THE children went about with terror in their hearts expecting every moment that they would be discovered. On coming in to dinner they fancied that Mistress Mowbray looked at them with unusual severity, but she said nothing, yet perhaps it was only because Master Eustace Cleveland of Lunedale was there.
The guest looked at Audry, who came in first. “Is that your daughter?” he said to Richard Mowbray. “By my troth, sir, but you have cause to be proud of her.”
Master Mowbray presented the child and she louted low and went to her place. Meanwhile, Mistress Mowbray had signed to Aline to be seated. When Master Cleveland looked across again he saw Aline and started visibly. He did not as a rule take the least interest in children, but this was a revelation. “I did not know that you had two daughters,” he said, and was going to say something further, when Mistress Mowbray, who had noticed his pleased surprise, cut him short by saying: “She is Master Mowbray’s cousin, a Gillespie, her great grandmother married one of those Scots; the family of course came to grief and Richard seems to think it is his business to see after her. But you would254 not believe the trouble she is, to look at her. It’s amazing how sly and dishonest some girls can be. I have something to say to you later, Aline, about what I found in your room this morning.”
23 The “lout” was the predecessor of the curtsey.
Aline shook and looked terrified, to Mistress Mowbray’s joy, who was delighted at confusing her before the stranger.
Master Cleveland felt his heart fill with enmity toward Mistress Mowbray. “I am sure that woman is a liar,” he said to himself, and he could hardly take his eyes off Aline all through the meal, except for an occasional glance at Audry, who also fascinated him not a little.
“Well, I shall never think children uninteresting again,” he thought, “if ever they can look like that. ’Sdeath, I should like to see those two when they grow up, they will be fine women. That Gillespie girl is quite uncanny,—simply to look at her makes one feel a low born brute. Widow Pelham shall have a new cottage, by my halidame she shall; and Jock Mostyn shall have a pension. God in heaven, what a face, and what hands! I did not know there were such hands.”
After dinner Mistress Mowbray went with her guest and Master Richard through the Hall and the gardens, and the children escaped.
Cleveland saw Aline again for a moment. He was coming back from the garden and she nearly ran into him. “I cry you mercy, Master,” she said.
“Then give me some Michaelmas daisies as a token of repentance,” he said laughing.
There was a magnificent show of huge blooms along one of the quaint old paths, so she ran and gathered255 them and held them out. He took them from her hand with a ceremonious bow and put them in his bonnet. “My favour!” he said, “it is a pity there is no tourney, little lady. Mother of God,” he added to himself, “it’s time I turned over a new leaf.”
At supper Mistress Mowbray said nothing to Aline, because her husband was present. He for his part saw that the child was looking unhappy, but had forgotten the remark at dinner, as Mistress Mowbray was always saying sharp things; so he tried to enliven her.
“Thou hast never read to me again, little one, to-morrow thou must read something from one of those old books that thou hast found in the library.”
Aline trembled; then Cousin Richard knew too, she thought. What should she do with herself?
“Methinks I would as lief have some more Malory,” he went on, “and Audry would like that too, or mayhap ye would like to ride over to Stanhope with me, what think ye, the two of you?”
Aline breathed again. Then perhaps he did not know after all. “I would fain go to Stanhope,” she said.
“So would I,” said Audry, as both the children saw that it might put off the evil day with Mistress Mowbray. “It will be our last chance of a good ride before the winter, it may come any time now.”
The next morning therefore, the three rode over the moors to Stanhope. It was a glorious day and Aline for a time forgot her troubles.
The day following they had to go in to Middleton Market, so it was not till after rere-supper that Eleanor Mowbray took Aline apart and said,—“Come with me, I want to speak with you.”
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Aline’s heart sank.
“I want to know,” Mistress Mowbray began, “what you mean by taking such liberties in my house? I have told you what you may have and what you may not have, and you dare to take things to which you have no right.”
Aline hung her head.
“You may well look ashamed, you young hussie, but I tell you there is going to be an end to this kind of thing. I cannot think why Master Mowbray interfered with my arrangements about the library, when I had forbidden you to go in, but he will not interfere this time I’ll warrant you.
“I went up into your room yesterday and found there a length of fine new linen. What business have you to be buying fine linen withal, when I say that any coarse dowlas is good enough for you? When you are in this house you will crave my leave before you do such things; you will do as I say and dress as I say or, certes, I will know wherefore.”
Aline felt relieved. After all it was only the linen and Mistress Mowbray even thought she had bought it; but the angry dame went on;—“The more I see of you the more I mislike your conduct and I do not care for such baggage to associate with my daughter. It would be my will to turn you from the house, but Master Mowbray sheweth a foolish kindness toward you, so I have compacted with my sister Anne that Audry shall go over to Appleby right speedily and pay her a long visit. She hath ever wanted to have the child there and it will be an opportunity for Audry to come to know her respectable cousins, and meanwhile I can keep you more under my eye.”
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Poor little Aline. At the moment this seemed more terrible even than anything that could have happened if the book had been discovered.
“Moreover,” said Mistress Mowbray, “you are getting too much of the fine lady altogether, you seem to forget that you are not a member of this family and that your position should in sooth be that of a menial.”
Eleanor Mowbray calculated that, with Audry out of the way, it would be more possible for her to wreak her spite on the child without it being known. Why should this pauper dependent, this mere skelpie, dare to thwart her will? Master Gower and Master Latour indeed! should she not be mistress in her own house? And by way of further justification, was not Aline depriving Audry of her birthright, since, attracted as all undoubtedly were by Audry, they were attracted by Aline still more?
She then sent for Audry and Aline escaped to her room and flung herself on her bed. She was too heartbroken even to cry and could only moan piteously,—“Oh, Father dear, why did you go away and leave your little girl all alone in the world?” She then took out the miniatures of her father and mother and gazed at them. “Mother dear, when Father was alive, your little motherless girl could be happy; but now it is so very hard; but she will try to be brave.” She then knelt down and prayed, and after that the unnatural tension passed and the tears flowed freely, so that when Audry came up to their room she was calmer.
“I call it a downright shame,” said Audry. “If I am to go to Aunt Anne, why should not you come too? Aline, dear, I cannot bear to go away without you. I258 think I love you more than any one else in the world. Of course I shall have my cousins, but, oh! I shall miss you; and you will be so lonely.”
“Yes, but grieve not, Audry, darling, you will come back again, and in sooth you should have a good time and Master Mowbray anyway will be kind to me and so will Elspeth.”
“But that is not the same thing at all; there will be no one even to brush your hair, so this will be almost the last time.”
The children were by now half undressed and Audry with the assistance of the new comb went through the somewhat lengthy process of brushing and combing the wonderful hair that reached nearly to Aline’s knees.
When Aline had done the same to her, they put on their bed-gowns and Audry said, “You must sleep with me to-night.” So Aline got into her bed and although they both cried a little, they were soon asleep locked in each other’s arms. The moon peeped in and lit up the picture with a streak of light, which fell where one of Aline’s beautiful hands with its delicate fingers and perfect skin lay out on the coverlet. No one but the moon saw the picture, but she perhaps understood neither its beauty nor its pathos.
THE few days before Audry’s departure ran swiftly by and Aline found herself alone. Mistress Mowbray was determined to make the most of her opportunity and devised all manner of new tasks “to curb her proud spirit,” as she phrased it. What did this child mean by coming to disturb their household, and why should she be so beautiful, a wretched pauper Scot? Of course she must think herself better than other people! “I have no doubt,” said Mistress Mowbray to herself, “that the minx spends half her time when she gets the chance, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she’s pretty, no doubt, with her saintly hypocritical face, the Devil is handsome, they say; and I am sure she is a bad one.” It was no use for people to argue with Mistress Mowbray that Aline cared not the least about her looks, and indeed, strange as it seemed, was apparently unaware of her beauty. Mistress Mowbray only retorted that that was all part of her hypocrisy. “Why should the child have such hands?” she angrily asked herself one day, just after Audry had departed, “as if it wasn’t enough that she should have a face fairer than any one else without having hands that no one could see without comment.”
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So one of Eleanor Mowbray’s devices was to set Aline to clean down some old furniture with lye. Naturally this greatly injured the skin, and as the cold weather set in, she contrived that the child should always be washing something, till in a very short time the little hands were chapped and cut and in a shocking condition round the nails. When they were in this state she was set to clean brass and iron, until it was a continual torture, and yet Aline did not complain.
How she longed for Audry when she went lonely to her bed at night. If only there had been some one in whom to confide it would not have been so terrible; but day after day it was the same thing.
At last the hands became so sore that one morning in handling a pitcher, she let it fall and it was broken to atoms. This was the kind of opportunity for which Mistress Mowbray had been looking, but Aline was such a careful, thoughtful child that the chance had been long in coming. She told Aline that her punishment was that she should be confined to the house for a fortnight and in this way she knew that she would deprive her of her principal pleasure, which was to visit the people in the hamlet, particularly those who were sick.
It was no use, when Aline offered to pay for the pitcher. Mistress Mowbray would not hear of it. So the little girl would sit by the window when she was not actually being made to work and watch the oncoming winter, with the first snow on the high ground and the brown withered grasses blown by the wind. All the purple of the heather had long since gone and the moor looked sere and joyless. “But, oh, for a breath of the261 fresh hill-airs.” Aline gradually began to long wildly and pine for a run in the open breeze.
The longing grew to an uncontrollable desire and at last Aline, the law-abiding innocent child, could bear the injustice no longer. After all, Mistress Mowbray was not her mother and there was no absolute reason why she should obey her. Master Mowbray, she knew, would disapprove of her being kept in, and so at length she decided one afternoon to make her way into the open along the secret passage.
No sooner thought than the thought became a deed, and she found herself swinging the stone and letting herself down into the cool open fresh air of heaven. It seemed at once to make her better; she filled her lungs, she laughed and stepped quickly down the stream, and then broke into a run. Oh, the joy of it after being cooped up for so long. It was so delightful that she was tempted to make her way down to the river and look at the waterfall.
She stood watching it and her mind turned to what she had been doing. Was she right? After all Mistress Mowbray was her guardian and responsible for her, no matter how cruel she might be. Aline was filled with doubt.
“I am afraid I have done wrong,” she said to herself; “the world would all go to confusion if every irresponsible person and child behaved as it pleased toward those who have the management of things. Of course they do not always manage properly, and they make mistakes and do wrong, and so should I if I were in the same place. But somebody has to manage things. Oh, dear, it is very difficult, but I suppose until I am262 old enough and wise enough to manage things better, I must submit to be managed and be learning how not to do things when my time comes. I am afraid I have been very naughty.”
Aline had a developed power of reasoning far beyond the average child of her age but a capacity, however, by no means altogether uncommon, particularly at her time of life.
What was her consternation on turning round to see Thomas Carluke standing on the bank a little lower down and watching her.
He came up and spoke, saying,—“It’s a fine day, Mistress Aline; we do not often get so good a day so late in the year. You will be enjoying the fresh air. I noticed you have not been out much lately.”
Aline winced, as she was feeling a little ashamed of herself,—but she only said, “No, but a day like this is irresistible.”
“Well, I am glad you are enjoying it,” said Thomas, with an evil look in his eye, and turned back in the direction of Holwick.
Aline wondered what to do. She felt a strong temptation to go back as fast as possible by way of the secret passage and be in before Thomas could get there. He would, of course, be astonished at seeing her and would probably say something; she could then draw herself up stiffly and say;—“Thomas, you are dreaming, I hope you have not been taking too much liquor,” a thing of which Thomas was notoriously fond. “How can you talk of such obvious impossibilities.” If he were inclined to persist she could suggest that it was her263 wraith; and that would frighten Thomas terribly, as they were all very superstitious.
24 The ghost of a living person.
But she felt it would not be right, however unjust Thomas and Mistress Mowbray were, and however justified she felt in refusing to obey her.
Meanwhile Thomas went on gloating over his discovery, and he found Mistress Mowbray at once.
She took him into the hall and bade him be seated.
So there they sat for a moment looking at each other, the sly undersized man, with his low ill-developed forehead, and the keen looking, cruel, but dignified woman. “What is it, Thomas?” she said.
“I have but newly seen Mistress Aline out by the High Force,” he replied, “and I know that you bade her not to go without doors.”
“Yes,” said Mistress Mowbray. “Is that all?”
“That is all about Mistress Aline,” he answered, always greatly in awe of the lady, “but, an it please you, may I have a little of the new meal?” he added with sudden boldness.
Eleanor Mowbray looked at him. This came of listening to servants’ tales. She paused an instant; it was very undignified to be bargaining with menials, but the man might be useful to her; she bit her lip and then said, “Yes, Thomas, you can have a boll.”
Thomas did not attempt to conceal his delight. He had obtained something that he wanted and he had gratified his spite against Aline, whom he hated as something petty and mean and base will often hate what is lofty and pure and noble.
Mistress Mowbray was glad that she had now a genuine264 case against Aline and was determined that she would act with exceptional severity.
Aline was sick at heart, there was no one in whom she could confide and she was utterly lonely and miserable. She thought of telling Cousin Richard, but she was rather afraid even of him; and then too, although Mistress Mowbray was unjust, she felt that she had no right to take the law into her own hands.
She lay on her bed in a paroxysm of grief,—“Oh, I wish and I wish that I had not done it,” she exclaimed again and again, and it was long before she felt equal to facing Mistress Mowbray once more.
When she came down to rere-supper, Mistress Mowbray was waiting. Master Richard had not arrived. “What do you mean, you dishonest child, by going out? I hate a child I cannot trust,” she said in freezing tones.
“I have not been dishonourable, Mistress Mowbray. I never said that I would not go out. I was disobedient and I am sorry, but if Father was alive, he would not have liked me to be kept in doors; and I do not think Cousin Richard would approve,” she added with some boldness, as she knew it was really unjust and had no one to defend her.
At that moment Master Mowbray entered. “What is this, about ‘Cousin Richard’?” he exclaimed.
Aline was silent and Mistress Mowbray looked confused. After a pause, as he was obviously waiting for an explanation, Aline said,—“An it please you, Cousin Richard, Mistress Mowbray and I do not agree, that is all, it is nothing.”
“I insist on knowing,” said Master Mowbray.
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“I forbade Aline to go out,” said his wife, “and she not only flatly disobeyed me, but she questioneth my authority.”
“Is that so, Aline?” he asked, looking very surprised.
“Yes, cousin, I did disobey and I am sorry.” Aline knew, if she said more that he would take her side, and although she could not pretend that she had any great love for Mistress Mowbray, yet she did not want to get her into trouble with her husband.
Richard Mowbray was silent for some time and then he said, “You have not explained everything.” He glanced at the sad little face opposite to him and noticed that it was looking thinner and a little drawn; the child was not only unhappy, but unwell. Surely, he thought, she has something more to say on her side. His wife looked triumphant.
“You have not explained everything,” he repeated, “have you, little one?” he added tenderly.
It was said so kindly that it was almost more than Aline could bear, but she managed to say, “That is all that I want to say, Cousin Richard.”
Richard Mowbray saw pretty well how the land really lay and said somewhat sternly to his wife, “Eleanor, I heard my name mentioned as I came in, I should like to know why it was used.”
Mistress Mowbray had thought her triumph complete and was so taken aback that there was not time to think of anything to say, so she could only blurt out the truth.
Richard Mowbray stood up, as his manner was when roused, and walked up and down the hall with a heavy measured tread; he was a huge, powerful man, and although266 kind hearted, was very strict and most people, including his wife, were afraid of him.
“The child is right,” he said, “I do not approve. I cannot think what is the matter with you and why you do not treat her more justly. Aline,” he said, “I do not think you ought to have gone out without my permission, but you can go out when you like. In future, however, always ask me before you disobey Mistress Mowbray.”
“Yes, Cousin Richard,” said Aline, “it was wrong of me.”
Mistress Mowbray breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Richard Mowbray’s last few words undid all that he had done before. She knew that Aline was far too proud ever to appeal to her husband and, in a qualified way, he had even supported her authority.
So things grew worse for Aline instead of better. Mistress Mowbray had even descended to telling Thomas to keep an eye on the child and he followed her about whenever he could, and made her life hateful.
She was occasionally able to get up to her room and down the secret passage into the open, away from Thomas, but gradually even this grew dangerous, as Mistress Mowbray would keep her at work all the time, and, if she slipped away upstairs, would send some one after her to fetch her down. Twice the messenger had gone up very soon after Aline and had found the room empty; and Aline’s explanation that she had gone out of doors was received with incredulity. Aline was also frightened of meeting old Moll at the other end and always peered round nervously as she emerged from the cave-room.
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If they should follow her closely and suspect the secret passage then she would lose her one retreat which somehow she felt might be of help in an emergency. The secret room too was her one solace, the only thing of interest left to her.
Although she knew she was watched, she did not know to what extent and would carry her Greek Testament about with her and pull it out and read it when she had an opportunity. After all, neither Mistress Mowbray nor Thomas could read, so she did not think there was much danger.
Thomas, however, had noticed her take the book out of her dress and had observed its silver clasps.
His own intelligence would probably not have been sufficient to enable him to hurt the child, but he was a friend of the priest who served the chantry in Holwick. He was a low born fellow given to loose living and very fond of liquor, which Thomas would occasionally manage to steal for him from the Hall. He was one of the very few who did not like Aline. He felt her purity and charm was a reproach to him, and once, when she had met him in a condition somewhat the worse for drink, she had very gently spoken to him in a reproving tone, though she did not actually presume to reprove him. But he never forgot it. He liked enjoining heavy penances for the gentle sweet-natured child; while Aline, for her part, tended to avoid the confessional, when she could, not for the penances, but because she disliked the man and felt little or no spiritual value from communication with him.
He had once or twice had slight suspicions about her orthodoxy, although he had paid no attention to it; but268 one day, when he and Thomas were talking over a measure of stolen ale, the conversation turned upon Aline.
“I hate her pious face,” he said.
“So do I,” assented Thomas. “It was a pity that Andrew did not finish his job.”
“These wretched folk think more of her than they do of me,” said the priest. “When they are sick, it is always little St. Aline they want and not the good Father,—‘Little St. Aline,’ ha, ha, ha!” he laughed viciously. “The devil take her.”
“Ay, that may he; it angereth me to see them blessing her and carrying on as they do; what right has she to act so grandly with her herbs and comforts from the Hall and her good talk? Who is she, I should like to know? Mistress Mowbray saith she is but a dependent.”
“Good talk, indeed,” said the priest. “It’s just blasphemy. What is she to be talking about,—a girl too,—a wretched female.”
“Yes, a lot of evil bringers all of them, eh, Father, from Mother Eve onwards?” and Thomas’ wicked face gave an ugly leer. “Ah, they are a deceitful lot, and there she is breaking Mistress Mowbray’s crockery and running out when she is forbidden and you will see her sitting with her book as if she did not know what wrong was.”
“What book?” said the priest. “Can she read?”
“A fine confessor you must be,” said Thomas, “if you have not found out that the skelpie can read. They say she can read like the Lady Jane Grey.”
“The Lady Jane Grey, a pestilent heretic! Mother Church is well quit of her; a pestilent heretic, I say!269 Ay, and Mother Church would be well quit of this brat with her sanctimonious ways.”
“I should not wonder if she be a heretic, too,” said Thomas. “What will Mother Church give me, if I catch her a heretic?” he asked greedily.
“Oh, I cannot say,” said the priest, “but I think I could do the catching myself; but it is not in the least likely that she is a heretic. Where could she come by it?”
“You catch her forsooth! The skelpie is no fool, and she won’t blab to the priest, but she might tell her tales to me. Indeed even if she is not a heretic, why not make her one and get rid of her?”
The priest rubbed his hands and the two heads bent close together.
Thomas agreed to swear that he had heard Aline say all manner of heretical things and this, with the testimony of Father Ambrose himself, they reckoned would be sufficient.
They were nearer the truth than they knew, but truth or no truth that did not trouble them.
Father Ambrose walked down to Middleton to discuss it with his superior, Sir Laurence Mortham, but although he painted the heretic and her villainy in glowing colours and added that he was quite sure that she was a witch too and had sold her soul to the devil in exchange for beauty, he met with no response, even in a superstitious and bigoted age.
