so were the young mistresses, but Mistress Mowbray herself was a tartar.”
“Was that why you left?” asked little Wilfred.
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Andrew. “I had a bit of a quarrel with them. These things will happen, you know”; and he laughed. “In fact, now that I think over it, I believe they were in the right. They were decent people, but queer in some ways, and so I thought I had better shift over here.”
“What was the quarrel about?” asked Matthew.
“Oh, that is too long a story; but I thought they should supply me with enough corn for the winter and they were not willing. Maybe I wanted too much; anyhow I came away, but I am sorry sometimes too.”
“Why?” said Ian.
“Well, if you must know I was sorry for the little mistress, Aline Gillespie, who lived with them. She and I did not get on very well; but Mistress Mowbray treated her like a dog. Mistress Aline, though, did me a good turn once, when I got into trouble, and somehow219 I would have liked to do her a good turn too, by way of paying back. I do not like being in any one’s debt. But there, I make mistakes like most of the rest of us. What do I owe you?” he said, turning to the innkeeper. “It’s time I was going.”
Andrew settled his score and was just leaving when another man entered.
“Hullo, Andrew,” said the newcomer, “whither away in such haste? Come back, man,” and then he added something in a low voice in which Ian distinctly caught the word “Holwick.”
This was a strange coincidence, Ian thought, to meet two people within a few minutes who both knew Holwick and he wondered who the newcomer might be. He had not long to wait.
The stranger turned to the innkeeper and said, “Timothy, man, I’m back again; you’ve got a place for my pack-horses for the night, I hope.”
“There’s always room for old friends,” said the innkeeper.
“Is there anything you’ll be buying yourself?” asked the stranger. “Faith, man, but I’ve some fine things, but you’re getting that set up in Carlisle that a man who only brings goods from Flanders and Italy and Persia and India, to say nothing of the latest novelties from London, is hardly likely to please you. But I’ve got some rugs now that would just stir your heart. You never saw the like. I have just refused 300 florins for one of them, but I’ll let an old friend have it for that price.”
“Oh, stop your gammon, Walter,” said the innkeeper. “You need not tell me your tales. If there’s220 anything good and cheap, I may take it, but I do not want any of your flowery word fancies.”
“Odds bodikins! mine host is very plain spoken,” rejoined Walter, “but come along, sirs, what do you want?” addressing the little group, and he unrolled a bundle as he spoke.
Although Walter made the most of them, his wares really were thoroughly good stuff, and he had a happy taste in making his selections; consequently he always did good business wherever he went, and it was rumoured that he had a pretty pile laid by for a rainy day.
He sold a few things to those present and was rolling up the bundle, when Ian caught sight of a singularly beautiful silver buckle of admirable design and workmanship. It was of a superior class to most of the trinkets that the packman had with him. He said nothing at the time but waited for a more favourable opportunity, as the packman was staying for the night.
In the evening Ian and the packman were seated alone at the fire. Ian looked around carefully, the door was shut, so he decided that he might broach the subject of Holwick.
“I suppose you travel far,” he said.
“Yes, Master Mitchell, I cover the length of the country once every year, but I work mainly in the north between here and York.”
“Are you going to York now?”
“Well, I expect to do—after a time; but I am going to Hexham and Newcastle and Durham and shall then work my way up the Wear and down the Tees and probably up Wensley dale.”
“Do you know Upper Teesdale?”
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“Why, yes, but it’s an out of the way place. Yet, do you know,—many of these out of the way places are my best customers. When I was last there I sold a large quantity to Master Richard Mowbray of Holwick Hall.”
“You know them then?”
“In a business way, yes,” said Walter.
“There’s a little girl that is living there, that I know slightly,” said Ian.
“What, Mistress Aline Gillespie! the bonniest child I ever saw in my life. I shall never forget that child, although I have only seen her once. ’Sdeath, man, she has the face of an angel and the soul of one too, beshrew me if she has not.”
“Well, she comes from my country, although I cannot say that I have any extended acquaintance with her any more than you have.”
“I am sorry for that bairn,” said Walter, lowering his voice and looking round; “she has none too happy a time with the Mowbrays. But there, it may be gossip,” he continued, as the thought occurred to him that he was not sure of his listener. “One hears such funny tales as one goes about the country; one does not know what to believe.”
“You are going that way again then?” said Ian.
“Yes, yes, and perchance if you know the child, you would like me to tell her that I had seen you.”
“May be so; and I might send her one of your trinkets. I saw a little buckle that might take her fancy.”
Walter got up and fetched the bundle and produced the buckle. “Honestly, man,” he said, “that is a more expensive class of thing than most of my stuff; but I222 will let you have it cheap. Yes, really cheap; I know you think I always talk like that, but I swear I am speaking true.”
There was an earnestness in the man’s tone and manner that was quite unlike his usual jaunty way of talking and Ian felt he might venture to say more.
“I believe you,” he said. “Well, I will buy it and send a letter with it, but promise me that no one else shall see you give it to her.”
“You know the old cat too, then, do you?” said Margrove, a little off his guard.
“Mistress Mowbray, you mean,” said Ian. “Well, I know about her; and in these days least said is soonest mended.”
“Yes, we dwell in strange times,” the packman responded, “the land has passed through sad experiences,” and then, fearing he might have said too much, he added, “Maybe it is all right, but I have no fancy to see human flesh fry.”
“Nor I either,” said Ian. “I saw them burn George Wishart, and I shall not forget that on this side of my grave.”
“It’s my belief,” said Walter, “that the church does itself more harm than good by the burnings; it does not have the effect that they expect.”
“I believe your sympathy is with those who are burned,” said Ian, looking at him keenly.
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t; but anyway I say that Mother Church does not always see where her own interests lie. But my business is chaffering and I do not meddle in these matters, see you there.”
“Tut, tut, man, you need not mind me, say what you223 like. I care for the burning no more than you do and no finger of mine would ever be stirred to get a man into trouble.”
“Well, neighbour,” said Margrove, “you speak fair, neither would I. If George Wishart had come to me I should not have told them where to find him.”
“Then keep my secret,” said Ian, “and give Mistress Aline the buckle without a soul knowing it. While I am about it,” he added, “I will take this chatelaine, and that will do for the other little mistress.”
“Then it was not only in Scotland that you knew Mistress Aline,” remarked Walter, looking at him shrewdly.
Ian was half sorry that he had said so much, he might have enclosed the chatelaine for Audry without telling Walter Margrove; but he said off-handedly;—“The Gillespies lived in Scotland, but were cousins of Richard Mowbray. I have never seen him, but I know he has a daughter.”
“Ay, he has a daughter, and she would be worth going some way to see too; only she is outshone by her cousin. But Mistress Audry is a bonnie lassockie and will make a fine woman. Yet it’s a pity the Mowbrays have no boy. It’s a sad thing for the family to die out.”
Both men were silent for a time and then Margrove spoke. He looked at Ian questioningly,—“I believe I have seen your face before,” he said; “your name’s not James Mitchell.” He gave the fire a stir, and as the flame shot up he said, “Were you ever at Northampton?”
“I was,” said Ian.
“Then you are the man to whom I owe everything.224 Why did I not recognise you before? I have heard they had seized you and I heard afterwards that you had escaped to France,—see this,” he went on, drawing a small copy of the New Testament from his doublet. “I have not the courage to go about as you do; but I too have done a little, and, if need be, I hope I shall have strength not to deny the faith.”
There was silence again, this time Ian spoke. “I wonder if you know where a Greek Testament could be obtained, you travel much and see many things.”
“It is strange that you should say that. I have two concealed in an inner pouch in my pack, that have come over from Amsterdam and I was taking them to Master Shipley near York, who had asked me to obtain one for him.”
“Then will you let me have the better one and take it along with the buckle?”
“Is that it, then?” said Margrove. “Poor child, poor child!”
“No,” said Ian, “you are wrong, they do not know at Holwick that the child has any thoughts that way; you must act with all the caution you can command.”
Walter brought the testaments and Ian chose the smaller one, which was most beautifully bound with little silver clasps. Walter wanted not to charge for it, but Ian pointed out that that would deprive him of the pleasure of being the donor.
“Before we retire,” said Ian, “I should like to ask you how you came to meet Andrew Woolridge. Do you know his story? You can be quite open with me, as I know why he left Holwick.”
“Then for heaven’s sake don’t tell the people here,”225 said Walter. “The man is consumed by remorse, though he tries to pass it off lightly. He is honestly trying to do everything that he can. You are not the only one who has sent a present to Mistress Aline. I can tell you that much, and if Andrew knew who you were, he would not mind. He is a changed man since he left Holwick. He told me that the vision of the child haunted him day and night.
“He does not like to talk about the child, but really, if I believed in spells, I should think the child had magic in her. I never saw a man so completely spell bound and I must confess that although I only saw her once, she holds me almost as though I were enchanted.”
“It is the same here,” said Ian.
“It is a most marvellous thing,” Walter continued, “because she seems quite unconscious of it; not in all my experience have I ever met or heard of anything like it before. That’s three of us, in fact the only people that we know anything about, and it may be the same with every one she meets.”
They talked a little longer and Ian discussed his plans for taking up the packman’s life when he had gathered sufficient money, as a means of spreading his message through the land. Then as the hour was getting late they went to their rooms.
IAN had started a letter to Aline some time before, using the parchment with the holes. This he finished and carefully wrapped it up with the buckle, the testament and the chatelaine.
In the morning he found Walter and drew him aside. “She may have a letter to send back,” he said, “so try and give her an opportunity. Keep your eyes and ears open too, and find out and tell me everything that you can.”
Walter Margrove put the packet inside his doublet, and, after settling the girths of his horses, shook hands warmly with Ian, mounted and rode away down English Street to the South Gate, leaving Ian looking after him, as he gradually drew away.
He had a long journey before him and his thoughts were full of the man he had left behind. He had heard Ian Menstrie speak at an open air meeting in Northampton, and at first had been struck by the fiery eloquence of the young Scot and had then been arrested by his message. He had always longed to meet him again; and here he was, actually able to do him a small service. Then his thoughts turned to Holwick and the beautiful irresistible child that had so strangely fascinated him, in spite of himself, in the few minutes that he had seen227 her. He had not liked to question Master Menstrie, but he wondered what could be the connection between the two; what could the child, obviously a lady, have to do with Menstrie, a common carpenter? Truly it was a remarkable world.
He reached Haltwhistle that evening and did a little business there on the following day and called at a number of outlying houses on the way to Hexham. Business was good and it was nearly three weeks before he found himself turning his horses’ heads over Middleton bridge to reach the hamlet that has a way in but no way out. “No wonder they say, ‘do as they do in Holwick,’” he muttered,—the local proverb for “doing without,” as his horse stumbled in the thick muddy track.