25 Those in priests’ orders had the title, “Sir,” in the 16th century.
“I am probably as zealous for Mother Church as you are and far more earnest against heresy,” said the old270 priest, “but I do not agree with your point of view or approve of your spirit. Mother Church must be gentle and kindly and persuasive. There may now and then be a few obdurate cases where, for the benefit of the faithful and perhaps for the heretic himself, a warning example is necessary. It may, if he be obdurate, be well that he should purge his sin; but it must be but rarely and, personally, I am doubtful of its efficacy. God will punish, and, as for the example, it will work both ways. I will go and see the girl myself, an it please you.”
Father Ambrose was afraid that this might defeat his plans; so he pretended to fall in with the old man’s point of view and said, “Well, perhaps, Father, you are right and it is not necessary to take further measures just at present, so I will not trouble you.”
But he had no difficulty in finding others who were more ready to assist him, and finally he got the matter carried to Bishop Bonner himself.
Unhappy as Aline was, she was, of course, quite unconscious of what was in store for her, although something unusual in Thomas’ manner made her suspicious. He was aggressively obsequious and tried to induce her to talk to him, but she would say little.
One day, however, there arrived a tall priest with instructions to make a preliminary enquiry. Master Mowbray happened to be out, so he was taken to the lady of Holwick.
Mistress Mowbray opened her eyes in astonishment when she heard that Aline was accused of heresy. “I knew the jade was of little worth,” she said, “but to think of that!”
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Aline was sent for and the priest plied her with questions. He was very wily and spoke in a kindly way and tried to lead her on. It was soon very clear that she knew a good deal about the Bible that most people did not know. It was equally clear that, comparatively speaking, she attached little importance to the dogmas and authority of the church. But though unorthodox and heretically inclined, it was difficult to make a case against her from anything she said.
The child was so transparently honest that it was impossible to reconcile her position with Thomas’ fabrications. However, this was Father Martin’s first case and he was naturally anxious to prove his zeal for the cause, to his superiors, so he made of it what he could.
Not until he had secured every piece of evidence likely to help him, did he broach the subject of the book, which he thought was probably another of Thomas’ fictions.
“By the way,” said he, “you have a book that you carry about with you. Show it me.”
Aline hesitated.
“Shew it me at once,” he said sternly.
“I will make her shew it,” said Mistress Mowbray, seizing the child roughly.
“You can let her alone, madam,” said the priest. “Child, hand me the book.”
Aline drew it forth and he looked at it. He could not read a word of Greek, and at first looked visibly chagrined; but he turned to the title-page, which was in Latin.
“Can you read this?” he said. Aline bowed assent.
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“It is a most pernicious book. How much have you read?”
“All the first part and most of the rest.”
He wished it had been an English translation, as his case would have been easier. “Have you an English translation?” he asked.
“No,” said Aline, and he could see that she spoke the truth.
“Who gave it you, or how did you get it?” he asked next.
Aline was silent.
“Come,” he said, “did you find it, or was it given you?”
Aline still held her peace.
“I must know this,” he said impatiently, but Aline vouchsafed no reply.
“I cannot wait for you,” he went on, his voice rising. “Answer my question this instant.”
“I cannot do it,” she said.
“By the authority of Mother Church, I command you to speak,” he cried angrily.
Aline looked up at him fearlessly, as she sat there opposite to him on the other side of the long narrow table, her beautiful arms stretched over toward him and the delicate fingers moving nervously. The great masses of rich glowing hair flowed in waves over the board, and the perfect oval face with the chin slightly lifted showed the exquisite ivory skin of her throat, subtly changing into the more pearly tones of her face. The sensitive lovely lips with their clear cut form, trembled a little, but she said bravely,—“It would not be right, Father Martin. I am ready to suffer for anything I273 have done myself, but I cannot reveal what is not my secret.”
Father Martin looked at her. “Mother of God and St. Anthony!” he exclaimed. He had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight before him in the fine old hall and he feared he might relent. He cast his eyes down, he would not look at her. Indeed she was a witch, a witch and yet so young! “Do you dare to deny the authority of Mother Church?” he hissed. “You are a heretic and guilty of contumacy. You blaspheme.” Then turning to Mistress Mowbray he continued, “See that she is confined to her room and fed on bread and water till she comes to her senses. Failing that, the rack!”
He rose to his full height and gave her one contemptuous glance, curling his thin lips and drawing down his brows, while the nostrils of his aquiline nose were lifted in scorn. “Good day to you, Mistress Mowbray,” he said, “see to my instructions,” and he departed.
Aline went up to her room as bidden. Eleanor Mowbray followed. She did not lock the door, as, in her heart of hearts, even she trusted Aline as she would trust the laws of nature, much as she hated her. Aline might disobey, but she would never break her word. “Do not pass through that door again, until you are told. Promise me.”
“I would rather you locked it,” said Aline. “The house might catch fire and I could not stay and be burned, even to obey you.”
“Little fool,” said Mistress Mowbray, “if the door were locked you would be burned anyhow.”
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“That would be your doing, though. I should not have to do it myself. I want to keep my own liberty of action.”
Mistress Mowbray slammed the door and went down-stairs. But she did not lock it.
Aline was merely thinking in a vague general way that it would be risky to make any such promise and did not realise how nearly her words might have applied to the actual facts.
She sat down on the edge of her bed, dazed. Surely she had been singled out for misfortune; blow after blow had fallen upon her, and she was only twelve and a half years old. First she had been left motherless, then her father’s small estate had been ruined. Next she was made an orphan. Then she had lost her only friends Ian and Audry and was left to the cruelties of Mistress Mowbray. And now there was this. The little heart almost grew bitter and she was tempted to say;—“I do not mind if they do kill me, everything is so terrible and sad and, O Father dear, your little girl is so very very lonely and unhappy she would like to die and come to you.”
But the thought of her father made her think of life again and some of life’s happy days and of Audry and Ian, and she gave a great sob and a lump came into her throat; but she checked it before the tears came and stood up and drew herself together. “Father would have me brave; Ian would have me brave. Come, this is no time for crying, I must think hard.”
“I might get out on to the moor at night, but I should certainly be caught. Besides I have nowhere to go.
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“I could disappear into the secret room, but I should soon starve—for all the food I could get.
“I might get over to Audry at Appleby, but that would be no use in the end; what should I do next? Still if I could have her back here, she could feed me in the secret room.
“Then again Ian might be able to help—I must get a letter to Audry and a letter to Ian.”
So she sat down and wrote; and it was not until she began to write to others that she fully realised the desperateness of her situation and that, if help did not come, she would certainly be imprisoned and tortured on the rack and probably burnt alive. Aline knew that they thought nothing of hanging children, often for quite trivial offences and had heard of plenty of instances of executions of children under twelve.
When she had finished writing the day was nearly done and she crept very forlornly into bed. Her head ached and her heart ached still more and she fell a-thinking how the letters were to be sent. Even if Walter Margrove should come she would not see him, though it was getting time for his return. She was getting desperate. She pressed her little hands against her forehead and at last the stifled tears broke forth. They were some relief and bye and bye she fell asleep.
The next morning old Elspeth came to her room to bring her bread and water. She was shocked when she saw the condition of the child. The sleep had been broken and feverish and Aline looked wretchedly ill.
“O hinnie,” she said, “my hinnie, what have they been doing to you now? Prithee do what they want,276 dearest. I cannot bear to see you shut up here. See, I have brought you a pasty with chicken in it. Old Elspeth will not see you starve, dear heart; and Walter Margrove came yesternight after they put you up here and he hath sent you this little packet. He said if I gave you the linen I could be trusted to give you this. ‘Trusted,’ indeed! I trow so; what aileth the man?”
Aline sat up in bed and stretched out her hand eagerly and as she took the packet she wondered whether she dare send her letters by Elspeth. On the whole she felt it was rather risky to send Ian’s, but Audry’s would not rouse the old dame’s suspicion. Should she chance them both? “Is he downstairs now?” she said.
“No, hinnie,” said Elspeth, “he had to leave very suddenly this morning.”
Aline fell back on the bed but managed to turn her face away and say in a half joking tone;—“Oh, dear, how unlucky! Margrove always makes a pleasant change and I have been so stupid as to miss him.”
“I am so sorry, dearie,” said Elspeth; “I am sure he would have been right fain to see you, he hath a great fancy for you, I know.”
“Well, an they keep me up here till he cometh again, you tell me, Elspeth, there’s a dear, when he is here; and I will write a little note to him. He hath been very kind to me.”
“All right, hinnie,” and Elspeth went down-stairs.
Aline ate the bread and the pasty. She was not hungry but she knew that she was getting ill and she thought that it would help her to keep up her strength, if she ate all that she could. As she ate, she turned the parcel over and over with her left hand. It was a bitter blow277 that Margrove had gone; but here was Ian’s letter and it might mark the turning of the tide. When she had finished she still looked at the packet for a few moments, wondering, hoping, dreaming.
The figure of Ian rose to her mind, sitting as he often did, leaning back with his hands clasped round one knee and the foot raised from the ground.
She had found her knight; would he be able to rescue her? True, he was only a carpenter, but in his many travels and experiences he had acquired so many accomplishments that no one would know that he was not of gentle blood. “Oh! I do wish he were here,” she said; “yes, even if he could not help me I wish I could see him again;—well, this is from him.” So she opened the packet.
The first thing that she saw was a beautiful pair of silk hose of a very rich deep blue. Fastened to these was a label, saying:—“These are from Walter Margrove and myself, mainly from Walter.”
They were an absolutely new thing in Britain, although they had been in use for a short time in Italy, and were so much lovelier than anything she had ever seen before that she could not resist the temptation of trying them on at once. She threw off the bedclothes and stretched out one small rosy foot, straight as a die on the inner side, and altogether perfect with its clearly articulated toes and exquisitely formed nails. Aline was blissfully unaware that there was not another to compare with it in the whole world except its own fellow delicately poised on the firmly built but slender ankle, which she drew up and slipped into the delightful soft silk hose. It fitted to perfection.
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She then put on the other and stood up, holding her little nightrobe high while she looked down to admire them. Aline had not the slightest touch of vanity, but new clothes are new clothes all the world over. She then stepped across to Audry’s cherished and rare possession, a long mirror which had come from Italy. “They really are a glorious blue,” she thought, as the light fell on the soft lustrous material.
She had pleated the middle of the nightrobe into a sort of band round her waist; the front below the neck was unfastened, so that the effect was that of a short tunic. “Why, I look like a boy!” she said to herself; “if it were not for my hair.”
In spite of her slimness there was a muscular development, very refined and beautiful in line, that was distinctly boyish. Her slender hips and exceptionally well modelled forearms, which were bare, completed the illusion.
“Yes, I look like the pages I used to see in Edinburgh”; and then a bright thought struck her;—“If ever I have to try and escape I shall dress up as a boy.” She pinned the nightdress with the broad belt as it was, with the lower hem reaching to the thigh. It fell down at the back somewhat, but that did not show in the mirror. She then hurried down the secret stair and came back with a man’s bonnet that she had there noticed among the things. She had such an immense quantity of hair that it was only by twisting it very tightly indeed that she was able to get it into the bonnet; but she succeeded at last. She was rather tall for her age, although her form was still absolutely that of a child, and an admirable boy she made.
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Aline laughed aloud; it was the first time that she had laughed for a weary while.
“Now let me read the letter,” she said. She took off the stockings and folded them neatly up, put them away and opened the letter.
“To my dear little Aline,
“Walter Margrove hath kindly promised to bear this letter. It is with deep regret that I will tell thee how that my plans have not prospered. As thou knowest, I have been working with one, Matthew Musgrave, a carpenter, hoping to lay by money that eventually I might betake me to the road like our friend Walter. But Matthew hath been sick of an ague these many weeks past and I find that he hath little or nothing saved. I have done what I might but my small means are exhausted, and we are even in debt for the purchase of wood. The boy, Will Ackroyd, hath also been somewhat of an anxiety to me, so that I am much cast down in spirit and indeed as Matthew will tell thee am somewhat ailing in body. This I regret the more as thy face liveth ever before me and I have thought that it might at any moment be needful for me to come unto thine assistance, whereas I even fear that I am not in any wise able. I trust that Mistress Mowbray is not treating thee ill and that thou and that dear child, thy cousin, are enjoying all happiness.
“My hard times will doubtless pass and better will come. I think of thee day and night and pray for thee without ceasing; and sweet child, remember that whatever the difficulties, I would fight through everything to come to thine aid if need should arise.
“To-morrow I hope to be able to send thee some small token from Walter’s pack. Meanwhile I say,—May the peace of the Lord Jesus be with thee and all the love of this poor mortal heart is thine; as Homer saith; ‘for that thou, lady, hast given me my life.’
“My blessing and love be also to thy cousin Audry, for right kindly did she minister to me.
“Farewell, bright angel of my dreams.
“Ian Menstrie.
“An so be that thou writest, it is better to put upon the cover the name of James Mitchell whereby I am known here.”
Ian had been very seriously ill himself from trying280 to undertake more than was possible. His unceasing care and tender watchfulness had saved Musgrave’s life, but it was nearly at the cost of his own and he was but a shadow of his former self.
Aline’s sympathetic little heart read more between the lines than Ian had intended her to see and the letter seemed the last drop in her cup of sorrow.
It was too much and this time she fainted right away. When she came to, she found that she was lying on the floor and old Elspeth was bending over her and sprinkling water on her face. The old woman was nearly beside herself with grief. “O my bonnie bonnie child, what shall poor Elspeth do? They will kill you, heart of mine, if they go on in this way. See you are cold as a stone and nothing on you but this thin rag and that unfastened too.” She lifted the child back into bed and rushed down-stairs to the kitchen, where she found some hot broth ready for the table and came back with a bowl of it.
On the way she met Mistress Mowbray.
“What are you doing, Elspeth?” the lady almost shrieked.
“Mistress Aline was in a dead faint on the floor of her room and stone cold and like enough to die. Such goings on as there have been in this house lately I have never seen in all my days. First the child is nearly murdered by that ne’er do weel Andrew and now the whole house seems bent on doing the same. In my young days old Mistress Mowbray would not have countenanced such doings and the priests, gramercy, knew better than to meddle in other folk’s houses.”
Elspeth who had known three generations of Mowbrays281 was a privileged person, but this was more than even she had ever before ventured to say.
“How dare you speak like that?” said Mistress Mowbray.
“Marry, you would not have the child’s death at your door, would you, whatever the priest may bid? That at least was not of his ordering.”
Mistress Mowbray glared at her, but said, “Well, take the broth; how was I to know the child had fainted? Yet i’ faith she shall not have all of that,” and she took the bowl and carried it down and poured half of it back. When Elspeth reached the child she was so overcome that she could only sit on the bed and moan. Aline put her arm out and took the old woman’s hand and stroked it and said,—“Elspeth, do not take it so to heart. I am all right and, look you, the broth is excellent. See, I shall be quite well again in a moment. A little faint is nothing. Tell me how deep the snow is on the road to Middleton and how the sheep are getting on in this cold and whether there be any news from Appleby.”
So she gradually coaxed Elspeth away from the subject of her own troubles and even made her smile by telling her about the blue hose and how she had tried them on, and how pleased with them she was; but she kept the little plan of dressing up like a boy to herself.
THAT evening Elspeth went down to the Arnsides. She was really very much concerned at the line that things were taking and, staunch Catholic as she was, she had no mind to have her little mistress ill used. She of course knew nothing about her neighbour’s faith and simply went to them because of their interest in Aline; and she told them the whole story from the time of the coming of Father Martin.
“We helped her with the linen,” she said, “but I fear this is a more difficult matter; but it makes my heart bleed for the poor innocent and she only twelve years old. We can manage to feed her, but the child will pine away shut up there. I cannot think what to do.”
“The thing would be to get Mistress Audry back,” said Janet. “That would be something.”
“Ay, that would it,” Elspeth assented.
They talked it over for some time and Elspeth decided that she would try and say something in an indirect way to Master Mowbray, which might result in his sending for his daughter.
When she was gone John turned to his mother,—“Mother, somehow I believe Walter Margrove is the man to help us, and he told us to let him hear how things283 went and they have gone a deal worse than any of us could have dreamed. He knows the world and he knows, too, what the real risk is. Even if Mistress Audry comes back, methinks that will not alter the true danger.”
“Ay,” said his mother, “but Master Walter was here but yesterday, how are we to get him?”
John thought for a time and then said,—“I have no regular work here and Silas, who sees to my hours, is one of our faith. I would even risk telling him something; although I need not say it is for Mistress Aline that I want to see Walter.”
“But how would you find Walter even if you did consult Silas?” said his mother.
“That should not be difficult,” said John. “He always calls at Carlisle on his rounds and I think I heard him say that he expected to be there this time within a sennight. In any case, however, he gets there long enough before he gets here. He generally stays with one, Timothy Fenwick, at the sign of the Golden Keys.”
“How will you go,” said his mother, “round by Middleton?”
“No, it is such a long way round; I shall keep this side the river.”
“What, with all this snow!”
“Yes, if I can get off to-day; the sky is clear and the weather set and the snow hard.”
“Well, good-bye, my boy. God bless you and I trust the Lord will grant you success.”
John Arnside obtained the permission with no trouble at all, made himself up a bundle, put it on a stick over his shoulder, kissed his mother and set off.
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Fortune favoured him and on the third day he was in Carlisle without mishap.
He enquired for the Golden Keys and easily found the house, but Walter was not there. He found, however, a man seated by the fire; he was of medium height, lightly built and well proportioned. He looked very ill and was holding one knee with his hands as he leaned back, and was gazing into the fire with his deep set eyes.
“Come and sit by the fire, lad, the day is cold.”
John came as invited. “I heard you asking for Walter Margrove,” said the stranger, “he will not be here for some time. I hope your business is not of importance.”
“Well,” said the boy, “I must just wait, unless you could tell me where he is to be found.”
“That could not I,” replied the other. “I know he was going to Newcastle and then up Tyne and down Tees; after that I think he was going to Skipton and West to Clitheroe and then North. He should be somewhere on the Tees now, I reckon, perhaps down as far as Rokeby.”
“Do you know the Tees?” said John.
The man lifted his grey deep set eyes; they had a far away look in them, as though he did not see the boy before him. They were watching the Tees come over the High Force and the rainbow that hung in the quivering spray.
“Yes, I know the Tees,” he said at length. “I know the Tees.
“Do you know the Tees?” he went on; and it seemed to John that the hollow eyes in the sick man’s face285 looked at him hungrily. “Maybe you come from those parts yourself.”
“I do,” said John; “I was born and bred in Upper Teesdale.”
“What is your name?”
“John Arnside.”
The man looked at him and then the sad eyes seemed to brighten a little. “John Arnside, son of Janet Arnside?” he asked.
“Yes,” said John, wondering what was coming next.
The man got up and closed the door softly, he then came back and held out his hand to the boy. “I am so glad to see you, John; I know about you. I heard you asking for Walter Margrove, and oh,” he continued, apprehensively, “I do hope it is nothing about Mistress Aline that brings you here. Yes, I know quite well who you are and you may trust me.”
John’s was a simple nature and not easily suspicious; he just hesitated a moment and then reflected that if he merely said what was known to every one he could not do any harm. Walter Margrove’s part in the matter, he could keep for the present as a second string to his bow.
“They say that Mistress Aline is a heretic,” he said, “and they are going to burn her.”
The man clutched at the table to try and prevent himself from falling; the shock was so terrible in his weak condition; but he slipped back and was only saved by the boy catching him as he fell.
“O God,” he exclaimed, “not so, not so.”
He then made a tremendous effort and pulled himself together, but it was enough for John, there was no286 doubt that this stranger was in some way as interested in Aline’s welfare as himself.
“We must save her then,” said the stranger in a steady voice, while within him his thoughts and feelings tossed as in a storm.
“Marry though, what are we to do?”
“Let us sit down and think— Now look you here; it is not easy to think quickly, but we must act quickly. Can you get speech of Mistress Aline?”
“No,” answered John; “she is confined to her room, but old Elspeth sees her.”
“Can you write, John?”
“Gramercy no, Master, you would hardly expect the likes of me to be able to do that.”
“Well, you must get her my letter, somehow, and, furthermore, tell me what you yourself are willing to do for Mistress Aline.”
“I would give my life for her,” said John simply.
“Then,” said the other, looking him straight in the face, “you must hie you home at once and I will follow as soon as I can be ready. Keep a sharp look-out for the inquisitors and, if I do not come before them, you must get speech of her by hook or by crook and tell her that I, James Mitchell, told you that she must reveal to you our secret and that you must feed her. She will know what that means and you must do as she bids you. Indeed, if you get there before me, you had better do this in any case.”
“Surely I will; how could I other?”
“Marry then, hasten; for, even now we know not what an hour may bring forth. We must not wait for Walter, though he would have been our best aid. God speed thy287 feet, John; my heart goes with thee and I myself shall follow hard after thee.”
Without more ado John took his small bundle and started off at once.
Ian was nearly beside himself, the shock had brought on the pains in his head and he put his hands to his throbbing brows and strove to think. His money had all gone; how was he to act? Certainly the first thing was to get the child away somewhere, but how even was that to be done without horses? If only Margrove and his horses had been to hand! But that was a vain wish. Of course she could be concealed in the secret room, but he felt this was too perilous. There was risk enough in feeding him when Aline and Audry had been in the house. Suspicion would be roused tenfold if Aline were simply to disappear. John would certainly be seen, sooner or later, carrying food to the gully. Mortifying as the discovery of old Moll had been, it was a mercy to be forewarned. No, it might do as a very temporary expedient, but no more.
Of course it might be just within the bounds of possibility to get horses from Holwick Hall itself; but failure would mean absolute and irretrievable disaster. No again, nothing must be left to chance. Suddenly a thought struck him, there were horses on the estate where Andrew Woolridge worked. Possibly Andrew might help him and, if not, the risk was comparatively small.
This then decided him. He would set out immediately; but there was one more thing to consider. Should he say anything to the boy, Wilfred? It was true, he argued, that the more people that knew, the greater the chance of discovery. But on the other hand, if anything288 should happen to him, how was Aline to be saved? After all there was still Walter Margrove, who would surely attempt to do something. Finally he went and found Wilfred.
“Wilfred,” he said, “I want to ask a favour of thee.”
“That mayest thou well ask, Master Mitchell.”
“Well, I shall not tell thee more than that it concerns a matter of life and death, so that if any enquire of thee, there will be little that thou canst say, however they question thee. But when Walter Margrove cometh, tell him that Mistress Aline is in great jeopardy and let him do that which seemeth him best and may the Lord quicken his steps.”
“What, the little lady of whom they were talking one night not long syne?”
“Yes, that same; now be faithful to us, Wilfred.”
“But, Master Mitchell, thou art not going to leave us,” said the boy piteously. “After all that thou hast done for us that cannot be. See, prithee let me come with thee an thou must go.”
Ian considered for a moment as to whether the boy might be a help or a hindrance and decided that it would rather complicate matters than otherwise to take him.
“No, Wilfred, it cannot be,” he said; “but thou mightest, so far as thou art able, go out on the road to Brampton when thou art not at work and keep a look-out for me coming from Alston or Kirkoswald between the third and the seventh day from now.
“Indeed thou mightest do better. I will show thee more. Keep thine eyes and ears open for all the gossip of the city. I know thee well enough to know that thou289 wouldst not see any one burned alive and I go to save one from the burning. If thou hearest aught of inquisitors come as far south along the road as thou mayest.”
Wilfred bade good-bye and promised by all that was holy that he would do everything that he could.
Ian had decided to take nothing but one small wallet, as less likely to rouse suspicion, and started off. What was his horror, before he had gone ten paces from the door, to see a group of black robed figures on horseback approaching the hostelry, and his horror increased to terror when he recognised one of the figures as Father Austin, who had superintended, when he himself had been tortured in York.
The keen shrewd face shewed instant recognition in spite of Ian’s altered appearance. “Whither away, Ian Menstrie? Come return to the hostelry with us and have a talk with an old friend.” An evil smile of triumph spread over his face and he added quietly but firmly to his attendants,—“That is the man we have sought these many months, our Lady hath delivered him into our hands.”
Ian said nothing, but Wilfred, who was still standing at the door, said,—“That is not Ian Menstrie, that is Master James Mitchell.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Mitchell,” said Father Austin sarcastically, bowing from his horse.
“My name is Ian Menstrie,” said Ian.
“You have varying names then, like a gaol-bird,” replied the inquisitor with a sneer.
“We shall have two for our burning, perdy!” he290 continued to his companion. “It will make a right merrie blaze. What think you, Father Martin?”
“Burning’s too good for them; I would give them a taste of something first. As for that young witch up in Holwick, the Devil will be sorry to see her in Hell before her time. If she had lived to grow up, she would have charmed men’s souls to Satan more surely than any siren ever charmed a mariner.”
“If we burn the body shall we not save the soul?” said Father Austin.
“That doctrine liketh me not; no, Father, methinks in these cases we do but hasten the final judgment.”
“Have a care, friend, lest these be heresies also.”
“I a heretic! That is a mirthful jest.” Then looking toward Ian he went on,—“As for this fellow, he seems a sickly creature; I reckon by the looks of him that he has not long to live. But it is good for the souls of the faithful that he should blaze to the glory of God rather than die in his bed. Marry, methinks he is like enough to faint even now.”
Nothing but Ian Menstrie’s iron will indeed prevented it. The pains shot through his head like knives and his back and joints ached as though red hot with fire, but it was nothing to the anguish of his heart; yet he felt that his only chance was to keep up somehow.
He would have died on the rack some five months ago had it not been for his sheer strength of will. He had done it before, he would do it again; he would defy them yet.
Great cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but he held himself erect. “Is it Timothy Fenwick’s hostelry you seek, gentlemen?”
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There was a touch of defiance, even of scorn, in the lordly ring of his voice. Father Austin knew only too well that, clever as he was himself, he was no match for this man, who had beaten him once; “But he shall not escape me this time,” he said to himself, and having already alighted, he followed into the hostelry. “The day is past its prime,” he remarked, “and we have caught our main game. We have come far and there is no haste. We will bide here and rest till Wednesday; the little bird at Holwick will not flutter far, I warrant ye.”
It amused Father Austin to have Ian with them at meals to taunt him and to gloat over his own triumph. Ian realised that he would have little chance unless he were well nourished, so he fell in with their scheme and humoured them. At first he would talk brightly to the others and then, as he was an excellent raconteur and had a pretty wit, he made himself such good company that they could ill spare him. He played with Father Austin, assuming an attitude of deference and fear with an anxious desire to please; but if he wanted to retire to rest, he would lead him into an argument and when the father was worsted he would order the guards to take Ian to his room.
Again, by extraordinary will power, he would achieve the almost impossible feat of forcing himself to sleep. It was Aline’s only chance, he argued; and in that way he almost miraculously overcame the raging torments of his mind.
By the Wednesday he had even recovered slightly and felt rather like one going into battle than like a beaten man. He had thought out several plans; but the292 best one was to try and contrive to cross the ford of the Eden when it was getting dark. For this some delay was necessary, and he even managed to whisper to Wilfred unobserved, while he set the company off into boisterous and uncontrollable laughter, that he should loosen one of the horse’s shoes. He reckoned further to be able to do something more in the way of delay by his powers of conversation.
Another part of his scheme was to put his captors off the scent, if he should succeed in making his escape, and therefore he took occasion to remark; “Well, Father, and when we set out on our travels, whither are we bound? Is it south we shall be going?”
“Forsooth, man, you do not think we should go north, do you?”
“No, may be not; but I should like to see Scotland again.”
“Trouble not yourself, you will never see Scotland more; and when next I visit Scotland the Regent Mary will be glad to hear that her daughter has one heretic the less among her subjects.”
“But what if I should reach Scotland first,” said Ian jocularly. “That might spoil the pleasure of your visit.”
“There is no fear of that,” replied the other.
“Bishop Bonner may think differently from yourself,” Ian rejoined; “it is not every heretic that even Bonner burns. There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip; and Bonner might send me to Scotland if I promised to stay there. I warrant if once I were on that side again, there would be little temptation to come over.”
“Come, this is no time for talking, we must be off,” said Father Austin.
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All fell out as Ian had planned; the shoe was quite loose and before they had reached the city gate, Ian said to Father Martin, “Methinks, Father, your mare will shortly cast her shoe.”
So they returned to the hostelry where there was a smithy. Ian then succeeded in getting them all interested in a thrilling narrative just as the mare was ready, and put off the time until it seemed best to stay and have dinner before starting. More stories lengthened the meal, so that it was not till well on in the afternoon of the short winter day that they actually set out.
Ian was placed in the middle, surrounded by the guards, with loaded pistols, and his hands were tied, but not very tightly, as they allowed him to hold the reins. Try as he would he could not help the violent beating of his heart. Could he, one man, unarmed and bound, outwit all these knaves? The vision of little Aline rose before him. “I must fight the very fates,” he said to himself, “verily, I must win.” His thoughts travelled back to those days, long ago, when as a mere child he had given his heart-worship to the beautiful girl who had gone from him, but whom he had loved with a passionate devotion ever since. He had said practically nothing to Aline, but he was sure that he knew whence the strange likeness came; and for the double claim that she had upon him, fate, that had so cruelly treated him long ago, should be made to yield. He felt the strength of his own will like a white fire and then he trembled for a moment lest he should be fighting against God. “O Lord,” he prayed, “Thou hast brought me on this road and Thou hast made this lovely child; let her not perish by the machinations of294 evil men. Take my life, O God, give me all torture and the terrible burning, but grant her happiness.”
He felt a sudden influx of power and prayed again a prayer of thankfulness. “Yes,” he said, “I will bend fate to my will and God will smile on my struggle and then I will yield myself to Him and He shall toss me into the void or do unto me in my despite whatsoever seemeth Him good.”
It was a long road and the spirits of the party flagged. It was, moreover, bitterly cold, but Ian had not dared to put on more clothing for fear that it should defeat his plans. There had been a thaw and he watched anxiously for the river. He had succeeded during the long ride, in very considerably loosening the cord that tied his wrists, and although it was still quite tight round one wrist and he could not be certain of freeing the other, he was sure that he could slip it sufficiently to get twenty to thirty inches of free play between his hands. He had managed, too, greatly to fray the portion that would be the connecting piece.
It was getting dusk when they reached the river, and, owing to the recent heavy weather and thaws, the ford was so high that the water was more than up to the horses’ girths. Ian’s heart beat more violently than ever; it seemed almost as though it could be heard. “Aline, Aline, had she no more reliable deliverer than himself?”
As they crossed, the horses had to pick their way and they spread out a good deal so that they were almost in a line, with Ian in the middle, who managed also to coax his horse a little bit down the stream. He then nerved himself for the supreme effort and, first jerking295 his horse back almost on to its haunches, so as to give in the gloom the appearance of the animal having stumbled, he flung himself from its back shrieking,—“Help, help,” as he went. As soon as the water closed over him he struck out and swam under water as far as he possibly could. Unfortunately the cord did not break as he hoped and the swimming was exceedingly difficult, but there was sufficient play of cord to make the feat quite possible, and the swift current helped him not a little.
It was perhaps fortunate that nearly all the pistols were discharged at once, before he came to the surface, as they were fired at random into the confused water round the horse, which had some difficulty in regaining its footing.
When he rose he immediately took a breath and went under again. Only one man was looking in that direction and he did not seriously think that the dark spot in the turbid river was really anything; where occasionally a half hidden boulder would appear above the water. But he took aim, more or less mechanically or from intuition, and fired, and the bullet actually grazed Ian’s shoulder.
Before he had appeared again the little company had turned to the riderless horse and those who had lances were prodding into the deeps of the river. Again he swam under water; it was still very shallow and he bruised himself several times more or less severely on the boulders in the river bed. He did this twice more and the water grew deeper; and then he ventured to glance back. They were already but dimly visible and he knew that he himself was out of sight, so he slowly296 made for the bank with some difficulty across the current. When he reached the bank they were no longer to be seen, and he was glad to get out of the icy water. But the air was miserably cold, even more trying, as is often the case, than during the frost itself.
He was only two miles from Andrew’s cottage, which he had once visited, and he wondered whether it would be safe for him to go there at once. After all, the risk was about as great one way as another. Besides, he hoped that they would think he was drowned and, even if they did not, that they would think he would endeavour to make his way north to Scotland. In any case it would not take him long to perish from exposure. Of course, he would have to cross his enemies’ tracks and he decided to keep near the water’s edge as at least affording some chance of escape. He soon managed to get rid of the cord that tied his hands and crept along by the wooded banks looking and listening intently.
After a few minutes he heard voices and they grew louder; he lay down on the brink and waited a moment. In the still evening they could be heard quite distinctly.
“Oh, the fellow is drowned right enough,” said one of the voices.
“Yes, curse the knave,” said the other voice, which was that of Father Austin. “It grieveth me sore. Mother Church hath missed an opportunity for a great lesson. I would even that we had his corpse, it would be something to show; and at the least I should get the credit for the bringing of the loon to his death. I am greatly afeared lest he may have gotten away to Scotland. Did he not say something to me himself about297 Scotland and the slip twixt cup and lip? He is a deep one as I know to my cost. I would that this had happened earlier in the day. It will be quite dark in about half an hour. Beshrew me, how came it that the rogue was not tied?”
“His wrists were tied, Father,” said the other voice. “I noticed that just before we came to the river.”
“Oh, I meant tied to the horse, but who would have thought of such a thing! However, if the wrists were tied, belike it may have been an accident and the knave must be dead. I trow it was but a dog’s chance. Besides, one of those bullets must have hit him. The body must have been swept down stream.”
The surmise about the bullet was true enough, as Ian knew to his cost, and the wound was an added pain. “It is wonderful what the human frame can stand,” he said to himself. “I cannot think how I am alive at all. I must win this game somehow and the next move is mine.”
He slowly lowered himself into the water. The men had stood still, a little higher up the stream, not twenty yards from where he was. It was a trying test to his nerves, but he hoped he was concealed by the brushwood on the flooded bank.
He waited awhile and heard them discuss how a few of the party would try and make search in the direction of Scotland and the remainder go south. Apparently they were waiting for some of the others to join them and the conversation turned to other subjects.
Ian was standing on the bottom, but had to work his arms all the time to prevent himself from being carried down by the current. His teeth chattered and his298 fingers were numb with the pain of the cold. “If I stay here any longer,” he thought, “the cold will finish me.” So he struck out and by the aid of the brushwood swam within a foot or two of where they were standing. It was an anxious moment and although the stream was slacker near the bank it was slow work. But he passed them unobserved, although he experienced a tumultuous wave of feeling when the conversation stopped short for an instant and he feared that they were listening.
But at last he judged that it might be safe to creep out, and at first he crawled and then walked quietly, but finally broke into a run, as much for the cold as for any other reason; and, in twenty minutes from the time he started running, he found himself at Andrew’s cottage.
It was in a secluded spot, quite near the river, and about a third of a mile from the Hall where Andrew was employed. He crept softly to the window and peeped in. Andrew was there alone. So he knocked at the door.
Andrew’s astonishment was immense as he opened the door and still more so when he saw that his visitor was dripping wet.
“Can you let me have some dry clothes, Andrew, and help me to get warm, and provide me with something for the inner man?”
“That I can, Master Mitchell,” and Andrew bestirred himself, brought the clothes and made up a roaring fire and prepared a simple but appetising supper.
When Ian had finished he stretched out his feet to the cheerful blaze. It was tempting to stay and rest299 after all his sufferings. The wound in his shoulder was very painful, although Andrew had bandaged it, and the sundry cuts and bruises made him feel very stiff. But there was much to be done and no time to be lost.
He talked things over with Andrew, very cautiously, as he was not sure what line he would take. It so happened that the Hall was nearly empty; the family and their immediate entourage were South during the winter and the reeve was away on business with two of the other men; so Andrew’s help in getting the horses was not needed after all. Ian led him into all kinds of general gossip about the place and discovered how many horses were kept and where the stables were, without exciting any suspicion. Andrew offered to come with him to Holwick, but Ian doubted whether it would not make matters more and not less difficult and Andrew’s disappearance would itself give a clue.
Luck favoured him, he found that the man who had charge of the horses, while the reeve was away, was a drunken fellow, whose cottage was not far from Andrew’s on the way to the Hall. Owing to the absence of the reeve he was having a more dissipated time even than usual. It was his custom to see to the horses the last thing at night, and Ian determined on an attempt to get the better of him.
Without explaining his movements to Andrew he said it was time for him to be going, and he set out into the darkness. There was just enough starlight to find his way and he soon reached Jock’s cottage. The man had not returned, so Ian crouched down behind a tree to wait for him.
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He was trembling with excitement and apprehension and was disturbed in spirit about the part of the venture in which he was engaged. He was deliberately setting out to steal the horses and he felt that it was a sin. He did not try to justify himself, although he had determined that he would make all possible reparation so that the owner of the horses would not suffer. He had written a note to his mother which he had given to Andrew, just saying that if his adventure should miscarry and Andrew did not hear from him shortly, he was to take it to Stirling and ask for some relatives of his of the name of Menstrie, as he had no relatives named Mitchell still alive. In the letter he had said that she was to clear his honour as far as was possible by replacing the horses if death should overtake him.
Yet he did not feel that this in the least altered the crime; but he argued to himself, that if the crime did not hurt any one that it was only his own soul that would suffer. For that he was absolutely ready. He would gladly give his life for Aline, would he not also gladly give his soul? It was a great shock to his naturally upright nature and when he had lied to Andrew and told him that he was going to make his way south on foot, and while his blood boiled with shame within him, he yet welcomed the sacrifice. “She shall have my honour and my good name, she shall have my soul indeed as well as my life. Fate may crush me in eternal torment at the last or annihilate me altogether; but Aline must escape these fiends; she must live to be happy. Sweet little child-heart, who never did any wrong to any one and whose short life has been so sad301 and who yet has only been sunshine in the lives of others, why should she be cheated out of her due?”
As he wrestled with himself Jock came stumbling from side to side down the path, babbling incoherently. Ian braced himself for the struggle and, as the man opened the door and entered the cottage, Ian stole in after him. He was utterly unprepared and, as Ian leaped upon him from behind, he gave one wild shriek and collapsed. Ian tied his hands and feet with his own cord that he had saved, put the man on the bed and secured the key of the stable.
He had comparatively little difficulty in getting out the two best horses, taking the precaution of tying some sacking over their hoofs so as to lessen the noise. Fortunately the wind was rising and a storm of rain was clearly on its way.
Before leaving he fastened a note at the stall-head:
“I require these horses but will replace them when I reach Scotland. Necessity knows no law.
One in great need.”
He took the horses first in a northerly direction as though making for Scotland, so that their tracks might throw pursuers off the scent. Then when he reached the harder road, he followed it only a little way and turned back south. Finally he struck over the high ground to the west, hoping to get into another district altogether, where any travellers that he might meet would not carry any description to the neighbourhood of Kirkoswald.
It meant a considerable detour and the inquisitors had a long start as well; but he felt so certain that they302 would rest somewhere for the night, that he felt very little alarm. Shortly afterwards the rain came down heavily and he trusted that this would at least help to obliterate the tracks.303
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THE UPPER COURT SHOWING TERRACE AND TURRET-STAIR TO ALINE’S ROOM
MEANWHILE Aline had been having a very unhappy time. She was practically confined to her room the whole day long, but she did come down for the mid-day meal. Master Mowbray, strong as his Catholic sympathies were, not only resented the interference of the priests in his house, but was concerned at seeing the child look so starved and ill, and therefore he had insisted on this much.
It did enable Aline to get some nourishment, although she only had bread and water for the rest of the time, and it did make a slight break in the day, for she dared not use the secret stair except when every one was in bed, for fear of any one coming to her room and finding that she was not there.