Somehow he felt full of forebodings as he approached the Hall.
Fortune favoured him in one respect, however, as he met Aline herself a few hundred yards from the gate. She smiled brightly when she saw him, and held up her hand. He took the little hand and then dismounted and led the horse. “I am so glad to have you come,” she said; “I have been looking for you for a long time. You look tired. I wonder if Elspeth could get you something nice before you have to undo your pack. I’ll run on and ask her.”
Before he could stop her she had run on, and he had to mount his horse and trot after her and call;—“Not so fast, Mistress Aline, I have something to say to you and we may not get another opportunity. Here is a small packet from Master Menstrie. Hide it in your dress.” Aline’s eyes shone with sudden pleasure; but228 as Walter looked at her he thought she was not looking well.
“How did you find him? Do you know him? Where is he? How is he? What is he doing?” said Aline, all in a breath.
“Softly, softly, fair and softly; one question at a time,” said Walter. “I found him in Carlisle, and by accident I mentioned Holwick and he sent this to you.”
“But how is he and what is he doing?” asked Aline.
“He seems fairly well and is working as a carpenter.”
Aline looked surprised. “I did not know he was a carpenter,” she said. Ian had not spoken much about his past life. She remembered him saying something about working on hinges, but she had thought of him in that connexion as a master artist, and so humble an occupation to one of her birth and surroundings was a little bit of a shock; but she checked it instantaneously and added, “But I expect he is a very good carpenter.”
Walter Margrove was puzzled. Aline then apparently did not know a great deal about Ian Menstrie and he did not know how much to say and how much to leave unsaid.
“I am afraid I do not know very much about him,” Walter deemed the safest reply; “but he seemed to be getting on all right.”
Aline too felt something of the same sort, while Walter thought it best to change the subject, and added,—“But I have something else for you, Mistress Aline.” He produced another small packet, which he undid, and took out a beautiful carved ivory comb. “This,” he said, “is from Andrew Woolridge. You can let the others see it if you like, but perhaps it would be wiser not.” Walter229 was thinking that it would be best not to call the attention of people to the fact that he was in any way a means of communication between Aline and others. “Andrew cannot write, like Master Menstrie, but he bade me tell you that he wished you well and that he hoped some day to show himself worthy of your forgiveness, but that meantime he would say nothing more.”
Aline was quite overcome for a moment. “I am afraid I judged him too harshly, and he has already sent something to Master Mowbray.”
“Yes,” said Walter, “I think the man has turned over a new leaf. But we are near the house and I want also to give you a little thing from myself; it is only a length of fine linen, but it may be as useful as trinkets. I have it here in my holster. If you do not care to be seen with it, I daresay old Elspeth will manage it for us.”
“But you must not give me things,” said Aline. “Why should you?”
“Well, Mistress Aline, I know of something in Master Menstrie’s package, as he bought it from me, and I fear me that you will meet with trouble. Pray God the way may be smooth to you; but it is not so for many who have dared to read the Scriptures for themselves. I am of the reformed faith myself and He has dealt mercifully with me; for I know I am a weak vessel. But remember you have only to call on Walter Margrove and if ever he can help you he will do it.”
“Good day to you, Walter,” said the voice of Master Mowbray. They were approaching the drawbridge and there was no opportunity for further conversation.
Master Mowbray was coming out, but he turned back230 when he saw them approaching. “So you have fetched the packman and all his fine wares,” he said to Aline. “Are you trying to buy up the best things before we get a chance, lassie?”
The thud of the hoofs on the drawbridge and their clatter on the stones within, had already drawn forth heads from the windows and in a moment a crowd of persons was gathering round Walter and asking him a hundred questions.
Walter answered the questions as well as he could and made his way to the great hall, where Mistress Mowbray had the first chance of inspecting his stock.
She was in a more affable mood than usual and laid in a good supply of materials, amongst others some very fine kersey, which she said should be used to make a cote-hardie for each of the children, and a piece of applied embroidery for orphreys. Audry was standing with her arm round Aline, next to Walter, and, as Mistress Mowbray turned aside to examine some silk nearer the light, he slipped the parcel of linen into her hand and whispered that it was for Aline.
20 Broad bands of applied embroidery.
It was somewhat late in the day when Walter arrived, so that he decided that it was necessary to stay the night. His horses were stabled at the Hall and he himself lodged at the house of Janet Arnside.
Walter knew that she had recently come over to the new faith and he sought an opportunity for a meeting with two or three others in her house. They came very quietly, but their coming was not likely to arouse suspicion, as the packman was considered good company wherever he went.
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After they had all gone Walter began to talk about Aline, her strange power of fascination and her unique, almost unearthly beauty. “I wonder if the child can be happy up there,” he said.
“I doubt if she is,” said Janet; “she comes in here often and John and I have many times noticed a far-away wistful look in those deep blue eyes of hers, bright and cheerful as she always is.”
“I wish, Mother, she could hold our faith,” said John. “I am sure it would make her happier. Life has been a great deal more to me since these things first came my way.”
Walter sat and said nothing; he thought that on the whole it was far safer for little Aline if no one knew. “Poor little soul,” he said to himself, “it is a different matter for these people who can confide in each other, with no one else in the house; but for her, sweet innocent, it is indeed a case of the dove in the eagle’s nest.”