But the meals were anything but a pleasure. Master Mowbray would look at her sorrowfully, but he scarcely ever said anything, and Mistress Mowbray would make cruel biting remarks and watch the child wince under them.
Her poor little soul grew very sad and night after night she would cry herself to sleep; “If only Ian would come—If only Ian would come.”
She was some time before she actually grasped that the inquisitors would take away her life; but one day306 when Father Ambrose was at dinner he had tauntingly asked her whether she had repented of her folly; and then, with a leer, had rubbed his hands and said:—“You obstinate minx, they are coming for you right soon and ah, how glad I shall be to see your long hair shrivel up and your pretty face swell and burst in the fire.”
Aline suddenly realised that he was in earnest and for the moment was petrified with terror. Then she remembered that many children younger than she had been martyrs in the old Roman days, and for the moment there was a revulsion of feeling and she smiled to think that she was worthy to suffer death in the Master’s cause.
Richard Mowbray had not realised it before either, and was shocked beyond measure. He said nothing to his wife, but decided to set off at once for York to see the Archbishop, whom he knew personally, and discover what could be done.
He was on the point of forbidding Father Ambrose entry to the house; but he restrained himself, as that would excite suspicion. He was accustomed to going away suddenly for a few days at a time, so that his departure that very afternoon surprised no one. He reckoned that it would take him at least a week and told his wife not to expect him before that time.
When Aline reached her room, her feelings swung the other way again. “Why should she die; what had she done? She was sure that God would not wish her to die.” She waited till night and crept down to the secret room. She did not often do this even at night, as although there was a good store of candles she saw307 no prospect whatever of replenishing it and was afraid of using it up.
She sat down on the oak settle and tried to face the situation. If the inquisitors came she must try somehow to escape and the incident of the blue hose had suggested that she should do so in the garb of a boy. She rummaged over the clothes that she found and set to work to put them in order and adapt them for her own use. She chose the strongest things that she could find and during the next few nights she managed with a little alteration to fit herself out with a boy’s doublet, cote-hardie, surcoat and a pair of trunks. She found an admirable mantle of russet cloth that only required shortening and she herself possessed a pair of strong sad coloured hose.
She reckoned that it would not be possible to cut her hair before her escape; so she prepared three hats, one that was very large into which her hair could be put in a hurry, a medium one into which it could be put if very tightly twisted, and a smaller one, that she could wear with her hair cut short to the ears.
She also began to lay in a store of provisions, saving all that she could from her slender allowance, as she judged that it would be safest to spend a week if possible, in the secret room until the first hue and cry had subsided, if she should have to make the desperate attempt to escape alone; but, poor child, her plan was frustrated.
It was very cold in her little chamber, so she had been wearing some extra clothing; she decided therefore that the wisest course would be to dress exactly like a boy and wear what was necessary of her own clothes308 on the top. So she put on a boy’s shirt and trunks and stitched points to her hose and tied them to those on the trunks. Over this she put a cote-hardie and then a belt with a dagger. Above this again she wore a girl’s longer cote-hardie and above that again a short surcoat. The medium sized hat was made of silk and the finest kersey and was therefore easily concealed under her clothes. It had a full silk crown and a brim turned up all round nearly to the crown itself, with slits every three inches, giving it a sort of battlemented appearance with the crown just appearing above the top. Old fashions still lingered in the North and Ian had had one like it, which he said resembled one worn by Prince Arthur of Wales. She was helped by a little drawing which Ian had made for her when they were talking about the well known portrait. When she had done she felt very proud of her handiwork and the long mirror was a welcome joy at the end of the doleful days. She looked out a sword for herself and practised making passes.
All was ready four days after Richard Mowbray’s departure and, three days later, when he had not yet returned, there was a sudden stir and noise in the outer courtyard while they were having the mid-day meal.
“That will be Walter Margrove, I’m thinking,” said Mistress Mowbray. “They always seem to make that man’s arrival an excuse for neglecting their work, idle hussies and varlets all of them!” She rose as she spoke and went out into the screens. Aline followed her.
A tall priest had already crossed the threshold. “May I speak with Master Mowbray?” he said.
“Master Mowbray is away, you must ask what you309 want of me. Come this way,” she said, and stepped out of the door at the other end of the screens, so as to be away from the servants and Aline.
“We have come,” said Father Austin, for it was he, “with a warrant for the arrest of a heretic, a certain Aline Gillespie; see, here are the seals thereon of Queen Mary and Bishop Bonner himself. It is well that one be careful in these matters,” he said smiling grimly. “Some would be content with lesser signatures and seals, but then their work might be overset.”
They had been strolling toward the further end of the quadrangle and were nearing the entrance to the stair that led to Aline’s room. It had only taken an instant for it to flash through Aline’s mind that the hour had come and it was now or never. She followed quietly behind them and hoped to be able to slip up the stair before they could catch her, and was ready to make a dash as they turned.
They turned just before reaching the door and Aline made a rush.
“Not so fast, my child,” said the priest, stretching out a long interposing arm. “Whither away? I may want speech of thee shortly.” He turned with a look of sanctimonious triumph to Mistress Mowbray. “Mother Church will clean your house of its vermin for you, madam,” he said.
Aline gave one little gasp of mortal terror and then stood dumb for a second like a small bird caught by a beast of prey. She gave one appealing look toward Mistress Mowbray and then swung round facing the dining hall and paused a moment, with Father Austin’s hand still on her shoulder.
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“I prefer to clear my own house,” Mistress Mowbray said icily. She disliked the man, she disliked his interference. He could not have said anything more foolish. Aline’s interference had been outrageous, but it was nothing to this; at least the child was one of themselves. Mistress Mowbray’s wrath raged at the insolence of this outsider. She looked again at Aline, delicate, fragile, ethereal, and the thought of the appealing look of the beautiful child at last thawed her hard heart. “What if ever Audry should be in a like plight?” she mused.
All this was in a flash, as she turned to Aline and looking her full in the face, said,—“Audry, dear, run and tell Silas that there’s a ratcatcher or something, who thinks that we have vermin in the house and would like a job. You can also find Aline and tell her that he seems to like catching little girls.”
Father Austin dropped his arm at the name of Audry; and Aline, though puzzled, ran off swiftly. As Mistress Mowbray finished her sentence, he bit his lip; he saw that he had made a mistake.
“Who is Audry, madam?”
“Audry is my daughter,” answered Mistress Mowbray with her chin very much in the air.
“I thought that child there was Aline Gillespie,” said the priest.
“So it was,” said the lady, calmly.
“But you called her Audry, madam,” he replied, “and told her to speak to Aline.”
“Did I?” she said with well feigned surprise. “You confused me so with your peculiar language.”
Meanwhile Aline ran back to the screens, intending311 to go through and cross the lower court and slip out over the drawbridge. She might reach the stream and make her way up to the cave before any one clearly grasped what was happening.
But when she came to the further door she was met by a large crowd that had followed the inquisitors and it was useless to try and make headway against it; besides she saw Father Martin’s head appearing above the rest away in the background.
She turned back again with the head of the crowd and half mechanically picked up a staff that was standing in the corner by the door, as she passed into the court. She pushed her way past two men who were armed with swords and were just stepping through the doorway. She might still be able to get into the library and, desperate as the chance was, she hoped to throw them off the scent by breaking a window before going down through the kist to the secret room.
Father Austin was still standing near the bottom of the stair to her chamber. That way was closed; so she ran toward the small flight of steps leading to the little terrace in front of the library.
“Seize her, Hubert,” shouted the priest.
The big burly man, addressed, rushed after her. Aline swung round suddenly and hit him unexpectedly with her staff on the side of his head and darted on.
The man gave a great yell and the crowd roared with laughter, which doubled his rage and, drawing his sword, he dashed again in pursuit. Aline was fleet and reached the library door before he was half way across the quadrangle.
She feverishly grasped the handle.
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Alas, it was locked.
As she turned back, Hubert nearly reached the bottom of the steps. Four more paces and his sword would be through her.
The heavy man took a great stride half-way up the stair. The hunted child stood at bay.
How frail and slight she seemed; only a delicate flower ineffectively beautiful. The crowd stood motionless and held their breath, while some closed their eyes.
Hubert laughed at the absurd sight of the child barring his way. She could no longer hit him unawares; he was armed and ready, he expected nothing; when Aline, quick as lightning, by a dexterous turn of her staff, twisted the sword out of his hand, and lunging forward, caught him under the chin with her full force so that the big man overbalanced and fell backward down the steps, stunned.
Aline stooped and picked up the sword. Hubert’s fellow, however, was close behind.
“Kill her!” shouted Father Martin.
“Slay the witch, Gilbert,” echoed Father Austin.
As she picked up Hubert’s sword she had to draw back in rising and Gilbert was already up the steps. He was a more active man than the other, but he had taken in the situation and was no fool; so, child as she was, he advanced more cautiously.
Poor little Aline had to think and fight at the same time. What was she to do? Even if she overcame this man, there were others; obviously she could not fight them all. But she thought of a faintly possible chance and, before Gilbert closed with her, gave a glance across the moat. Could she cross it? As she glanced she saw313 a sight for which she had been longing all these weary weeks,—it was a single horseman with two horses, evidently making his way toward the gully. He was turning to look back at the Hall. She saw no more, and straightway began a very pretty bit of sword play.
Gilbert proceeded warily and foyne, parry and counterparry followed with monotonous precision. Aline kept very cool and at first attempted little; but after a short time she tried a feint or so in order to test him. She soon found that he was no mean swordsman; but she had learned much from Ian, which he had brought from Italy and France; so Gilbert in his turn discovered that she was not an opponent to be despised.
He reckoned however that his greater strength must tell in the end and took things somewhat easily. For a time therefore nothing happened, but a little later, after a riposte on Aline’s part, Gilbert made a counter-riposte and just touched her on the arm. He began to feel his superiority and pressed in harder, while she gradually drew back a little and a little along the terrace.
Gilbert thought that he was slowly mastering her; but Aline was playing for her own ends as her one slender hope was to let him wear himself out.
The crowd by this time were spell-bound and even the two priests were overcome by the fascination of the scene,—the beautiful agile child and the dexterous but far slower swordsman. The silence was intense, broken only by the clash of the swords.
Gradually they neared the end of the terrace. It was an awful moment for Aline. The man was obviously getting tired, but she shrank from trying to inflict a severe wound and he was far too skilful for her to disarm314 him. There was nothing for it, however; and, when almost at the little low wall at the terrace end, the instinctive struggle for life began to tell and the fighting on both sides became more serious.
Aline received a slight scratch on her left shoulder and this settled the matter and nerved her to a supreme effort.
As he lunged again she parried, made a riposte with a reprise following like a lightning flash and swift as thought her sword was through his heart and he fell dead on the pavement.
The crowd gasped. Aline stayed not an instant, but leaped upon the low terrace wall. Standing still for a moment she tore her outer garments from her and stood there like a lovely boy, save for the great flood of hair that had come entirely loose and that was caught on the windy battlement and blown like a cloud high behind her.
Then she paused and turning to the quadrangle thronged with people she said: “How dare you play the cowards’ part, setting two armed men to attack one small girl? God will punish you, Father Martin, and you, too,” she said, pointing to Father Austin, “and the blood of the slain man will cling to you and remorse shall tear your hearts. I am only a child and it is little that I know, but I do know that there is no love for a hard heart from God or from men.
“And you, Elspeth, Janet and those I love; it is hard to say good-bye, but I must go.”
“Shoot her, shoot her!” shrieked the priests, “she blasphemes, she takes the name of God in vain.” But the angry crowd surged round the guard and would not315 let them move. One, however, broke loose and raised his pistol; but as he did so, Aline, to the utter astonishment of all, still holding the sword, dived into the moat.
“Our Lady shield thee, St. Aline,” cried a voice from the crowd; and as the wall was too high to see over, except from the terrace itself, they swept up in a mass, the priests, the people, the guards and all.
A few strokes took her over the water; Ian stooped and seized her under the arms, drew her out of the water, lifted her on to the one horse, vaulted himself on to the other and they fled like the wind.
Shot after shot then rang out and the bullets whistled only too alarmingly near them, but they were soon out of reach.
“Mount and pursue,” shouted Father Austin, as he stumbled over the body of the dead man, “and take this clumsy loon and bury him.”
“The horses are tired, we need fresh steeds for that,” said one of the guard.
“Gramercy, take them from the Hall,” he roared.
But no one would find the keys of the stable and Mistress Mowbray, coming up a moment later, said in acid tones, “Take your own horses, Sir Priest, warrant or no warrant you cannot steal, and if you touch my horses I will have you hanged as a common horse-thief.”
She looked at him triumphantly, the exercise of power delighted her and she even felt a glow of reflected glory from Aline’s achievement. “We know how to manage these interlopers,” she thought; “I am mistress of this situation. Aline, you have done very well.”
Father Austin looked cowed, and the sullen people316 stood in the way and blocked the road. One managed to secure a stirrup, another broke a girth, while a third removed a halter altogether.
“You shall suffer for this,” said the priests, when they at length reached the horses; but the attitude of the crowd was so menacing that they became afraid for their very lives and finally had to fall back upon entreaty before they were allowed to go away at all.
The result was that the fugitives had two full hours start on good horses, before Father Austin could get his little troop under way.
“Had God sent a deliverer from the skies?” mused Mistress Mowbray, as she sat and pondered the strange events of the day.
AS Aline and Ian rode over the rough ground they kept turning back; but nothing was to be seen. They wondered what had delayed the pursuit, but felt sure it would come.
The snow had more or less melted and the day was clear, so that they could see far behind them. When, therefore, they reached a place where they could clearly see two miles and no one following, they slackened pace, so as to give their horses every chance.
Ian’s plan was to swim or ford the swollen river at the Weal, the long pool-like stretch, of the Tees,—and then take the track to Garrigill. His present anxiety was to keep Aline warm. He had brought away two big heavy riding cloaks from Andrew, saying that he needed to be warm sleeping on the hills. One of these he had put round Aline, but she was at first very cold. The exercise, however, warmed her a little and they did not dare to stop until they had put the river between them and their pursuers. It was fortunate for them that there was no wind and that the day, although cold, was bright and sunny. The hills looked hard and colourless, but the sunshine seemed to conquer the austerity.
They reached the river and negotiated it safely, Ian taking off his boots and lower garments to keep them318 dry. When they reached the other side Aline undressed and put on all of Ian’s clothes that he could take off and they wrung out hers and hung them where they would best dry with the motion through the air.
Ian had obtained a sword and two pistols from Andrew, while Aline had the sword with which she swam the moat.
They passed through Garrigill without mishap. Ian was particularly nervous of their being caught just as they reached a village, lest a hue and cry should be raised that would stop them. He looked anxiously back when they neared Alston, but no one was in view. It seemed best to make no attempt to keep out of sight by detours, but simply to press on.
Their foes, he guessed, would probably get fresh horses in Alston. Oh, if only they had money to do the same! It was impossible to reach Scotland that night, so the best plan seemed to Ian to be to rest their horses at the loneliest part of the road beyond Alston, where they could be concealed themselves and at the same time get a distant view of the road. After a rest they might make a good run for it, as the day was already getting on, particularly if their pursuers cantered their horses from Alston and came up with them at all blown. Then in the dark the best thing would probably be to abandon the horses and escape on foot.
They did as he had planned, and after they had rested an hour and a half, during which time the horses had some oats, Ian saw their adversaries about a mile behind. There were six of them and they had been badly delayed getting fresh horses in Alston. They were galloping rather wildly down the hill.
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Ian held his hand for Aline to mount and then vaulted into his seat and they set off at a trot. The others saw them and put spurs to their horses, yelling as they rode.
“Keep cool, not too fast,” said Ian, “wait till they come much nearer.”
Slowly their pursuers gained upon them, but Aline and Ian reserved their strength.
A mile they rode and the interval was lessened by a quarter; their hearts were too full to speak; another mile and the distance was again less by a quarter. Aline looked back: “Oh, Ian! We shall never get away, and they will catch you, too. I wish you had not come to rescue me. Do you think ‘Moll o’ the graves’ really does know anything about what is going to happen?”
“No, little heart, but do not be afraid, we have been helped so far. I think we shall get away.”
Another mile’s ride and they were only separated from their pursuers by a quarter mile.
Ian waited,—three hundred yards,—two hundred,—one hundred,—fifty. “Now,” he said, “let them go,” and both riders lashed their horses and the distance began to lengthen out again till it reached three or four hundred yards. Three of their pursuers fell behind altogether, the mounts they had obtained in Alston were not equal to the strain. One was Father Martin, and it would have made Aline’s ears tingle if she had heard the curses heaped upon her and Ian.
The other three kept together for a time and then they also began to spread out a little. At length there were forty paces between the first and second, and a couple of hundred yards to the third.
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It soon became clear, however, that, though they need not fear the third horse, both the other two would ultimately be a match for them, nor would it get dark soon enough for them to escape. Ian kept absolutely cool, but it was a terrible moment. If he were killed, even if Aline did escape, who in the wide world would look after her?
When the nearest horse was only about sixty yards behind he said to Aline, “Ride on, I think I can deal with these fellows, but I wish we had more pistols,—two shots will not see us far. Get to Carlisle and find Matthew Musgrave. I doubt not he will smuggle you away over the border; and, if I come not, when Walter Margrove arrives he will somehow provide for you.”
“But I won’t leave you,” said Aline. She looked at him so beseechingly, that he knew it was useless to say anything.
“Then you must do as I tell you. I am going to stop; you go on thirty or forty paces beyond and then stop also. Be ready to dismount if necessary. You are a good swordswoman, but you know nothing about shooting.”
Ian then reined in, turned and pointed his pistol at the leading horse. The man was taken aback by the sudden move, but fired wildly as he rode and the bullet whizzed past Ian’s head. It was only a matter of seconds, but Ian waited to make quite sure and then fired at the horse, which fell and brought its rider with a horrible crash to the ground.
The second horse was treated in like manner; but its rider saw what was coming just in time to slacken his pace and leap to the ground as the horse fell. He then321 fired twice, missing the first time, but grazing Ian’s left side with the second shot.
He was a big powerful man and before Ian had time to step back and mount, he was in upon him with his sword. Ian had time to draw, but found that the man was no fool with his weapon. Time was precious, too, for the third horseman, who had drawn rein for a moment, was now advancing and would be upon them immediately.
Aline, who had seen this, dismounted and shouted: “Leave him to me and load your pistols”; but before she could reach them, Ian’s sword was through the man’s neck.
Luckily the horses stood; but he had only time to load one of the pistols, while Aline mounted again, before the third man arrived. He slowed up as he approached and attempted to fire from his horse, but the pistol only flashed in the pan and missed fire. Again Ian brought the horse to the ground, and as the man, who was not seriously hurt, picked himself up, Ian said; “Well, good-bye, my friend, I am sorry that urgent business prevents our waiting,” and springing to his saddle he galloped off.
Before the man could fire they were some distance away and the bullet went hopelessly wide.
“That’s twice I’ve been shot in three days, little one,” said Ian. “It’s a mercy these fellows cannot shoot better.”
“Oh, you never told me about the other,” said Aline, “and you must wait now and let me attend to this; the blood is all over your arm and down nearly to your knee.”
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“Indeed, I must not, sweet child, we shall soon have the rest of the gang after us. In fact, I do not know what to do, the horses are completely done and yet it is not safe to put up anywhere. Whatever happens we must not be caught in a town. I believe it would have been safer to have waited and killed them all.”
Aline shuddered. “Oh, how awful.”
Ian tore a piece off his shirt sleeve and stopped the bleeding of his wound as well as he could, and they rode on in silence for a time, till they came to the place where the road divided for Haltwhistle and Brampton. The trees grew thickly by the stream and it was getting dark. “Let us hide here,” Ian said. “They are unlikely to see us and we can then go whichever way they do not. They cannot be here for some time, so the horses can again get a feed and a rest.”
They piled up some dead leaves where two fallen trunks made a sort of shelter, did what they could for Ian’s wound and huddled together and waited.
At last, after about two hours, they dimly saw three horses. There was only one rider, but the fugitives guessed that the others carried the dead and the injured man. Four men walked beside them.
“I can hardly move another step,” they heard one of them say.