John watched Walter’s thoughtful face and then said, “Is there anything we could do for her?”
“Not that I can see,” said Walter; “but look you, there might be; the child, as we know, is not exactly among friends and none can say what a day may bring forth. She has had a narrow escape already. You keep a careful look-out, my lad, and if ever you can get a chance you can let Walter Margrove know all that goes on. By my halidame, I would not have any harm come to the bairn. I do not know why she has got such a hold on me, but so it is.”
“That will I do,” said John, “she has the same hold on all of us. There can hardly be a man or woman in the parish that would not die for that child. They just232 worship her. Those of the old faith are sure she is a saint. I should not be surprised but that they say prayers to her, and she is sweetly unconscious of it all. You know old Benjamin Darley? Well, I was passing his house the other day, and Mistress Aline was seated near the door with her feet on a little wooden stool. She rose up when she saw me and said good-bye, as she wanted to come and see my mother; but ran across into Peter’s cottage to fetch something. Old Benjamin did not see me, as I stood there waiting, but I saw him pick up the stool and kiss it reverently and put it away on the shelf, while the tears stood in his eyes.”
“I guess, lad, you have done the same,” said Walter.
“And what about yourself, Walter?” said John, evading the question.
“Maybe I do not get such opportunities; are you coming up to the Hall with me to-morrow to see me off?”
“No, I must be off to work, but good luck to you.”
So the next day Walter said good-bye to Janet and went up to the Hall. He met Elspeth in the courtyard. “Good morning, neighbour, how is all with you and how is your bonnie little mistress?”
“I am doing as well as can be expected, and Mistress Audry is not ailing.”
“I meant Mistress Aline, not that Mistress Audry is not as bonnie a child as one would meet in a nine days’ march.”
“Ay and a good hearted one too, neighbour,” said Elspeth. “It’s not every child who would take kindly to ranking second after they had always been reckoned the bonniest in the whole countryside. But there, Mistress Aline might give herself airs, and yet one really233 could not tell that she knew she was pretty; so I do not think it has ever occurred to Mistress Audry to mind and she just enjoys looking at her. They are fine bairns both of them.”
“Ay, they are that,” said Walter.
“I just pray,” continued Elspeth, “that I may live to see them well settled. My mother served in the Hall and my grandmother and her father and his father again, and so it is. As long as there is a Mowbray I hope there will be some of our blood to serve them and Mistress Gillespie is a Mowbray, mind you that, and some say,” she went on in a whisper, “that she should be the Mistress of Holwick. It was a new place when the old man built it, the old Mowbray property is down Middleton way and is now let. Maybe, if there’s anything in it, that’s partly why Mistress Mowbray does not love the child. But there, it is all gossip, and I must be moving.”
Walter settled his packs and took as long over it as he could in the hope of catching sight of Aline. In this he was successful, for a few minutes afterwards he saw the children, who were really looking for him. Aline handed him a letter for Ian and asked how soon he expected to be able to deliver it.
“I wish we could see him,” said Audry involuntarily.
Aline looked at her and Audry subsided.
But Walter, who spent his life studying human nature, saw the glance and began to puzzle it out. “So Ian Menstrie does know both the children then and it was not a mere matter of courtesy to send the chatelaine for Audry. But this is very curious,” he reasoned. “Janet Arnside has not mentioned him nor have any234 others of the reformed faith. Strange how he could be in Holwick and not see them. And I mind too, that he said he had never seen Richard Mowbray. Truly it is mystifying.”
Another thing that perplexed him was Janet and John’s desire that Mistress Aline should hear of the faith. Obviously, she knew of it and yet they were unaware of the fact. He began to see daylight;—somehow the children must have found Menstrie in some hiding place. Walter was too cautious a man to mention anything that he discovered in his journeys that might conceivably bring mischief, and too honourable a man to try and discover a secret that clearly did not concern him.
The children seemed to cling to Walter as though loth to let him go and even after he had mounted his horse they accompanied him a long way down the road; then, fearing, if they went too far, it might give rise to questionings they bade good-bye and after waiting to wave a last farewell as he reached the next bend they turned reluctantly back.
“You should not have said that just now,” observed Aline.
“Said what, dear?”
“Said that you wanted to see Ian. Of course Margrove may really know Ian and his affairs but he may be doing this as a kindness to a stranger and probably he did not know that Ian had ever been here, he might simply have met my family in Scotland.”
“Well, all this suspicion and concealment is not like you, Aline,” said Audry.
“Oh, dear,” Aline answered, “yes, I do not like it; life is really too hard.”
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The children had reached the Hall and went up to their own room to undo the package. Aline opened it and within were the smaller packets marked respectively,—“For Audry” and “For Aline.”
Both uttered a cry of delight as they beheld their treasure.
“I am afraid you will hardly be able to wear the chatelaine,” said Aline, as she bent affectionately over her cousin. “I am so sorry.”
“Not just now perhaps, and you will not be able to wear the buckle, but isn’t it beautiful and was it not good of him to remember that that was what I asked for; and after New Year’s Day, when I have had other presents, I do not think it would be noticed. I have always wanted a chatelaine so badly.”
Aline’s long hair had fallen forward as she stooped; she tossed it over her shoulder with the back of her hand and rose and held out the buckle to catch the light. It was far the finest thing she had ever possessed. Fortune was not so unkind after all. Here was a treasure indeed!
“Now we must see how the chatelaine looks,” she said, dropping to her knees and sitting back on her heels, while she attached the chatelaine to Audry’s belt. Then a thought struck her. “Let us also see the effect of the buckle,” she went on with a laugh, and the sensitive fingers deftly adjusted the buckle to seem as if it were fastened to the belt.
“Oh, they do go well together! Audry, they look charming!” Would Ian mind, she wondered to herself; no, he would like her to be generous. So, stifling a touch of regret, she said aloud, “They look so nice that you236 must keep the buckle”; and she pulled Audry down to the floor and smothered her objections with kisses.
Then she sat up somewhat dishevelled and reached over for the Testament. “You wanted a chatelaine and I wanted a Greek Testament. Isn’t it a lovely book?” and she fastened and unfastened the chastely designed clasps. “With the help of the Latin I shall soon be able to read it. I am so glad I can read Latin easily. I must keep it in the secret room, I suppose. It would have been safe in the library; but Ian has written my name in it.”
“Master Menstrie is not as cautious as he might be,” observed Audry, “but I must not stay here, Mother and Elspeth want me, to go over my clothes. Then there are those people coming to-morrow about that Newbiggin matter and she may want me to have some special gown. Good-bye.”
Aline was left alone. So to-morrow was actually the day they were coming! She had gathered her information, but she had not laid her plans. Somehow or other those people at Newbiggin must not be unjustly treated. Mistress Mowbray must not have her own way in the matter if she could prevent it.
She found herself, therefore, definitely setting out to fight Mistress Mowbray. She had never before quite realised that it was an actual contest of wills; but, when she came to think about it, Mistress Mowbray had been making so aggressive a display of her power lately that Aline did not altogether shrink from a trial of strength, as though she had been challenged; in fact she rather enjoyed it. The problem was, how was it to be carried through?
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It was certainly not likely that she would be invited to the discussion. If she came in, as it were by accident, she would undoubtedly be turned out. She must get Master Gower on her side beforehand anyway. After that there were several possible plans of campaign. They were certain to have a meal first and one plan would be to raise the subject herself and get it discussed at the table, another would be privily to interview every guest, if opportunity offered.
She decided that she would go and see Master Gower alone and set out on foot to Middleton. She crossed the bridge and turned up to the left bank of the river till she came to Pawlaw Tower. It was a small pele with a barmkin.
21 A small tower with a little enclosure or courtyard.
After being admitted at the gate, she asked to see the master, and was conducted up a narrow wooden stairway to the hall, which was on the first floor.
“What would you have with me, little maid?” said Hugh Gower, as the child came in.
Aline had been very nervous, but his kindly manner reassured her. “I want to talk about the people of Newbiggin,” she said.
“The people of Newbiggin! and a sorry set of loons, too!” and his face clouded a little. “What have you to say about them, fair child!”
“I want to speak to you that they be not all dispossessed.”
“By all accounts,” he replied, “the sooner there standeth not stone upon stone, nor one stick by another of all that place, the better will it be for the country-side.”
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“Not so,” she said, looking fearlessly at him, “it would be a right sore thing that the innocent should suffer.” Aline was no sentimentalist and was quite willing that the wicked should suffer their deserts according to the stern measures of the day; but this proposal of indiscriminate chastisement had roused the mettle of the high spirited child.
“How now, Mistress Aline Gillespie; but you are too young to understand these things. Children’s hearts are too soft and if we hearkened to what they said, there would be an end to all order.”
“Marry, no,” she answered boldly, drawing herself up, “it is order I want to see and not disorder. Punish the guilty and spare the innocent. Wanton destruction is not order, and that indeed liketh me not.”
“It is a nest of scoundrels, little maid, and all your pretty haughtiness cannot save them.”
“Some of them are scoundrels, I know, harry them as ye may, but some are god-fearing folk that never did harm to you or other. I know one carline there, whose like would be hard to find by all Tees-side.”
Her mien was irresistible. “Come sit and talk,” he said. So Aline pleaded for the better folk, while she spared no condemnation of the worse.
She not only gained her point, but she gained a staunch ally as well. Master Hugh fell under her witchery and nothing would content him, but that he should find her a horse and ride back with her to Holwick.
“It’s a fine old place, this home of yours,” he said, as he looked up at the gateway-tower, with the arms of the Mowbrays over the entrance archway;—“a meet abode for so fair a princess,” he added gallantly;239 then helping her to alight and bowing low over her hand, like a courtier, with a gravity half playful, half serious, he kissed it, mounted his horse and rode away.
Aline had tried also to get hold of Lord Middleton’s reeve, but was unsuccessful; her plans, however, were favoured next day by the representative of the Duke of Alston arriving an hour too soon.
Mistress Mowbray was busy in preparations and, little knowing what she was doing, caught sight of Aline and called,—“Hither, wench, come you and take Master Latour into the pleasaunce and entertain him as ye may.”
Ralph Latour was a tall stern man and Aline’s first thought was that she would fail, but she soon found that, though hard and in a measure unsympathetic, he had a strict and judicial mind, and was quite ready to accept her standpoint, although entirely without warmth or show of feeling.
The child, however, fascinated him also, like the rest. Yet it was in a somewhat different way from her hold on other people. He was a man of considerable learning and taste, who had travelled widely, and in his cold critical way was absorbed in the subtlety of her beauty. Aline thought she had never met any one so awe-inspiring as he made her walk in front of him or sat her down opposite to him, in order that he might look at her.