“I do not suppose you are as tired as I am,” said a second voice, “besides I bruised myself pretty badly when that devil brought my horse down. I shall be too stiff to move to-morrow.”
“Well,” said a third voice, which both recognised as that of Father Martin,—“This kind of game is not in my line anyway. Ride, ride, it is nothing but ride.323 I shall be too sore to sit down for a week; when on earth are you going to bring me to a place for a night’s rest? S’death. I almost feel as though I did not care what happened to the villains, I am so worn out. That’s three of my men dead; for I reckon Philip there will never speak again. Fancy that little she-cat killing Gilbert.”
“That’s you, Pussie,” softly whispered Ian in her ear.
“Well, this is the way to Haltwhistle; that’s six miles nearer than Brampton,” said one of the other voices, “and they are more likely to have gone there to put us off the track. Anyway, we can get men over to Brampton soon after daylight.”
“Thanks for the information,” again whispered Ian.
Gradually the voices died away in the still evening air, and finally the sound of the horses’ hoofs also.
“Thou art a naughty boy to whisper like that,” said Aline.
“Marry, it was safe enough for such a noise as they were making.”
They waited a little longer and then Aline put on her own clothes which were now quite dry. She was also going to cut off her hair, but Ian dissuaded her; so she braided it very tightly and concealed it with the bonnet.
They walked by their horses for an hour and then mounted and reached Brampton at ten o’clock at night. They approached the small hostelry and dismounted. “Can you give my page and myself supper and a night’s lodging?” Ian enquired. “The horses will want a good rub down, too; they are tired.”
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“Whence have you come and whither bound?” said mine host.
“We’ve come from Alston to-day and we’re bound for Scotland to-morrow. But show us a seat and a fire, this is no time for talk.”
“Come in, then; but you should not be travelling to Scotland now; there’s trouble on the border again and you may fall in with more than you desired; but it’s none of my business.”
At first the place looked empty; but there was a boy curled up on a settle and fast asleep.
Ian looked at him and to his surprise it was Wilfred. He hesitated a moment before waking the lad; it seemed unkind, he looked so comfortable; but it might assist toward Aline’s safety. So he lightly touched him on the shoulder. Wilfred looked up and rubbed his eyes. When he saw who it was a look of pleased surprise spread over his face.
“What are you doing here, Will?” said Ian.
“You said you wanted me to keep a look out for you near Brampton, Master Menstrie; so Matthew and I, finding there was work to be done at Naworth Castle, have come over here. Matthew is lodging at a house near the castle, but as Master Forster, here, is a friend of Matthew’s, I am staying with him. I was to go and help Matthew as soon as we had news of you; but I have spent all my time on the road for some days. He will be so glad to hear you have got back again. We heard in Carlisle that you had been drowned, but I knew you were a great swimmer and felt it could not be true and that you would go on to Holwick as you said. Did you get there?” asked the boy.
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“Yes, I got there all right.”
“And what did you do about the little lady?”
“The little lady is safe so far,” said Ian, “and Angus, one of the pages from the Hall, is coming with me to see if we can make arrangements for her in Scotland.”
“I am glad to hear she is safe.”
“The boy, Angus, and I are leaving early to-morrow for Longtown. If those rascals follow us up and you get a chance to delay them, do so. A loose shoe proved very useful before.”
William Forster, the innkeeper, brought supper, and Wilfred, who was now thoroughly awake, boylike, was not averse to sharing their meal.
“There’s a room prepared for you upstairs,” said Forster. “I suppose your page will be all right on the other settle?”
“Yes, that will do,” answered Ian. “You do not mind, little one,” he whispered softly after the man had gone. “I think it is best.”
“Of course not,” she answered.
After the meal they sat by the fire for a few minutes, and Ian looked across at the two boys, as they seemed. Wilfred was immensely better in health and had entirely lost the half starved look. “He’s certainly a beautiful lad,” Ian mused. “They make as fine a pair of boys as Aline and Audry were girls. I must paint those two, just like that, if ever we get safely through. I wish I could sketch them now.”
When Ian had retired, Wilfred, who was fascinated by his companion, tried to draw her into conversation; but she was very reticent and pleaded that she wanted to go to sleep, which was indeed true.
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“You have a fine master now,” said Wilfred, “even though he is only a carpenter. He doesn’t look like a man to have a page in those rough home-spuns of his. But you are lucky, going round and serving him. I wish I had the chance. I would die for that man.”
“So would I,” said Aline quietly.
“Then I’ll love you, too,” said the boy; “but you are right, we must go to sleep.”
In the morning Wilfred woke early, while it was still quite dark and roused Angus, as Ian named Aline. “Go you and wake your master,” he said.
Aline found Ian and after a meal they took lanthorns out to the stable and prepared to start.
Wilfred helped them and chattered away to Aline, trying in every way to lighten her share of the labours.
While Ian was settling the score Wilfred took Aline aside: “Remember, Angus,” he said, “that we are both willing to die for him; and if ever I am wanted I am ready. He risked his life for me and I can never repay him.”
“Risked his life for you! When? I never heard of it.”
Wilfred looked at her. “Do you mean to say he never told you?”
“No, he is not the kind that would. Oh, I should like to stay and hear all about it! But I must not wait, Master Menstrie will be wanting me.”
“I wish I could tell you everything; but I am so glad that you love him. I am sure that you and I would be great friends,—very great friends; oh, if only I could go with you! But we must say good-bye,” and then Wilfred hesitated, “I am sure I do not know how327 it is,” he said shyly, “I sometimes used to kiss my best friend, Hugh, when there was no one else near; but boys don’t kiss much. However, we two shall never meet again and somehow I want to kiss you.”
He approached her a little awkwardly, there were tears in his eyes, and Aline let him kiss her.
“Good-bye again, Angus, I shall not forget you,” he said.
At that moment Ian returned and they mounted their horses and bade farewell and rode off.
The boy stood in the grey dawn, gazing regretfully after them down the road. Then a thought struck him. He felt puzzled. “Why, I do not believe that was a boy at all,—No, I am sure it was not. It must have been the little lady herself. What a fool I was not to think of it before. But fancy her taking a kiss from the likes of me!”
They had hardly disappeared from sight, when he heard the clatter of hoofs behind him and a body of armed men rode down the street.
“Good morrow, my lad,” said their leader, “you are up betimes.”
Wilfred had decided that it would be best to appear very communicative and then perhaps they would not trouble to ask any one else.
“Yes,” he said, “there have been some silly loons here, who did not know what a good thing bed is on a cold winter morning, routing me up to look after their horses,” and Wilfred half turned on his heel as though he would go back to the house.
“Not so fast, my lad,” said the leader, “who were they, and what were they like?”
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“Oh, there were two of them, a man in homespun and his page, though why he should have a page perplexed me not a little. Do you know who he was, good sirs, I should like to know the meaning of it?”
“That is not your concern, lad; come, can you tell me any more? Was he a big man?”
“No, he was about middle size; but very well built, with deep set grey eyes and a fine face.”
“Humph,” grunted the horseman, “deep set grey eyes, yes; to the devil with the fine face! And what about the other?” he added.
“Oh, he was a pretty slip of a boy.”
“Were they armed?”
“They both had swords and the man had pistols.”
“That’s they, right enough; but one more question—Where did they come from and where are they going?”
“They came from Alston and arrived very tired last night.”
“That settles it, and which way did you say they had gone now?”
“Oh, they set off along the Carlisle road, long before it was light. You don’t want to find them, do you? You’ll never do it if you stand talking here; marry, you’ve got your work cut out for you if you want to catch them.”
“Come along, men,” said their leader.
“They must be pretty well in Carlisle by now,” shouted Wilfred, as they started off. “You will hardly do it.”
“To hell fire with them; but we’ll get them yet”; and the horses thundered down the road.
WILFRED stood and rubbed his hands. “I would give a week’s pay to see them in Carlisle,” he chuckled.
Meanwhile Ian and Aline gently made their way along the road to Longtown without mishap. They saw a small body of troopers once; but the troopers took no notice of them. In the desultory border warfare people went about their business practically unconcerned. Life had to go on and, if they waited till there was no fighting, to all intents and purposes they might, in those districts, wait for ever.
“What are we going to do when we reach Scotland?” Aline asked, when at the last it appeared that immediate danger was passing. “Old Moll does not seem to have been right this time,” she added.
“We cannot say yet, birdeen, there are many perils and difficulties ahead, perhaps greater than we have yet passed. I wish I could shake off the feeling of that woman. It is not that I believe any of her prophecies. Of course they are all nonsense, but she is the very incarnation of the spirit of evil, a continual oppressive reminder of its presence in the world. There is no doubt, too, that she has a snakelike inexplicable influence over people and puts evil suggestion into their330 minds, just as some other people have exactly the opposite power. To talk with Moll rouses one’s worst nature; to talk with some rouses one’s best.” He looked at Aline and thought how wonderful her power was. What was this power, mysteriously possessed by some natures, that almost by their very presence they could change men’s lives;—Aline and Moll might themselves be the warring spirits of good and evil.
“My only object for the moment,” he said aloud, “was to rescue you from your desperate danger. I thought that then we might have time to think out something. There are difficulties indeed; the country is in a very unsettled condition, partly the troubles with England, partly the religious troubles and the difficulty with the regent, Mary of Guise, and France. But our first trouble is,—that I have no money and people with no money always find it hard to live,” and he smiled a rueful smile.
“Neither have I,” said Aline, “at least not to live on. I have two gold pieces with me.”
“Well, you are richer than I am,” he said playfully. “It will help us somewhat, while I find something to set us going. I left a note, too, with Wilfred for Walter Margrove, in case he should come within the next few days, asking him to send Wilfred to Canonbie with a little money at once for our present needs.”
“Wilfred,” said Aline, “is that Will Ackroyd?”
“Yes,” said Ian, “I have a story to tell you about how I met him, but we must leave it for the present. I am very perplexed about this matter of making a livelihood.” He paused a moment and then continued;—
“I might find work as a carpenter, or perhaps there331 will be more call for a smith in these turbulent times. But I cannot think what to do with you. Even if I found some people with whom you could live and worked to keep you, there would be all kinds of questions as to where you came from and all about you?”
“Then why not let me work with you as carpenter’s boy, like Will does for Matthew Musgrave?”
“What! and spoil your beautiful hands. By the way, though,” he added, “what have you been doing to get them in such a shocking condition? I have noticed it all along but my mind has been so full of schemes and plans for our escape, that I have not been able to talk about it.”
Aline told him the story and continued;—“Anyway, carpentry could not be as bad as that.”
Ian was shocked and looked at her thankfully. “I trust we have broken the evil spell,” he said. “But, princess, you are a lady and such very hard work is beyond that to which you have been used.”
“Yes, I hope I am a lady and just because I am a lady it does not matter what I am used to do. I can turn my hand to anything; I do not mind. It is only common people who are afraid of demeaning themselves. I have often noticed”—and then she suddenly stopped:—was not Ian himself one of these “common people,” and was it not unmannerly anyway for a real lady to talk like that?
“Noticed what?” asked Ian.
“Oh, just noticed that it is so,” and by way of changing the subject she went on,—“but there is one thing I should mind;—I should mind having to cut my hair short.”
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Ian sighed: “Yes, you must not do that, little one, we must think of some other plan.”
“But I have quite made up my mind and I am going to cut it,” she said in her most queenly manner. She said it so firmly and cheerfully that even Ian did not realise the struggle that was going on in the little heart.
“Well, princess, if it must be so, it must; but you need not cut it above the shoulders. Many pages wear it down to the shoulders.”
“Pages, yes, but not carpenters’ boys.” At the same time Ian’s words gave her a gleam of comfort. That was not quite so terrible. It would have a good start as soon as she could let it grow again. “Do you think a carpenter’s boy could wear it down to his shoulders?” she asked wistfully.
“Certainly,” said Ian; “it might be a little peculiar, but if we could afford to dress you a little more like a page though you were a carpenter’s boy, I doubt even if any one would notice.”
They had reached Longtown by this time, but Ian decided not to stop if they could get safely over the border. They rode on, therefore, until they met a small patrol near Canonbie but were allowed after a few explanations to pass.
At the little inn they made enquiry as to the news of the day. This was surprising, but to Ian by no means altogether unexpected. The Protestant feeling had been growing and some of the Protestant leaders had met at the house of James Sym in Edinburgh and signed the first covenant, called the “Godlie Band.” They were the Earl of Ergyl; Glencarn,—the good Earl;333 Mortoun; Archibald, Lord of Lorne and John Erskyne of Doun.
26 The spelling of the names is taken from a surviving copy of the covenant.
But what was of immediate interest and importance to Ian was that the Earl of Hawick was at that moment raising forces in the border shires, nominally to fight on the border, but in reality to be ready to support the Protestant cause against Mary of Guise.
27 This is a fictitious title and likewise the border incident, although there were several such affrays in this year.
His headquarters were but a few miles away and Ian wondered whether it was not his duty to throw in his lot with them. His own feelings on the whole were friendly to England and he hated the policy that the regent was pursuing of making Scotland an appendage of France, but if English marauders invaded the border he was quite ready as a true Scot to fight against them, although it was the religious cause that he had more deeply at heart.
“Methinks I ought to join them,” he said. “I have seen a good deal of fighting in my day and I might be useful to the cause.”
“I will go with you,” said Aline.
“Nonsense, child, girls do not fight.”
“Joan of Arc fought and why should not I?” she replied.
“Joan of Arc was older than you and could stand a strain that would be quite beyond you, little one, hardy as you are.”
“But I should go as your page or attendant. Would334 you fight as a trooper or on foot, because that, of course, would make some difference?”
“That would remain to be seen, but in any case it would be absurd for you to be there. But it has given me a new idea, sweet child. They would be glad of my services; and, as they are protestants, they would be only too pleased to look after you in return.”
“But I want to come with you.”
He looked at her sadly; “It is out of the question,” he said.
“Oh, but please let me.”
“No, birdeen, you might be killed.”
“Well, that would not matter. I have no friends or relatives in the world to care for me; it might be the simplest solution of our difficulties, if I died trying to help a good cause.”
“You must not talk like that, Aline; I cannot bear to think of it.”
“But I have made up my mind. I am coming. You might be wounded and I might be just the one to help you and prevent your dying.” She drew herself up as she spoke and Ian knew that further argument was useless.
“In that case we can wait and rest here, in any wise for to-day, the which we both need. I can then go and see the Earl to-morrow and probably we can continue to rest for some days while he is recruiting his forces.”
They retired early. Aline had a little room with a glorious outlook. Oh, how beautiful everything was and how good God had been to her. When she was half undressed she sat down and gazed out of the window.335 So this was dear Scotland again, the land of her birth. For the moment the recollection of “Moll o’ the graves” clouded the prospect, but it passed away. The sombre hills looked kindly in the gloaming. She felt hardly able to contain herself for joy.
It was true that she was about to face new dangers; but that did not trouble her in the least. She would be definitely doing her duty, as she conceived it, fighting for a good cause along with many others; she would no longer be a hunted fugitive merely trying to preserve her own life.
She knelt down and prayed and felt happier than she had done since her father died, happier even than during the best days in the secret room.
So happy was she that she proceeded to cut off her wonderful hair, just below the level of the shoulders, without the slightest twinge of regret. “I wish I had Audry’s long mirror here,” was the only thought that troubled her.
Even this was unexpectedly gratified, for in the morning she was down first and discovered a long mirror in a black oak frame, one of the treasures of the hostel.
As she was looking at herself Ian appeared. The sight cost him a pang. “Oh, child,” he exclaimed, “what have you done?”
“I’ve only made myself into a real boy,” she answered.
Ian bit his lips; he would not have thought that he could have minded so much.
As they were standing there the door suddenly opened and a boy came in.
“Hullo, Wilfred! is that you?”
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“Yes, master, I have brought a letter from Walter Margrove.”
Ian took the letter and went over to the window seat on the far side of the room to read it.
“Wilfred,” thought Aline; “Wilfred”; it had a familiar sound before, when Ian used the name on the road:—and he came from Kirkoswald,—there was too a tale to be told as Ian had said,—and Ian himself had been using an assumed name. Could it by any chance be the boy of little Joan’s sad story?
He held out his hand bashfully, and bent his head. As Aline took it he said;—“I humbly crave your pardon, but I believe now I know who you are.”
Aline blushed and then she said quietly, “You have probably guessed rightly. Whom do you think I am?”
He looked at her for a moment. How could there possibly be any doubt; there could not be two such beautiful people in the world; and he had heard Walter and Andrew, besides Ian, allude to her unparalleled loveliness. “You are Mistress Gillespie,” he said, and bowed awkwardly.
Aline smiled sadly. “Yes,” she said, “I am and I believe I have just discovered who you are. Your name is not really Ackroyd, is it?”
“Yes, Mistress, it is,” he answered.
Aline looked baffled, but he continued,—“However, I have never been known as Ackroyd, as I lived with an Aunt whose name was Johnstone.”
“I thought so,” she replied softly. “Come sit over here, for I have a sorrowful tale for you.”
She took his hand and the boy followed, lost in wonder and admiration.
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“I used to know poor little Joan,” she said very gently.
“Yes, Mistress, I had guessed as much; we heard in Kirkoswald what had happened,” and the boy’s eyes filled with tears. “I know that you did everything for her that could be done and that she loved you.”
Aline felt relieved, as she was spared the worst part of her task. “She often used to speak of you, Wilfred, and before she went away, she gave me her greatest treasures which you had given her long before; and I was to try and return them to you. But, alas, I had to flee from armed men at a moment’s notice in peril of my life and I have them not. But they are safe and one day I will fulfil my charge.”
She held out her hand. “Oh, I am so sorry for you,” she said, “but my words are too feeble to say what I feel.”
The tears were now running freely down the boy’s face, he took her hand in both his and smothered it with kisses. “Oh, Joan, Joan, my little Joan, how can I bear it? How can you really be dead and I alive? Why is the world so cruel? Oh, Joan, if only I could have died for you.”
Aline bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “She told me to give you that,” she said; then, after a pause, she went on;—“I am only a little girl and I do not pretend to understand things, Wilfred. But think, if you had died as you have been wishing, poor little Joan would have been as unhappy as you are now. These things are a mystery and yet somehow I feel that the spirit of light in its own way and its own time must triumph over the spirit of darkness. I have always felt338 that; and now that I have my new faith, I am more sure of it than ever.”
“I do not see how that can be,” said Wilfred, “and yet as you speak I seem to feel better.”
“I do not understand it myself,” said Aline, “but I have been right before.”
Wilfred looked at her. Had this wonderful child with the strange deep dark blue eyes some power that other mortals had not?
“Angus,” said Ian’s voice from the other side of the room, “Walter has sent us some money; he also offers to help us in every way he can, and there are some other items that will interest you about the rumours he heard in Carlisle. They seem to think we rode through Carlisle and went to Penrith or Keswick. I have written a short note to Walter, which Wilfred can take back. Did you come in the night, Will?”
“Yes, I got a lift on an empty wagon going back to Longtown. There was straw in the bottom and I slept all the way.”
“I am afraid I could not sleep in a wagon,” said Ian. “Come and join us at our meal, Wilfred.”
They had their meal and afterwards sat and talked until it was time for Wilfred to return.
After he had gone, Aline and Ian set off to the camp where the Earl of Hawick lay. When they arrived Ian asked if he might see the Earl, as he wished to offer his services.
The sentry looked at him very dubiously and then at Aline, after which he seemed a little more satisfied, as she was better dressed. Finally he called the officers of the guard, who subjected them to a similar scrutiny.
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“I think I can see to your business, my man,” he said.
“Thank you, I have a special message for my lord of Hawick,” said Ian.
Aline started at the tone and looked at Ian: there was a quiet hauteur about it that she had never heard before.
The man seemed to notice it too. “Who is it that wishes to see the Earl?” he said.
“Say, Ian Menstrie, son of Alexander Menstrie; that will do.”
Aline felt a little nervous; as she had never met a real Earl and had something of the child’s imagination about the grandeur of such personages.
The officer returned very quickly, but the change in his manner seemed almost to make him a different man.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing very low, “the Earl of Hawick is coming at once.”