They discussed the subject thoroughly and he concluded by saying,—“Mistress Gillespie,—you are Mistress Gillespie, I understand?”
“Mistress Aline,” she corrected.
“I am told that you have neither brothers nor uncles and that the line ends in you, does it not?”
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“True,” she said.
“Mistress Gillespie, then, I repeat, you have shown considerable acumen and you may take it that there is a coincidence of view between us. Yes,” he added, absent-mindedly speaking aloud, as he looked at her little foot, “the external malleolus has exactly the right emphasis, neither too much nor too little, and I observe the same at the wrist in the styloid process of the ulna. I crave pardon,” he added hastily, “it is time that we joined the others.”
They found that Master Bowman, Lord Middleton’s reeve, had just arrived with his lady, and the company proceeded to the hall.
Aline had thought best not to mention the matter to Cousin Richard, as he might discuss it with his wife and her plans be frustrated. She felt sure, however, that he would take her part if any were on her side at all.
“These be troublesome days, madam,” said David Bowman, addressing Mistress Mowbray. “It looks as though all authority were to go by the board and every man go his own way. Mother Church is like to have her house overturned by these pestilent heretics.”
“Ay, and a man will not be master in his own house soon either, methinks, neighbour,” said Richard Mowbray.
“How now, Mistress Mowbray, what think you?” Bowman resumed. “Shall we not at least keep our kail better in future, when we have cleared the rabbit-warren?”
“What rabbit-warren?” said Audry innocently.
“The rabbit-warren of Newbiggin, child,” replied Bowman; “only these rabbits are fonder of sheep and241 chickens and folks’ corn and money than of kail, but we’ll have them all stewed shortly.”
“In the pot, with the lid on,” chimed in Eleanor Mowbray, “and it shall be hot broth too.”
“I hardly think your broth would be very tasty,” observed Master Richard.
“Tasty,” echoed his wife; “it would be the tastiest dish served to the Master of Holwick this many a long day.”
“Master Richard’s imagination is too literal,” said Bowman; “he’s thinking of the old leather hide of William Lonsdale, and tough bony morsels like Jane Mallet; but we could peel them and take out the pips.”
“Your humour is a trifle broad, neighbour,” remarked Master Gower; “the little ladies might appreciate something finer.”
“Finer indeed—what, and get as thin as your humour, Master Gower, that we must needs go looking for it with a candle. But humour or no humour, what are we to do with these knaves? How counsel you, Mistress Mowbray?”
“Turn them out and burn their houses,” she answered, “and let them shift for themselves.”
“I think we should give them something to help them to get elsewhere,” said Master Richard.
“Ay, their corpses might be an unpleasant sight, lying round here,” dryly put in Ralph Latour.
“But why turn them out at all?” asked Aline at last. “It’s only one or two that have done any harm, why be so hard on the others?”
“Nonsense, child, where there’s a plague spot, the whole body is sick,” cried Mistress Mowbray. “The242 plague spot will always spread, and they are all involved already, I’ll warrant; away with them all I say. And what do you mean, child, advising your betters and thrusting yourself into wise folks’ counsels?”
“It liketh me to hear a child’s views, if the bairn be not too forward,” said Latour gravely. “There is a freshness and simplicity about them that we are apt to miss after our long travailing in the world.”
“‘Simplicity,’ indeed,” rejoined Mistress Mowbray, “simpleton is the kind of word you want. In my young days we were taught our place; ‘freshness,’ forsooth! We want no fresh raw wenches to open their mouths in this place, anyway.”
Latour took no notice of his hostess’ rudeness, but turned to Aline saying,—“But do you not think, child, that a severe example would be a terror to evil-doers far and wide, and Mistress Mowbray is doubtless right, they will all be infected, even if the evil in every case does not show itself. All through the world’s story the innocent have suffered with the guilty; moreover, it will quicken in them a responsibility for their associates. Besides, if, as Master Mowbray suggests, we help them on their way there will be no hardship done, it is only a change of abode. Come now, Aline, is that not so?”
Mistress Mowbray watched exultantly. She was not sure that these calm measured phrases were not more crushing than her own invective. “Now, child, you see how little you understand things,” she observed patronisingly.
Master Latour, however, was not acting as a partisan; he was merely putting the case, partly to show all sides243 and partly because it interested him to test Aline’s powers.
“Master Latour is a just man,” said Aline with some hesitation, “and I think he will understand when I say that I really know that these people are not all bad,—that the disease, as you call it, has not spread so far but that it may be checked.” She paused for a moment from nervousness, and looked a little confused.
“Take your time;—festina lente,—develop your argument at your convenience,” said Latour not unkindly.
22 Make haste slowly.
“With regard then to the question of example,” Aline went on, recovering herself and catching something of Latour’s manner of speaking, “with regard to the question of example, you all know that this ‘change of abode’ will only stir up bitterness and that that will spread tenfold and may wreck us altogether. A punishment that the others feel to be just is a lesson; a punishment that is felt to be unjust is a flame for kindling a revolutionary fire.
“You say I am a child and I do not know; but, please, I do know more about these people than any of you. I have spoken to every one of them. I know them all; and about some of them I know a great deal. I do not suppose there is any one here, except myself, who even knows their names, beyond those of his own tenants. Marry, now, is that not so?”