“I said Ian Menstrie, not Alexander Menstrie,” answered Ian, looking a little annoyed.
“Yes, your Grace,” said the Messenger, “I made it quite clear; the Earl of Hawick understands.”
Aline was very puzzled, they seemed to have strange customs of address in the army, but before she had time to think the Earl appeared. She was a little disappointed. Was that an Earl? He was a fair figure of a man, but was neither as handsome as Ian nor had he, she suddenly thought, as she looked at the two men, the dignity of Ian’s carriage.
“I am so glad to see you again, your Grace,” he said, doffing his bonnet and bowing as the officer had done. “You are the very man we want. I shall never forget340 how well you managed on that miserable day at Pinkie Cleugh; and Scotland can never repay you for the rout of Lord Wharton on the Western Marches on that cold February day. It was a sorry remnant that he and Grey took back with them, and it marked the turning of the tide. Our country was indeed at a low ebb then.
“Of course you will share the command with me. I would willingly serve under you, but these are my fellows and they know me; so I shall just follow your advice. On my honour, you shall have all the glory, when it is over; not that you used to care much for that kind of thing, and you were really only a lad then.”
Aline’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Hawick continued,—“I heard the news of the old man’s death about a week ago. It was somewhat of a shock following so soon after your brother’s; but I said, that will bring Ian Menstrie back to us if anything will. I am sure he will throw in his lot with us.”
Aline gasped. Who was Ian then, this carpenter-man, as she had thought him? Even in the earlier days she had never supposed that he could be more than a younger son of one of the lesser lairds.
Ian seemed overcome and very sad. “Well, my Lord, if you must know,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “I am here by accident. I have just had a run for my life, with my young page here, Angus Gillespie. I am looking rather a sorry object, but let that pass. I had not heard of my father’s death, or even of my brother’s. It is a terrible shock.”
“Poor fellow,” said Hawick, “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news and you are looking a sad wreck. You must take as many days’ rest as we can manage.”
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“Before I forget, I want to know if you can let us have a couple of horses; these are not mine and I want to return them to the owner. I also wish to know if you can spare a couple of troopers to take them back to Kirkoswald. They can arrange the matter at Carlisle.”
“Are they English horses?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Fancy returning English horses across the border, when once you have got them here. Well, you always were a strange fellow. Yes, you can have as many troopers as you please, and horses and anything you want.”
Aline was very impatient to have Ian by himself and was glad when he turned to go, after giving a brief account of his imprisonment and the outline of his main adventures, avoiding all details.
The Earl accompanied them to the inn and then took his leave, promising to send Ian an outfit such as more became his station and, at Ian’s special request, everything that under the circumstances could be procured befitting a page of gentle birth.
Aline was pleased to find no one in the hostel. Ian was tired and his wounds hurt him, although Aline had attended to them regularly. He sat down by the fire and sighed.
It was a cold day and Aline crouched at the hearth-stone by his feet. She put her hand on his knee and looked up. Ian’s eyes were full of tears. Aline had never seen anything like this; she stood up, stroking his head with her delicate hand and kissed him on the forehead.
He did not speak, but drew her gently to him. The342 child threw both her arms about his neck and seated herself on his knee. “Oh, I wish I could comfort you,” she said.
It was too much for Ian and two great tears actually rolled down his cheek. “My Father,” was all that he said. Then making an effort, he controlled himself and looked at Aline’s beautiful sympathetic little face. A curious feeling passed through him. He had lost his father; and his father had never been kind to him, and he had gained this child, who was devoted to him. Was this God’s recompense?
He passed his fingers through her short locks. “What have you done with all the glory you cut off?” he said.
“It is upstairs. I plaited it in four plaits.”
“May I have some?” he asked.
“You may have it all if you like.”
“It was a big sacrifice, child-heart,” he said softly, and kissed her.
“May I ask you something,” she said, “even though it does make you sad: but I would rather learn from your own lips? You know you have not told me who you are. Who are you?”
He paused a moment, while he continued gently stroking her hair. “I am now the Duke of Ochil, little one.”
Aline rose from his knee and crouched down on the hearth again. She gazed up at him wonderingly. In after years as she looked back she understood her feelings; but at the time they were a perplexity even to herself. So far from being pleased that he was a duke, she resented it. It seemed to put a barrier between343 them;—his Grace, the Duke of Ochil, could not be the same as her dear friend Ian.
Ian saw the expression on her face and half-guessed its meaning. “It does not please you, heartsease,” he said.
She looked up quickly and then said simply,—“I do not know. It is strange.”
THE days slipped by and when Hawick had mustered two thousand foot and some 300 horse he decided to move northward up Liddisdale. The Duke of Ochil nominally commanded the cavalry, but was really the guiding spirit of the whole.
Angus, that is Aline, acted as Ochil’s page or squire and was soon very highly in favour with all the officers. She was, however, very uncommunicative and kept herself to herself, the which she found much easier, in that there was a reserved hauteur about Ian when dealing with those that were at all his equals, which he never displayed when dealing with inferiors. At the same time every one’s respect for him was very marked and his power over the men was immense. This new aspect of his character interested Aline not a little.
There had been rumours for some time of a gathering for an English raid upon Scotland and early on the morning of the third day after leaving Canonbie, their scouts brought word of the presence of an English force, three thousand strong, that had moved up the Tyne from Bellingham.
Before setting forth, the Duke of Ochil spoke a few words of encouragement to the men. “It may seem,” he said, “that neither on their side nor on ours are345 there enough to make our encounter of great moment, yet is there more in the balance than that of which ye may be in any wise aware. Our country is in the hour of her trial and a little thing may decide the final outcome. On the one hand there is France and on the other hand there is England, both eager to swallow her up. Yet are there greater issues than this,—not only is the freedom of our bodies at stake, but the freedom of our souls and not only of our souls but of those of mankind.
“Our host is small and our deeds may be obscure; yet though fame is not likely to be ours, that which we do this day may well be the foundation of greater things and by our blood we may purchase liberty of conscience throughout the whole world. No deed is ever so small as to be of no account and if we play the coward it may be the small beginning that shall bring upon the nations an avalanche of woe.
“It is for the higher that we strive,—for all that is noblest in man against all that is low. Yea, I know that many of you here, yourselves forget the glory of our destiny, zealous though ye be within your lights. Yet it is the fight of enlightenment against darkness. It is truth and development, love and beauty against all that is narrow and stagnant, false and ugly. And if victory be with us, see how great is the charge upon us that we ourselves do not fall short of our high endeavour.
“I have said that our host is small and our deeds must be small likewise, and yet it is not a little thing that I ask of each individual man. I ask all that ye have, I ask your lives. Nor do I presume to say that346 the Lord is on our side, but I do say that if each do act according to his conscience, while putting aside all prejudice and all bitterness of heart that might narrow that conscience, it is not for us to fear the issue. Yea, as far as our minds may discern, we fight for God and our country.”
So he spoke, and there went up a great shouting, “For God and for our country.”
It was a still cold day and the very air seemed tense with the issues involved. Aline’s heart beat with excitement, yet she was surprised how calm she felt. “Surely I am afeared,” she said, “and yet I am full of gladness and am ready to give my life, as Ian has asked.” She rode upon a grey charger carrying the banner of Ochil which she had hastily made at Canonbie with her own hands;—azure, a fesse between three crescents argent. Ian lacked Aline’s happy disposition, and looked troubled, but his resolution to do or die was no whit less determined.
28 A blue field divided horizontally by a broad silver band; two silver crescents above and one below.
The English cavalry were, as usual, immensely superior in numbers, and while the Scots forces were forming their line, they hoped to press the advantage by a charge, which at the same time should cover the advance of their own infantry deploying out of the valley.
The Scots were in two ranks, with the reserves below the crest of the hill, every front man, the butt of his pike against his right foot and the point breast high, the while those behind crossed their pike points with those forward. Ian held his horsemen back on the right flank, while the bowmen were on the left.
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The enemy charged swiftly over the haugh, their gay pennons a-flutter on their lances, a brave sight to see. And as they came they shouted;—“Down with the heretics; come on, ye coward loons.”
“For God and our country,” the Scots replied, as the wave of Southrons hurled itself upon the bristling pikes, only to break and scatter as many a man of that goodly host met his doom.
Ian taking them at a disadvantage led the Scots’ horse in a counter-charge and menacingly they thundered over the plain, so that despite his smaller force he drove them behind their own lines and numbers more of the English bit the dust and among them the Lord of Almouth, their leader, a noble and brave youth who received a lance thrust in his side and fell to earth gripping the soil with both his hands in the agony of death. And many a gay Scots gallant lay on the ground between the hosts and the corbies gathered in the air watching for their time to come.
Then for a while the battle fell to those on foot and furiously they fought and many doughty deeds were done on either side that day. But terrible was the slaughter, as neither party would yield the advantage to the other; and the shouting of the fighters mingled with cries of the wounded, and ever and anon there boomed the roar of the artillery in the which the English had the better of the Scots.
The fight was stubborn and Aline’s mood, at first all eager, now gave place to one of dread, the light began to fail and a voice within the air seemed to whisper, “Whensoever the day goes down, the spirits of darkness will gather for your destruction and then it will348 be too late.” She even thought she saw “Old Moll” stalking through the battle-field and gloating over the slain.
The battle wavered from side to side and at length it seemed for the Scots as though all were lost. They had sadly given way and at the direst moment of their need the Earl of Sanquhar, a man of great valour and a tower of strength, was shot by an English archer and the arrow went in at his throat and pierced right through his neck and he fell forward speechless and the dark mist clouded his eyes. Then the Scots wavered and fell back still more and the end seemed come and had it not been for the Earl of Hawick himself, they would have been utterly worsted. He rushed into the fray and heartened the wavering host and they made a great onset and the battle stayed not.
Yet did the cannon of the English work sore havoc in the Scottish ranks, whensoever they were not in close combat, and the Duke of Ochil came to the Earl and said; “My Lord of Hawick, I will endeavour to capture them and we may even turn them on our foes.”
He spoke and Aline followed hard after, and he led his men behind the hill to the other flank and then made as he would charge the footmen on the English right. But, as he came near to them, he swerved and, passing round, he advanced to the mouths of the guns, and left and right his men fell on either hand and their souls fled from them; but Aline rode safely at his side.
And they came right over against the gunners and one of them did shout lustily and swing his rod over349 the Duke and would have felled him to the earth had not Aline driven the point of her long sword through his mouth even as he shouted, and he fell backward and was trampled under foot, while the rod fell harmlessly upon the saddle bow, and the rest turned to flee but were cut down and not a man of them escaped.
“Thou art indeed the good angel of my destiny,” said Ian; but he spake not more at that time, as the fight was heavy upon him.
Then were the English guns turned upon the English host and fear got hold of them, brave men though they were, for that they were taken behind and before; and as they shook and hesitated the Duke with the two hundred that were left to him charged toward them from the rear. And Aline went ever at his side.
But the English horse made haste to come at him from far on their own right, and take him in flank, or ever he closed with those on foot. And as the English foot turned, some this way toward the Scottish horse, and some that way toward the Scottish foot, a mighty shout arose in the Scottish ranks as they closed with the English; “Now are they delivered into our hands,” and they waxed ever more terrible till confusion fell upon the men of England and the half of them broke and fled and thus hindered the more part of their own horsemen from coming at the Duke.
So he fell upon the other half and victory came on a sudden into his hands; for all the English were now in flight and the left wing of their horse that would have taken the Duke in flank fled also.
And as he thanked God for his triumph he looked350 back and his heart failed him, and he shuddered and his breath stood still, for Aline was no longer to be seen, in that the grey horse had gone down at the last.
As he gazed his head swam and darkness came over him. Victory was his, but Aline was lost. He calmed himself and held his spirit in check and even as the wind races over the hills, his thoughts passed through him. “The enemy is scattering on every side. My work for my country is done and therefore may I now turn to that which concerneth my own life.”
There was not a moment to be let slip, the remnant of the right wing of the foemen’s horse was still unbroken, and although too late now to effect their purpose, yet, if so be that Aline were still alive, they would pass over the very ground where she must be lying or ever a man might run thither, however swiftly he sped.
He swung round and galloped apace, and there, dead upon the earth, was the grey horse, and by it, on the side next the foe, lay stretched the fair slim page still clutching the banner with the silver fesse.
“Surely it will be my own death,” he said, as the horsemen bore down upon him. For an instant the thought unnerved him, but natheless he was at her side. “What matter,” he cried, “the day is won, my work is done, and, Aline dead, of what avail is life to me?”
He leaped from his horse. It was too late; even now they were upon him; he might not lift her to the saddle and bear her away.
“Can I not break the tide with a barrier of slain steeds?” he said. Then swift as the lightning flashes in the heavens, with his right arm he swung her over her own dead horse, while with his left he raised a fallen351 pike. He leaped back and kneeled before the horse, gripping the pike full firmly, whose butt rested on the ground, while with his right hand he drew forth a pistol from his holster.
On they came, they towered into the sky, the air was filled with their shouting and the thunder of their hoofs. A single man! They heeded him not.
He fired, and the horse that would have trampled him fell low. Neck and croup over it rolled upon the ground and the horse behind, that strove to leap above it, received the pike in its heart, while Ian narrowly avoided destruction under the falling mass.
Then as a stream meets a boulder in its course and straightway divides on either hand, so passed the warriors on the left and right.
The rider of the first fallen horse lay in the throes of death, but the second rushed upon him with his sword so that the Duke had but scant time to draw and defend himself, and the sword cleft the Duke’s helm and the wound was deep.
Yet it was no long time they fought, for with swift skill the Duke drove his sword throughout his body and he fell with a loud cry to the ground, stretching his arms to heaven, and Ian drew out the steel and with the blood the life rushed forth and black night covered his eyes.
But Ian, even as he did so, turned to where Aline lay, her face all white amid the ruddy gold. He leaned above her. She was not dead, nor even sorely hurt, but stunned and dazed and cut about and bruised.
He raised her with great tenderness and bore her from the scene of carnage just as the evening fell. A352 cold breath blew upon his face and he fancied he heard a voice that hissed—“Woe’s me, we are foiled; it is on us the blow has fallen, even ere the darkness came. Too late, too late.” At that moment the sun sank and the light vanished behind the hills. The rout was now complete. Here and there a few individuals made stand against their pursuers, while little groups of wounded men were crying for succour. The haugh was littered with so many corpses of those who had gone forth that morning in the healthful beauty of their youth, that it was a sight most grievous to behold. Ian stumbled with his burden. He himself had been twice sadly wounded again. Whither should he go? There were no houses in sight.
He remembered, however, that the house of the Laird of Dalwhinnie was only about two miles away. There was nowhere else to go, but both the new wounds and the old were exceeding sore and it was with great difficulty that he carried her.
He bore her to the foot of the hill and summoned four troopers, and with their assistance mounted a horse. He would not let any one else touch the child and, accompanied by the troopers, he rode to the house.
The laird was not a protestant, but Ian was graciously received and offer was made to accommodate as many of the wounded as possible.
“You had liever pay special attention to those poor English varlets,” said Ian. “There will be few to give them heed.”
The Lady smiled a sad smile and led the way to a beautifully appointed room. “Your Grace has a wondrous353 fair child with you,” she said. “I marvel not at your care for him. Is he sore hurt?”
“I trust not,” said Ian, as he laid Aline gently down. He dared not let any one help him, lest Aline’s secret should be discovered; so he dressed her wounds himself and put her to bed.
AFTER the battle the Earl of Hawick disbanded the greater part of his forces, retaining but a small nucleus in case it should be necessary to bring military aid to the party of Argyle and Glencairn in support of their covenant against the regent. With this small force he moved northward. The Duke was far too sore hurt to travel and neither he nor Aline were able to move for some time.
As soon, however, as they could sit a horse they set out for the Castle of Menstrie, where they arrived in due course and were most warmly welcomed by the Duchess of Ochil and her daughter Shiona, who had been anxiously awaiting Ian’s return after they first received news of his arrival in Scotland.
His mother was overjoyed to see him and he briefly told her the story of the child. When he had finished she kissed Aline and said, “You poor sweet thing, now at last you have reached a haven of rest and you must count me as your mother as far as I can be one.”
Aline had not before felt shy of her boy’s clothes, but the gentle courteous lady made her long for her own things and she blushingly began to apologise.
“You need not distress yourself, dear child,” said the Duchess; “we can soon remedy that. Indeed you look very pretty and you make so graceful a page that355 you need not regret your present garb,” she added kindly and stooped and kissed her again. “We shall just make you one of ourselves and you have only to tell us what you want. For the present we can send over to Stirling and get everything that you absolutely need this very day.”
In the evening, as they were all sitting by the fire, the Lady of Ochil leaned over and, taking Ian’s hand, said: “I have some sad news for you, my boy. You know that the estate was very sadly impoverished when your father succeeded. But he has been extravagant and your eldest brother was the same, and always borrowing from him. Worst of all, your brothers induced your father to make over to them during his lifetime, all the estates that he could. The regent, too, has already shown her hostility on your succession. It is a very long story; but you will have little but the title and the small original estates round the Castle. Even those are so burdened that I doubt whether we can continue to live here.”
“Do not mind, Mother, about me. I never expected anything, and so I shall not miss it; it is for you that I am sorry. You will feel the change so much.”
“No, my son. I am so glad to get you back that I mind nothing.”
Aline rose from where she was and sat down again on the floor at Ian’s feet. “I am so sorry for you,” she said, and once more she had that curious kind of feeling that she had noticed before. She was very sorry for Ian; but was she altogether sorry for the fact in itself? Did it not in some way bring them closer together?
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Ian’s sister, Shiona, had always worshipped her second brother; he was unto her as a god, and as she watched Aline it rather amused her to see, as it were, herself, over again, in the way that the child continually hovered round him. She was the youngest of the family, and now a tall slim girl of seventeen. She felt curiously shy of Ian, as she had not seen him for several years. He still looked very young; but he was now the head of the house in her father’s place.
She soon fell under Aline’s spell and the two girls became fast friends. Except in appearance and physique Aline was much in advance of her age; and her recent experiences had matured her view of life. The girls occupied the same room and were continually together when they could not be with Ian. Ian sometimes felt even a little touch of envy; he had come to regard Aline almost as though she specially belonged to him.
It was a time of considerable trouble and anxiety, both in public and private affairs, yet it was a very happy household in spite of all their troubles and difficulties. Ian was very slow in recovering his strength. Excitement had carried him through, but the collapse was all the more severe when it came. For two months he could move but little; however, he gradually began to be able to take short strolls out of doors.
Even before this he had set his mind to see what could be done to save the remnant of the estates. Rigid economy had to be practised, for he was determined that property that had been in the family for hundreds of years should not go if possible. Unfortunately only a small portion, even of the fragment, happened to be357 protected by entail. Consequently he found it necessary to reduce the fragment still further by selling two estates that had been acquired by his grandfather. They were so heavily burdened that the margin was very small, but it enabled him to prevent the foreclosure of his most pressing creditors. All the retainers and servants were dismissed except one serving man and a maid, the horses were sold and the castle was all shut up except the hall, the library and a few bedrooms. The arras, the plate and everything of value except the heirlooms were sold. The only thing Ian retained was a famous sword, given to him by the Regent Arran for his services against the Lords Wharton and Grey. It was of immense value, magnificently jewelled. He took it out and looked at it. No, he could not part with that. It was too full of association and interest.
The household arrangements were simplified to the barest necessities. The girls did the housework and Ian himself, when necessary, assisted the serving man. He wore the simplest homespun and his sister dressed as plainly as possible. Ian refused to allow his mother to wear the things that the rest of them did, because, he said, they all had the future before them in a way that she had not.
She smiled and kissed him, and assured him that she would be quite happy whatever she wore, as she had her dear son back again, and she chaffingly impressed upon him that it was still long before she would be an old lady.
Aline absolutely insisted on wearing things that even Mistress Mowbray would not have provided, both gowns358 and body linen. But they were beautifully made by Shiona and herself, and although the material was coarse, the general effect was always charming. She succeeded in getting some frieze in excellent shades of green and brown, that made most pleasing colour combinations with the brownish white of the full sleeves and skirt of her coarse dowlas chemise, and the rich red of her glorious hair.