Aline having flung down her challenge looked around with flashing eyes.
Latour had been watching her with his cold aesthetic appreciation, admiring her instinctively beautiful gestures,244 but this time, he too felt a real touch of the child’s magic as she glanced scornfully round.
“I do not pretend to be old enough to know what is the right thing to do,” Aline went on, “but surely, surely,” she said in earnest pleading tones, “people who want to be just should carefully find out everything first. Is that not so?” she asked, turning round quickly to Mistress Mowbray;—“Do you not think so yourself?”
Eleanor Mowbray was so astonished at the child daring to cross-examine her like that, that she was struck dumb with astonishment.
“Yes, of course you think so,” Aline said, giving her no time to recover herself. “Mistress Mowbray entirely agrees,” she went on, “as every just person would agree. That is so, is it not, Master Gower?” Master Gower bowed assent. “And there is no need to ask you, Cousin Richard.”
“Yes, dear, you are right,” he said.
Aline had swept swiftly round in the order in which she was most sure of adherents, so as to carry away the rest.
“Master Latour,” she continued, “I am sure you will not disagree with them and will say that a proper examination must be held first, and that everything must be done that will stop bitterness and revolt while keeping honesty and order.”
“That is entirely my view,” said Latour, captivated by the child’s skill and the gentle modesty which, in spite of her earnestness, marked every tone and gesture. “Who would have thought,” he said to himself, “that anything so gentle and modest and yet so princess-like withal could be in one combination at the same time?”
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Aline was least sure of Bowman, but while looking at him she concluded;—“Then I take it that you all think the same, Master Bowman.”
She had not exactly asked him his own view, and he was sure that if left to himself he would have taken a different line. He was by no means certain that he was not literally spell-bound as he answered;—“Surely, Mistress Aline, we are all of one mind, including my wife, I think I may say.” The lady smiled her complete acquiescence.
“Oh, I am so glad,” Aline said, and slipping from her seat she went up to Master Richard and, in her most irresistible way, put her arm around him, saying:—“And you will let me help you to find out things, won’t you, even though I am only a little girl?”
“Yes, if it is any gratification to you, sweet child,” he answered, kissing her.
“That is all settled then,” she said, “and when the ladies retire, you can examine me as the first witness.”
“A very good idea; you seem to know every one’s tenants,” said Master Latour, much amused at Aline’s triumph and adroitness, and determined that she should secure the fruits of her victory. As he was the strongest man there, both in himself and as representing the largest and most powerful owner, the others at once concurred. Part of the secret of Aline’s extraordinary power was her entire selflessness. In her most queenly moods there was never the least suggestion of self, it was the royalty of love. Aline might use the very words that in other children’s mouths would have been conceited and opinionated; yet from her they were more like a passionate appeal. This, associated with a quiet246 dignity of manner, generally produced a feeling of “noblesse oblige” in the hearer. The basest men will hesitate to use foul language and discuss foul things before a child. In Aline’s presence the same occurred in an infinitely greater degree. It was for most people, men or women, impossible to be anything but their best selves before her; to do anything less would mean to be utterly ashamed.
Aline’s conquest was complete and Mistress Mowbray saw that she would only expose herself to further defeat if she attempted now to open the question again. It was made the more galling as Aline’s last thrust had practically shut her out of the council altogether. Why did that fool Bowman bring his wife with him? It would be too undignified for her to insist on coming after they had accepted Aline’s proposition, unless she forbade Aline to be there; and that Aline had made impossible. So there was nothing left but to accept the situation with the best grace that she could and bide her time.
MISTRESS MOWBRAY had not long to wait. The day after the matter of Newbiggin was settled Father Laurence was crossing Middleton Bridge, when he met “Moll o’ the graves” coming in the opposite direction. He instinctively crossed himself at her approach. She saw his action, and stopping on the side of the bridge in one of the refuges, she pointed her finger at him and laughed a shrill discordant laugh. “Ha, ha, Sir Priest, you think you will triumph in my despite. I dreamed a dream last night and all the devils in hell got hold of thee.”
“Peace, woman, peace, brawl not upon the Queen’s highway.”
“Nay, it is not peace,” she said; “who talketh to me of peace?”
“Mary, you had better go home,” said the priest kindly. “I was glad to hear that little Mistress Aline Gillespie put in a word for you and your folk at Newbiggin yesterday, so that there is the more reason for your peaceful homecoming.”
“Mistress Aline Gillespie,” said the old woman calming down and looking mysteriously about her. “Mistress Aline Gillespie, nay, she is not on our side. I see the hosts gathering for battle and she and thou are with248 the legions of the lost. Nay, Sir Priest, mock me not and mock not the forces that are over against you.”
“Woman,” said Father Laurence, “you speak that you know not, the powers of darkness shall flee before the powers of light.”
“No, never, nothing groweth out of the ground but it withereth, nothing is built that doth not fall to ruin, nothing made that doth not grow old and perish, nothing born that doth not die. Destruction and death alone triumph. Shew me one single thing of all the things that I have seen perish before my eyes and that liveth again. No, you cannot, Sir Priest.”
“The things that are seen are temporal, the things that are unseen are eternal,” he answered.