The result of the new Duke’s efforts was that he gained the respect of every one; and two of his largest creditors came to him one day and not only said that they would not press for payment, but offered to lend him more at a much lower rate of interest. This offer he accepted and paid off a number of smaller creditors, who lived at a distance and did not know what was going on.
After a few months he brought things into such a condition that, though he saw no prospect of being anything but poor all his life, he hoped to leave the property in a fairly sound condition when he died.
There was one little extravagance that he had determined to allow himself. Aline’s thirteenth birthday took place in April and he resolved that she should have the happiest day of her life, if human means could accomplish it. He pondered for a long time how it was to be done; because he regarded the property rather as a trust than in any way his own. At last he bethought him of the sword. That at least was his own. It was, it was true, his most cherished possession; but he would part with it. He took it out one evening and fingered it fondly. Truly it was beautiful and the only relic of his early youth. Other things might be replaced, but that could not. Moreover it would be a359 joy forever, whereas a day’s pleasure was soon gone by. “’Sdeath. How could he think such things?” He hated himself. So he resolutely shut the case and turned the key. “What was a sword compared with Aline’s happiness?”
He had to take his sister into his confidence, as he wanted Aline to have a complete outfit for the occasion, and this Shiona was to arrange unknown to her. Ian took the sword to a goldsmith in Stirling, but the man did not like to take it, the sword was so well known and considered as one of the local marvels. At last he persuaded Ian to let him lend him the value of the sword, allowing a year in which it could be redeemed. Ian gave the man a few commissions to execute for the great occasion and departed.
Everything was planned with all secrecy and Aline was not told about it till two days before, when a number of persons arrived to put the old place into order. The old rooms were thrown open and cleaned, the arras, that had been sold, was temporarily replaced by other fine specimens. Sconces with hundreds of candles were brought and the floor and the furniture and the metalwork was polished till all shone like a mirror. The old heirlooms, including the magnificent nef and other gold and silver plate, which Ian could not sell, but which had been put away, were brought out.
29 A gold or silver centre piece for the table made in the shape of a ship.
The beautiful old castle had never looked finer. Serving men and maids, pleasantly attired, were everywhere at hand. There was a new costume for every one. Ian’s was of very simple material, but he looked wonderfully360 handsome when he met Aline on the morning of the great day.
“I have a very nice present for your birthday, princess,” he said, stroking her hair, “but it will be rather a shock at the same time, so you must prepare yourself for it. I have been thinking that you need a lady’s maid,” he went on, laughing, “and I have succeeded in finding you one.”
“Marry, I need no lady’s maid,” she replied, somewhat puzzled at the twinkle in his eye, “and you must not think of such a thing. I prefer to look after myself. I am not a grand lady and, even if I were, I would rather not have one. I am sure I should not like her.”
“I am sure you would,” said Ian, “and in any wise you must try and like her, because I insist.”
“You must not tease me, your Grace, I really do not want one.”
“I will not be called ‘your Grace,’ pussie,” he said, gently pulling her hair.
“Well, if you get me a lady’s maid, I shall call you ‘your Grace’ and then we shall all be grand together.”
“But I have gotten her already. I heard of her in a curious way in a letter from Walter Margrove, but I kept it as a surprise until I could get hold of her.”
“Oh, but really, Ian, I do not want her,” Aline protested. “I should hate her. Yes, by my troth, I should,” and she looked genuinely distressed.
“You would not hate this one,” he replied a little sadly; “it is some one that you know. But I must not tease you.”
“Do you mean Audry?” she asked doubtfully.
“That would not be a shock, sweet child. No,—here361 she is.” He then beckoned to some one out of sight through the open door; and a slim girl of nearly twelve came shyly forward and stood hesitatingly on the threshold.
Aline gave a little startled glance and then looked at Ian, who smiled reassuringly. “O Joan,” she cried, “they told me you were dead.”
“I was very ill,” said the child, louting low, “but I was not dead, Mistress Aline; it was the little girl that came from Barnard Castle, who died, whom Mistress Ellen Allen had sent to Durham from Teesdale too, much in the same manner that you sent me.”
“But how did the mistake happen, Joan, and why did you not let me know?”
“The woman that was looking after me died, and I was taken to Newcastle. I was ill, oh, so ill for a long time and I knew nothing about it, and when I heard, I could not for long enough get any one to write for me and then, at last, I was told that you had disappeared. When Walter Margrove heard about it he looked me up in Newcastle and then, some time after, he told me that I was to go into service with the Right Honourable Sir Ian Menstrie, Knight of the Most Noble Order of St. Michael, Lord Duke of Ochil and Earl of Strath Allan, and I was so frightened.”
Ian could not control himself and the child had to pause while he laughed. “Whoever put all that into your head? Never mind, you can forget it,—just go on.”
“It was Walter Margrove, your Grace, and he told me not to be afeared, as I should find some one that I knew. But it was not till I came here last night that I knew who it was and, oh, Mistress Aline, I heard what you362 were saying just now and you will not hate me really, will you?”
“No, Joan, no, I will never hate you and indeed I am so glad to see you looking so much better”; and Aline flung her arms round the child’s neck and kissed her, while tears of joy stood in her eyes.
For a time the children forgot everything but themselves and Ian stood and watched them in their perfect happiness. Aline was very much taller than Joan and in contrast with the frail delicate child looked like a goddess of strength. Joan clung to her in ecstatic abandon and gazed into those wonderful ultramarine blue eyes as though they were the windows of heaven. “I never knew before what it was,” she said, “to be perfectly happy. Mistress Aline, I think the old folk at Holwick were right. You cannot be a child of ordinary flesh and blood like the rest of us.”
“Hush, Joan, you must not talk like that, and I told you long ago that you must not call me Mistress Aline. But, oh, I am so glad to get you back; you cannot tell how glad.”
Ian was just going to steal away and leave them to their joy, it was so pure, so unalloyed, when Aline suddenly bethought herself of him and leaving little Joan she rushed forward, seized his hand with both her own and pressed it to her lips. “It was you who thought out all this; oh, you are good to me.”
She lifted up her face and he printed a kiss on her forehead. “No, princess; you remember my quotation from Homer. It is you that are good to me. I owe you everything—I do not mean mere physical life—that is nothing—nothing.”
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The guests were to arrive at what a later age would have deemed the very early hour of eleven o’clock, so after breakfast Ian suggested that Aline should go upstairs and get ready.
“But I am ready,” she said.
“You cannot appear like that,” said Ian. “You must get Shiona to tidy you up,” he said with assumed severity.
“But I have nothing better than this,” she answered, just a little wistfully.
“Oh, yes, Shiona has some kind of a thing that will look better for to-day. Run along with her and take Joan; it can be an apprentice lesson for her.”
When Aline reached her room she was lost in amazement at the things that had been prepared for her and was charmed with them all. Shiona helped her to dress and Joan folded up the things she took off and put them away.
The linen was of the very finest quality that French looms could produce, smoother to the touch than anything she had ever worn, and adorned with bands of tela tirata. There was a pair of the fine silk hose that had recently been introduced into Britain, of a beautiful blue, somewhat lighter than those she had lost, and with white clocks. The broad toed shoes were of white kid, with blue satin showing through the slashes, and a large real sapphire set in silver on each shoe.
The camise was of soft white silk rather full, smocked at the throat and reaching below the knees, with two bands of lace insertion of the finest Italian punto a reticella near the hem. Above this Shiona put on the armless surcoat, which was low at the neck and short,364 showing the white camise both above and below as well as the arms, which were full at the shoulder but tighter toward the wrist. This was decorated round the open sides with orphreys or borders of cloth-of-silver embroidered with white heather, the badge of the Menstries, in which the little white blooms were real pearls.
The cloak was of rich blue velvet with two exquisitely designed diamond clasps and tasselled cords of white silk, the whole lined with white satin and adorned with a short cape and border of miniver. In the two lower corners and again near the clasps, it was delicately embroidered with coloured silk and gold and silver thread, after the fashion of old Scandinavian work. A belt of large rectangular silver plates, each with its own sculptured design, and a chatelaine of gold completed the costume. It was a little old-fashioned in style, but Ian preferred the lines of the earlier date to those that were coming into vogue.
Aline was so overwhelmed with delight that she did not at first pause to reflect; but after a time she suddenly exclaimed horror-struck; “Shiona, what are you doing; you know that I have not the right to wear any of these things, except perhaps the chemise? My father was a gentleman so I may wear white silk, and I might have had black velvet, but not blue. No one below a Knight of the Garter or the highest orders may wear blue velvet. I do not know even whether I may wear the chatelaine. I doubt if father had two hundred merks of land and of course I cannot wear cloth of silver or gold, no one less than barons can wear that; and as for miniver, I do not even know if barons may wear it: I believe I should have to be a countess, and365 I know for certain that diamonds and pearls are reserved for dukes and duchesses. So I shall have to take everything off and just wear my old things and the silk chemise”; and she gave a little sigh.
“It is all right, dear; we thought of that. Ian says that you are his ward now and that therefore they could not object to you wearing anything that I may wear, and I may wear anything I like except purple, which is reserved for the blood royal.”
To reach such a height of unimagined grandeur almost took Aline’s breath away. “By my troth this is a wonderful birthday,” she said, and little Joan looked on in sympathetic wonder, secretly pleased at being associated with any one so exalted. But her cup was filled to overflowing when she found that Ian had provided her with a costume of silk and fine red camlet trimmed with black velvet, besides a small gold chain, which things he said she was entitled to wear as a lady in waiting in his household.
Shiona was giving a few last attentions to Aline’s hair and adding the finishing touch, a blue velvet fillet decorated with five large crystals and three pearls;—“What wonderful hair you have, dear!” she said.
Aline had always refrained from any allusion to her hair and even turned the subject aside; but it had grown so phenomenally that she was feeling happier about it and she cried gaily;—“Oh, that’s nothing,” and darted away to Ian’s room, where she happened to find him.
Aline’s beauty was proverbial, but she looked more dazzling than ever. Ian caught her in his arms and kissed her. “You are the loveliest thing on earth,” he said.
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“Nonsense,” answered Aline, “but I want to show Shiona the hair that was cut off.”
Ian took it from its hiding place, handling it lovingly and gave it her. “Come back,” he said, “I have something else for you.”
She took the hair and with innocent joy showed it to Shiona, who was lost in astonishment. She then returned with it to Ian.
He carefully put it away and then said; “Shiona has dressed you, but I want to do the very last bit myself.” He then opened his hand and in it lay a light chain with a subtly designed pendant of which the dominant feature was a brilliant mass of red, one gigantic ruby, which Ian had taken from the pommel of his sword.
He clasped it round her neck and it just fell on the white silk. “One touch of red in the blue and white,” he said, “but after all, it’s not as fine a red as your lips, heartsease,” and he kissed them.
The stone was obviously of immense value and Aline tiptoed hesitatingly backward till she came to the wall. There on tiptoe she stood, with the palms of her hands flat against the wall and her chin slightly lifted till the back of her head also touched.
She was a little dazed. At first the beautiful things had been a sheer joy. Even the momentary cloud of the “sumptuary laws” had been swiftly dispelled; but now the thought suddenly overcame her;—“How could Ian afford it?” She noticed the plain simplicity of his own attire and her quick intuition told her the truth.
“Ian, Ian,” she cried, “you should not give me all367 these things. What have you done?—How did you do it?—You have parted with something you should not.”
She did not move and looked very tall in the becoming costume, standing with her heels raised high from the ground.
Suddenly Ian realised that she would soon be a child no longer, and then he would lose her. It came like a knife. He had not admitted even to himself how much she was to him; but his love for her had gradually absorbed his whole being. It was the greatest shock he had ever experienced in his life. He stepped forward and picked her up in his strong arms and kissed her passionately. “It was my sword, heart of mine,” he said, “but there is nothing in the world that I would not wish you to have.”
Aline endeavoured to protest, but he laughingly put his hand over her mouth and led her down-stairs.
There was a large concourse of guests and the dinner was quite a sumptuous ceremony, with a great boar’s head brought in with much solemnity. Ian and his mother sat in the middle of the high table and Aline had the seat of honour on his right.
When dinner was over they strolled in the pleasaunce and afterwards came in and played games such as hot cockles, and hunt the slipper, in which every one, both old and young, took part. Then followed the dancing. If the guests had been charmed before by Aline’s beauty, now they were enthralled. Aline and the Duke led off with a stately pavan and all watched with rapt interest the slow dreamy movements, that displayed to perfection the exquisite loveliness of the child’s form. Ian368 had learned dancing in Italy and France and was a consummate exponent of the art, so that the two made a picture the like of which had never been seen in broad Scotland. After the pavan they danced the cinque paces, a new dance not long introduced from Italy, which in turn was succeeded by the lively coranto, that gave a new opportunity for Aline to reveal her light and agile grace, vying in its airy swiftness with the beauty of the more studied movements of the slower dance. Ian’s costume was of a blue somewhat deeper in tone than Aline’s, with white hose and other touches of white as in hers; and the result made a pleasing colour effect as they whirled together in the dance.
But it was not only by her appearance, but by her subtle charm of manner that the child fascinated every one present. They had heard the main facts of her sad story and each and all did their utmost to give her pleasure. At the close of the evening they held a mock coronation ceremony, in which Aline was crowned with a plain gold circlet and then, while seated on the throne, every guest was presented to the Queen of the evening and they all kneeled and kissed her hand,—barons, earls, countesses and every one present.
Aline could not help a smile when the Earl of Hawick, who was present, kneeled before her. This was the man that only a few months ago she had been nervous to see and now he was humbly kneeling and kissing her hand.
It had been a supremely happy day for Aline, and her only regret was that Audry had not been able to share it. Even this was modified by a curious coincidence, after the guests had gone. They had all left369 early, as most of them had ridden from long distances and even those who were putting up in Stirling had some way to go.
After the last guest had departed, and while the family were seated round the hearth, the castle bell rang and they heard the drawbridge being lowered. Their own serving man appeared shortly afterward. “My lord, a man named Walter Margrove, who hath a boy with him, hath arrived and saith that he wisheth to see you on a matter of private concern.”
“Shew him up,” said Ian.
Walter Margrove came in somewhat hesitatingly, accompanied by a still more nervous lad. Aline in her white and blue costume rushed forward to greet them; whereat Walter was quite taken aback and Wilfred, for it was he, nearly turned tail and fled.
Ian advanced and shook their hands and presented them to the Duchess and the Lady Shiona. “If you had arrived a few minutes ago,” he said, “you should have been presented to the Queen’s Grace. Get on your throne again, Your Highness,” he said to Aline, and then with much laughter they made Walter and Wilfred kneel and kiss her hand.
Walter had recently been in Holwick and had decided that he might vary his programme by a tour in Scotland, and make it an opportunity of seeing Ian and Aline and little Joan, and of taking them the news from Upper Teesdale, together with a letter from Audry. The venture had proved a great success and Walter was in an unusually contented frame of mind, even for him.
“Sit down, man,” said Ian, “and tell us everything370 about Holwick. We should much like to know all that befell after we escaped.”
“Oh, but tarry a little, Ian,” said Aline; “there is something that must be done first. You tell Walter what we have been doing, while I talk awhile with Wilfred. Wilfred, come hither,” she continued, leading the way to one of the double seated windows.
“I am so glad to see you again, Wilfred,” she said, when they had sat down, “and you are looking well.”
“Yes, Mistress Aline, and I am glad to see you, and, oh, Mistress, you are looking bonnie in those brave things,” he added in a burst of boyish admiration, and then subsided overcome by shyness for having said too much.
“Wilfred,” she said, “you recall the last time that we met and what we spake about?”
“I do, indeed, and I shall not forget your sympathy.”
“Do you remember my saying that I thought the spirit of light must in its own time triumph over the spirit of darkness? I did not know at the time what moved me to say it. I only meant it in a general way, and yet I had a strange presentiment that it had some special meaning for you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Wilfred, what was the sad news that you heard at Kirkoswald? Tell me.”
“They told us that little Joan had gone to Durham and died there.”
“Yes, but did you hear it from any one who really knew Joan?”
“No, Mistress, it was from a man who had been over to Holwick.”
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“Then how do you know it was true?”
“Oh, Mistress Aline, Mistress Aline,” said the boy, “do you think it might be untrue?”
“I know it was untrue,” she said gently.
For the moment the boy was too overcome to speak. His heart beat violently, his eyes grew round and large. “Oh, tell me, tell me,” he besought.
“I promised that I would bring you back the things you gave to Joan. I cannot do that yet; so I am going to bring you Joan herself. She is here in this place.”
“Here in this place!” he repeated as Aline rose and went to fetch the little girl.
She was back in a minute or two and the boy was still seated in the same attitude, dumbfounded.
“Here she is, Wilfred,” she said, leading Joan forward by the hand.
The boy looked from one to the other too bewildered to know what to do. Oh, how lovely Joan looked in her red costume guarded with black velvet and the white linen chemise showing below her throat and beneath the velvet hem. But he was too bashful to advance.
Joan, however, was equal to the occasion. “Well, Wilfred, are you not going to speak to me?” and she stepped forward and threw her arms round his neck.
Aline withdrew and left the two children in the window seat, whence they emerged a few minutes afterwards and timidly drew near the group round the fire.
“Now tell us all about Holwick, Walter,” said Aline, making a place for the two children.
“Yes,” said Ian, “why were they so slow in pursuit?”
“Mistress Mowbray would not let them have the372 horses from the Hall and the folk broke the girths and bridles of their own horses, and finally they had to get fresh horses in Middleton. The excitement was tremendous; but the strangest thing to the most part of us was the behaviour of Mistress Mowbray. She seemed to be greatly concerned and wrung her hands and said, ‘By my Lady, I trust the child hath escaped,’ and, later in the day, Elspeth told me that she met Thomas in the lower quadrangle and he, knowing the hatred that Mistress Mowbray had toward you, must needs cry unto her. ‘Methinks those fresh horses from Middleton will soon bring the jade back,’ and she grew purple in the face and said to him that, if they did, she would see whether it were too late to lodge him in gaol because of the corn he had taken along with Andrew. I saw Thomas when I was there last. He is an ill creature, and he much misliked it when it was clear that Mistress Aline was safely away. Yet is he but a white livered knave. Father Ambrose rouseth my ire more than he.”
“But you spake of Mistress Mowbray,” said Ian.
“Yes, the first thing that she did was to send over to Appleby that very night for Mistress Audry, who came the next morning. Elspeth said that the proud woman wept on her neck, so that it were pity to see. I would not have been in the place of Father Martin or Father Austin if they had fallen into her power. For days she made the household tremble under the weight of her authority.
“The next day Master Richard came back looking like a broken man. He said he had tried everything but could do nothing. As the time passed on, and it373 gradually became clear that the pursuit had failed, he recovered himself.
“Luckily for Mistress Audry no one thought of questioning her as she had been away so long; but every one was marvelling who it could possibly have been that had dropped on a sudden from heaven.
“Then news began to leak through. First they heard that two of the pursuers had been buried at Haltwhistle. Then came the news of the night that you spent at Brampton. Wilfred Ackroyd was found and stuck to his tale that you had gone to Carlisle, but they found nothing there.”
“Oh, Wilfred!” said Aline.
“I cannot help it,” he said, “I did laugh when I saw them galloping off the wrong way.”
“Timothy held his peace,” continued Walter, “and no one seemed to connect the drowned prisoner in the Eden with Mistress Aline. Indeed I doubt if the tale of your drowning ever reached Holwick, your Grace. The priests went south and Master Mowbray failed to track them, at any rate at first. I believe he did eventually get into communication, but they refused to say anything.
“It seemed pretty clear that Mistress Aline had escaped but who was her saviour has remained to this day an insoluble mystery.”
“Then they guessed nothing from your letter, Ian?” said Aline.