“And who, thinkest thou, knoweth the unseen, thou or I? I tell thee that all alike shall pass save the darkness and the void into which all, both seen and unseen shall be swallowed up. Yes, in this very valley where we now stand, you shall see iniquity triumph and all your feeble prayers be brought to naught. Avaunt, avaunt, nor may I tarry here longer.”
She brushed past him as she spoke, and the old priest looked sadly after her. “Poor thing,” he said, “she is indeed in the hands of Satan.”
He passed up the road on the way to Holwick and, as he entered Benjamin’s cottage, he met Aline coming forth. The wind blew her hair out somewhat as she stepped into the open, and the sun’s rays caught it, while she herself was still a little in shadow and it shone like a flaming fire. “It is a halo of glory,” said the old man to himself as he looked into the beautiful innocent face. “Child, you did well yesterday,” he said.
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“Oh, but I am afraid, Father.”
“Afraid of what, my child?”
“Afraid that Mistress Mowbray was not pleased.”
“Fear not, Mistress Mowbray is an honest woman, she will approve of what thou hast said.”
Aline did not like to say more; she wondered whether she had misjudged the lady of Holwick, or whether the old man’s estimate was too charitable.
“God bless you, Aline,” he said, as she turned to go up the hill, and before entering the door he stood and watched her out of sight.
She went straight up to the Hall and found Audry. “I wonder what Ian is doing in Carlisle now,” said Aline. “Let us go down to the secret room. I have just met Sir Laurence Mortham. I think he looked sadder than ever, but he is a right gentle master. Do you remember that talk we had with Ian about our forebodings? I thought that it must have meant Ian’s departure, but it is something more than that. I felt it again strangely to-day when I met Father Laurence, and somehow it seemed to me as though there was some terrible conflict going on somewhere, and Father Laurence was trying to stop it, but that he could not do so.”
“Oh, do not talk like that, Aline, you do not know how creepy you make me feel. Come.”
“The room looks very melancholy now,” Audry said when they had descended. “I always associate this room with Master Menstrie. It seems very curious that we should discover him and the room at the same time.”
“It is very cold down here,” said Audry, “let us light a fire. That will do something to make the place more cheerful.”
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“Are there any fires lit upstairs?” asked Aline, pointing to the inscription over the fireplace.
“Oh, yes,” said Audry, “several, it is getting nearly winter.”
So the children lit a fire and occupied themselves in giving the room a thorough cleaning.
“I wish we could open this chest,” Audry exclaimed, as she was dusting the great iron coffer. “It is very strange that it has no lock.” Aline came and bent over it too. But although they pressed here and pushed there and peered everywhere, they only succeeded in getting their hair caught on a rivet, so that both children were fastened to each other and to the chest at the same time. So with much laughter they abandoned the attempt for that day.
“You know it’s my belief,” said Audry, “that that old iron coffer is the most important thing in this room; people don’t put great heavy iron coffers into secret rooms unless they have secrets inside.”
“But the secrets might have been taken away,” said Aline, “although I admit that it does not look likely. The room seems to have been unused for so very long. But do you remember, Audry, we never finished reading that book after all. Why should it not tell us about the chest?”
“I expect it would; where is the book?”
“It is in this room, I think, in one of the bookcases.” Aline rose to fetch it, but the book was not to be found. The children hunted all round the room, but they could not find it. They then went upstairs to their own room, but still it was nowhere to be seen. They looked at each other aghast.
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“Oh, whatever shall we do?” said Aline. “Suppose that they find it, then our secret room will be no longer safe.”
“But they may not be able to read it,” Audry suggested.
“Oh, they are sure to find out, for they will have the parchment.”
“The parchment,” echoed Audry, “the parchment; then you will not be able to write any more letters to Master Menstrie. Why, you must have had it last night when you read his letter.”
“So I must,” said Aline. “Well, that proves it cannot be out of the house, for I have not been out except to see Walter Margrove go, and I am certain I did not take it with me then. So it must be somewhere here in our room.”
They turned everything off the bed, they looked in the ambry, they lifted the movable plank and looked under the sliding panel, but the book had absolutely disappeared.
“It is very mysterious; do you suppose any one has been in and taken it, Aline; it is very small and thin, it is true, but it could not actually vanish.”
Aline sat down on the bed and could not keep back the tears. “There is only one comfort,” she said, “and that is that Master Menstrie told us how to make another parchment; besides I read his letter three times over last night and I think I could make a new one from that, for I believe I could remember it. But, oh, dear, I am certain some one has taken the book and it will be found out, and then they will see that the secret room has been used and will guess that that was how Master252 Menstrie escaped and that we helped him. It may even lead to their finding out where he is.”
Audry knelt down on the floor and put her head in her cousin’s lap, and her arms round her waist. The late Autumn sunshine flooded the room, but it brought no joy to the sorrowing children.
“Who can have been in the room?” Audry said at last.
“Elspeth, I suppose,” said Aline. “I think we must run the risk of asking her. She cannot read, but even if she has not seen it, she might tell some one that we had lost it. However, we must take our chance.”
So they went and found Elspeth and began to talk to her about the packman’s visit. Just as they were going Audry managed to say quite casually, “Oh, by the way, Aline, I suppose Elspeth cannot have seen your little book.”
“What book, hinnie?” said the old dame. “I cannot read and all books are alike to me.”
“Oh, it was a very thin little book; I must have mislaid it in our room. You may possibly have noticed it lying round somewhere if you have been in there this morning.”
“I have seen no such book, dearie, and I would not have touched it if I had.”