“No,” said Walter. “When I was there your note, that you sent in a round about way through Master Eustace Cleveland, had just arrived. They were overjoyed to hear of the child’s safety and after much discussion374 came to the conclusion that Cleveland himself had something to do with it in spite of his denial. ‘Marry,’ said Mistress Mowbray, ‘I saw the way he was taken with the child.’ ‘So was every one except yourself, woman,’ said Master Richard, ‘that proves nothing.’ Mistress Mowbray mumbled something about not taking up with every new face, like some people, and Master Richard did not press the point.”
“Who told you that?” asked Aline.
“Mistress Audry, and she says that since the first few days, when her anger had passed, her mother has been much gentler than was her wont to every one. She has had your little garden carefully wrought over. ‘Mistress Aline might come back,’ she says. She is much changed.
“Master Richard believes that Mistress Aline is somewhere in hiding in Teesdale, but he has forbidden enquiry to be made, as he thinks, under the circumstances, it is safer, in the event of any attempt on the part of the authorities to find her, that they can all honestly say they know nothing. I believe that he personally thinks Master Gower knows more than Master Cleveland.”
“Now let me read Audry’s letter,” said Aline. This was a matter of some difficulty, as Audry was barely able to write; but the evident trouble, that the letter had been, made it a dearer token of affection. Aline made it out as follows:
“To my dearest and most beloved cousin Aline Gillespie,
“Thou canst not think how fain I was to get thy dear letter. Walter will tell thee the most part of the news, but I must with mine own hand tell thee how overjoyed I was to know of a surety of thy safety. When Mother sent for me and I came home I was heartbroken. I used to sleep in thy bed and kiss375 the things that thou hadst worn and cry myself to sleep. But gradually it seemed clear that thou hadst escaped and I offered up many prayers of thankfulness as shall I again and again this night.
“I have one item of good news. Dost remember the linen that Mother found in our room. It was then lying with the wrappings and cord with which it came. She took them all down and must herself have put the wrappings on that little dark shelf near her linen chest. I recognised them one day by the colour of the cord, and I took them down, and lo, within, there was the little book. I have put it in its own secret place in the lock in the library. I am sure this will glad thine heart. Someday I trust thou wilt be able to read the rest to me. Thou wilt indeed be the grand lady now;—to think of thee living in a great castle with a real Duke! May God be with thee.
“From Audry Mowbray.”
After Aline had read the letter they told Walter the true state of affairs and how he had happened to come on the only festal day that they had had.
It was arranged that Walter and Wilfred should put up for the night. There certainly was ample room for the horses in the empty stables. The Duchess was tired and went to bed early and was soon followed by Shiona, so that Ian and Aline were left by themselves.
They sat quietly for a long time, Ian gazing silently at Aline, idly sketching her shifting poses on the easel that happened to be standing near; but he was not conscious of what he was doing; his thoughts were far away as they wandered over the strange circumstances of his career. Aline was more like her mother than ever, although still more surpassingly beautiful. He was quite sure about it now. It was undoubtedly Aline’s mother that he had loved with that wild boy-love when he was but thirteen, and now Aline would soon be a woman herself! “Who was there,” he wondered, “who376 would be worthy of such a treasure? In any case it could not be very long now before some one claimed her. His own mother was married at fifteen, so was the Lady Jane Grey, whom Aline in some ways resembled.” He sighed sadly.
“Are you not happy, Ian? I am so happy to-night,” said Aline, and came across and kissed him and then nestled at his feet after her favourite manner.
“Not altogether,” he said.
“Tell me what it is.”
“Not to-night, heartsease,” he answered, bending down and kissing the fragrant hair. “Some day, perhaps, I will.”
For a time the room was very still. Suddenly a thought occurred to Ian. “I have just remembered something,” he said; “I will get it.”
The rush of events had crowded the little pouch and its contents out of his mind, but his present mood reminded him of it.
He brought the amulet from its hiding place. Aline was still seated on the floor. He sat down on the floor also, a little behind her, and lifted one of the lovely hands. “I have something else that I meant to give you before,” he said, holding up the bracelet.
The strange blue stones shone in the firelight as if they themselves were on fire. “‘Weal where I come as a gift of love,’” he read. “Pray God it may be so, heart of mine.”
Aline leaned back and lay with her head on his lap, looking up at him as he told the story.
“There are no scars on the beautiful hands now,” he said softly.
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She half drew the hand away and then stopped and it lay passively in his hold as he lovingly fastened the bracelet round the perfect wrist.
She did not thank him; she did not speak; she only lay there quietly looking into his eyes.
A log slipped from the fire; it did not make much noise, but the sound echoed through the deserted rooms. How absolutely alone together they were!
Somehow the bracelet seemed to have a special significance: perhaps she might be held after all. A feeling of peace, almost of happiness, stole over him.
“You are good to me,” she said at last. “Yes, I am happy.”
IN order that Aline should not discover her presence, little Joan had been put to sleep the first night in an upper chamber, in a wing of the great castle remote from that occupied by the family. To avoid extra trouble on the day of the birthday, she returned there the second night, although in future she was to have a small ante-room connecting with the girls’ chamber. In the rooms below her were the servants who had been hired for the occasion. She half undressed and, as she sat combing her hair, she looked out at the dark night. Below, she heard the rushing of the burn, and, dimly, under the starry sky she could see the great hills to the north. There was a close feeling in the air, as though there might be thunder or heavy rain. It was a little oppressive but her heart was so full of gladness that she refused to allow it to influence her.
How strangely things had come about. She remembered the horrible prophecy of “Moll o’ the graves” about her going away that seemed to mean death. It was curious how it had been fulfilled and yet not fulfilled. Could the old hag really in some way see into the future, and what did the prophecy mean about her beautiful little mistress,—“she shall follow not long after; marry, I see the fire about her”? They had indeed come near379 to burning her, but she had escaped the flames. “Well, all has turned out for the best so far. Mistress Aline said that the light would overcome the dark. I believe she is stronger than old Moll, after all,” she thought.
She had finished combing her hair, and after kneeling before her little crucifix was soon in bed and asleep.
Aline meanwhile, however, lay awake; the heavy storm-feeling in the air would not allow her to rest. She was excited also from the events of the day. After an hour or two she got up and looked out. The stars had all gone and the thick clouds made the night impenetrably black. Shiona was sound asleep. She crept back again to bed and tossed and tossed, but it was of no avail. Another hour passed. She thought she would get up and feel for the tinder box and light the lamp. Where was it? Could she find it in the dark?
As she lay there wondering, it seemed to get a little lighter. Yes, it was certainly getting lighter, surely it could not be morning yet. She lay for a few minutes, things in the room were rapidly becoming visible, but that was surely not daylight; no, it was not daylight. She jumped up and looked out. “Gramercy, the castle is on fire.” She looked again; it was the wing where Joan slept. She crossed the room and woke Shiona. “Quick,” she said, “the castle is on fire. Wake them all—tell Ian—Joan will be burnt—I must go.”
She dashed down the stairs, as she was, without staying to put anything on, and ran across the court yard. There she met the terrified servants rushing from the building.
“Where is Joan, have you seen her?” she asked.
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“No, Mistress,” they said, “she must still be in her room.”
Aline ran to the foot of the stairs.
“You must not go up,” they screamed, “you must not go up, the stairs will fall.”
It was an unfortunate fact that at some time, when alterations were being made, a wooden stairway had been substituted for the original stone one, which now existed only in a ruinous condition.
But Aline ran on without heeding the warnings and started to climb the stairs. The fire had broken out on the second floor and the flames were raging through to the staircase. Could she get past? She caught up her nightrobe in a tight bundle on her breast to try to keep it from the fire and made a rush. The flames scorched her skin and she burned her bare feet on the blazing boards. But she managed to get past. One sleeve even caught alight, but she was able after she had passed through to crush it out with her other hand.
“Joan, Joan,” she shouted, as she made her way into Joan’s room. Joan was still asleep, partly stupified by the smoke. Aline roused her and they rushed back to the stairs, but in the interval the whole stairway had become a bellowing furnace and the flames roared up it, so that they could not look down.
Joan gave a little pitiful cry. “We are lost, oh, Mistress Aline, we are lost.”
“No, not yet, Joan, keep up a stout heart; let us try if there be not another way.”
They ran through two rooms in the opposite direction to the stair and came to a door. But it was locked. They tried in vain to open it. They beat upon it, but381 it was beyond their strength to break, so they went back to Joan’s room.
“Can you climb, Joan?” asked Aline.
“No.”
“Then I must try and let you down.” She seized the bedclothes as she spoke and knotted them together. Alas, they could not possibly reach. She remembered how Ian had saved Wilfred by the rope under the bed and feverishly threw off the mattrass. The bed had wooden laths!
She looked out of the window and saw that a crowd had gathered below. How far down would the bedclothes extend? She made trial and shouted to the crowd that some one should try and find a tall ladder, while others, in case of failure, should bring a blanket and make a soft pile of hay. The crowd scattered and in a few moments there was a great heap of hay and some ten persons holding a blanket stretched above it. Yet, look as they would, no ladder was to be found except a little short thing that was no use. Possibly the other ladder was in the burning building, possibly it had been mislaid in the festal preparations.
Aline’s lips were parched and her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth; for the moment she nearly succumbed to her fear. So it was Joan’s life or hers? “Why cannot Joan climb?” she thought. Surely she could manage to get down as far as that? She looked at the child; but she was stiff with terror and absolutely helpless.
Somehow Aline felt it was not the same thing as when she had swum the river, then she had a chance of her life; indeed, if she had had no chance there was not382 the slightest use in trying to swim, as it could not have helped Ian. Here there was no chance; could she think of no other way?
The flames roared nearer, she began to find it hard to breathe. “Perhaps there is a way,” she said, “but who can think in a case like this?”
Joan had now become unconscious. Aline thought no more; the sacrifice was made; she tied one end round Joan and put a pillow on the sill to prevent chafing. She dragged the bed to the window and took a turn with the extemporised rope round one of the knobs to prevent it going too fast. She lifted the child and gently lowered her toward the ground. For a moment she hesitated again. “Could she climb down and untie Joan?” No, the whole thing might break.
The drop below Joan was about fifteen feet. “Hold tight,” she shouted, and those below braced themselves together and gripped the blanket firmly and the child fell into it. She was so light that the hay below was not necessary.
The fire had now reached half across the room itself and was breaking through the floor boards in little tongues of flame, when the choking smoke curled upward.
The end had come then; there was no hope. She turned to go and see if by any chance the locked door could be made to yield. It was vain, as indeed she knew, and the flame and smoke in that room was worse than her own. She ran back and looked out of the window. She thought she saw Ian with a white drawn face looking upward, but he disappeared.
Once again in the frenzy of despair she rushed to the383 other room and flung herself against the door; but had to stagger back to Joan’s room before she was completely overcome. The flames again caught her night robe and she tore it from her as she struggled to the window where she might still breathe. The heat was awful; oh, the pain of it! “But I must die bravely,” she said, “as father would have me do.”
All that she had ever done seemed to rise before her. She saw her mother as in the portrait. She saw her father and Audry, and last she saw Ian. He seemed to be weeping over her! Was she already dead? No, and she prayed;—“Lord Jesus, Thou hast taught me to come unto Thee and I beg of Thee to forgive me all that I have done wrong in my life. Take me in Thy arms and if it please Thee, end this terrible pain. Be with Ian and comfort him, Lord, when I am gone. Watch over little Joan and make her happier than I have been. Oh, Lord, the pain, the pain!” The smoke thickened, she gave one little gasp and spoke no more.
Aline was right; it was Ian that she had seen below. Shiona had first roused her mother and then Ian. He had gone to the stairway just in time to see it give way and come down with a crash. He had then endeavoured to get round the other way, but the smoke and flame was impossible. Once more he had come down and obtained some wet cloths to wrap over his face and make one more attempt. It was on this occasion that he had glanced up and seen Aline at the window.
She looked just as he had seen her in his visions with the flame and smoke rushing round her. It was this then that he had foreseen. It was this that the old woman had foretold. A sword went through his heart,384 followed by a dull crushing pain that seemed to paralyse his will. He ran as in a dream. Again he reached the range of upper rooms. The flames belched forth at him and the smoke took weird fantastic shapes. It stretched out long skinny arms as though to hold him back and there all round him were evil mocking faces spitting out at him with tongues of flame.
Voices surged through the air. “This is the end, you shall not reach her, she shall die, but you shall live—live.” The voices ended in a peal of laughter. What was life to him without Aline. He was going mad. He knew it. Mad! Mad! That was the fiendish scheme of the powers of darkness. He would live and yet never see anything all his life but the dead child. Horrible!
He had come to the worst part; he wrapped one of the wet cloths about his mouth and nose and over his hair and plunged into the smoke and flame. It roared, it stung, it blinded him, he nearly screamed, but he staggered through and came to the great oak door. He tried, like Aline, to open it, but it would not yield. He hurled his weight against it; it was of no avail. Again and again he tried and then stood back to look for some weapon. A heavy oak table all ablaze stood on one side of the room; he dashed at it, and heaved it over, seizing one of the legs and wrenching at it with all his might. He strove and pulled and then kicked it with his foot. It came away with a loud crash.
It was partly burned and the red hot surface bit into his flesh. He did not care but raised it above his head and turned to the door. Tortured by the agony of heat as he was, there, to his excited imagination, appeared the horrible form of “Moll o’ the graves,” leering at him385 and barring the way. She seemed to push him back with her bony claw-like hand. He swung the heavy oak leg through the air like a maniac and shrieked,—“All the devils in Hell shall not hold me back.” He frothed at the mouth and battered in her skull. She grinned at him as the blood trickled through her teeth and pointed to the monstrous shapes that seemed to gather out of the smoke. He thrust her aside with his foot, his heart ceased to beat, but he thundered on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice. And the fourth time it gave way, while the door flew open and he fell heavily forward.
He scrambled to his feet and hurried on. There, by the window, lay the beautiful little body. As his brain reeled he saw the martyr, George Wishart, standing over it in the fire, holding the evil spirits at bay. Ian’s eyes seemed to start from his head. He pressed his hands over them as he advanced and looked again. The flames were actually touching her. Ah, she was dead, but how unutterably beautiful! Why for the second time in his life must death snatch out of it the one supreme treasure? Legions of thoughts swirled through his mind. He would paint her like that. Why was he not a sculptor? He would immortalise her form in marble. What transcendent loveliness!
As he stooped quickly, suddenly his brain cleared, and, gathering up her hair, he wrapped it in one of the wet cloths and drew it in a single thickness over her face. With another he covered what he could of the exquisite white form and picked it up and ran.
This time the fiends seemed unable to reach him, but before he arrived at the third room there was a reverberating386 roar, part of the floor had given way and a great blank ten or twelve feet wide yawned before him.
Once more the voices shouted;—“You are ours—ours—and she is dead.” Yet he heeded them not, but turned back a little way, then ran with all his might and leaped and cleared the chasm.
On he went, down the stairs, the madness was on him again. “Keep back, keep back,” he shouted as he tore through the crowd. He looked so terrible, his face distorted with pain, as he ran past that they scattered in all directions. Shiona, at first, alone dared to follow him. He took Aline to one of the lower rooms in the other part of the castle. “Oil,” he cried, “send some one for oil and linen.”
Little Joan was coming timidly behind and ran for the things. Ian bent over Aline; she did not breathe. He filled his lungs with fresh air and putting his face down to hers breathed into her and drew the air forth. It was the intuition of affection and it saved her life. After a few moments she began to breathe again. Joan had then returned with the oil.
It was the smoke and gases of the fire that had suffocated her, and except on the soles of the little feet there were nowhere any serious burns. But there were great red patches here and there all over her, and the arm where the night dress had first caught fire was slightly blistered. He wrapped her entirely in oiled linen, and laid her gently on a mattrass that had been brought down.
All the time he never spoke a word and Shiona was frightened at his strange manner. Immediately he had finished he fell senseless to the ground. They picked387 him up and laid him on the mattrass. He was badly burned in several places, particularly the palms of his hands; he had also, as they afterwards discovered, strained himself severely in the leap with the child in his arms. For a time he lay still and then began to rave in wild delirium.
They did what they could for him, while Walter took his best horse and galloped to Stirling for a physician. Meanwhile the neighbours from far and near were fighting the fire. There were three well-shafts, carried up to the roof in the walls of the castle; and chains of men and women passed the buckets from hand to hand. The same was done from the burn down below. They did not attempt to do more than keep the fire from spreading beyond the blazing wing. But a new ally came to their aid that helped them not a little. The long threatened storm burst upon them with thunder and lightning, but accompanied by a torrential deluge of rain; and before morning the fire was completely under control.
IT was a beautiful late autumn day and the sun was shining on the moat and the old walls of Holwick. Some few weeks previously news had arrived in that remote corner of the death of Queen Mary and the accession of Elizabeth, and Audry was sitting as she often did, in the bay window of Mistress Mowbray’s bower, looking down toward Middleton, when four riders and a pack horse were seen approaching the gates.
Audry had noticed their coming and, as they drew nearer, she recognised two of them and ran eagerly out to meet them. “Oh, how I have hoped for you to come,” she said, “and somehow I knew it would not be long before you were here.”
Ian dismounted and helped his sister and Aline to alight, while the serving man took the horses. Aline was in perfect health, but Ian was still worn and thin. She had not been long in recovering; but he had hovered between life and death for some time.
“This is the Lady Shiona, Ian’s sister,” said Aline. Audry came forward a little shyly, but Shiona said, “Oh, I have heard so much about you,” and kissed her warmly.
Audry then flung her arms round Aline as though she would never let her go.
“You must not leave Ian in the cold,” said Aline.
“No, indeed, I should think not,” exclaimed Audry;389 “why, if it were not for him you would not be here at all,” and she held up her face to be kissed.
“She is getting too big to be kissed, is she not?” said Ian.
“Not at all,” said Aline, “you kiss me.”
“That is a different matter,” said Ian, laughing, as he kissed Audry, “you are my ward, you see.”
Although Master Richard and his wife were by no means pleased at the political change, they were delighted that it had brought their young visitor, and Mistress Eleanor greeted her with an unusual show of affection. She had been long enough falling under Aline’s spell, but the conquest was complete and resulted in the re-development of a side of her nature that had practically lain dormant since, a charming girl of sixteen, Master Richard had met her in York and against all the wishes of his parents had insisted on marrying her. She became more human and more anxious to please, and gradually won the esteem and even love of her servitors and the people of Holwick.
Aline introduced her escort, and while they were being shown to their rooms, she went and found Elspeth.
Elspeth wept tears of joy over her and said; “Now, hinnie, I shall be able to die happy. I thought the sunlight had gone out of my life forever.”
They had a long talk and in the afternoon she went down with Elspeth to the Arnsides. Janet seized a stool and dusted it for the young mistress; and John, who was just outside the house, came in.
“O John,” Aline said, “I can never repay you or thank you enough, it is no use my trying to put my thanks into words.”
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“What I did was nothing,” he said.
“But if you had not done it, the Duke of Ochil would never have come and I should have been lost.”
“No one who knew you, Mistress Aline, could have done less.”
The time seemed all too short to the Arnsides, when Aline turned to go. “I shall ask Cousin Richard to let us stay here for at least a month,” she said, “even if I do not come back here to live. I am going to teach you to read, John, and I have brought you this,” and she produced a beautifully bound copy of the Scriptures, which she had bought for him with all the money she had left.
John was confused with gratitude, and Aline fled, leaving him an opportunity to recover by himself.
She had had a long talk with Ian in which they had decided that it was right that Master Mowbray should hear the whole story and be told about the secret room, as after all it belonged to him.
So that night she secured the little book and took it up to her old room with Audry.
As they were undressing, Aline took off the ruby pendant, which she was wearing concealed beneath her simple costume.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Audry, “diamonds and pearls and—what a marvellous ruby! But Aline, you have no right to wear this.”
“I feel a little doubtful, but Ian says it is all right, as at present I am in the position of his ward and in any case I am Scots and not English.”
“But if you are father’s ward then you will count as English.”
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“Anyway, I shall not wear it in public; so it does not matter.”
“Your luck has come at last, Aline; just fancy your wearing diamonds and pearls like a duke’s daughter. But you deserve to be lucky after all you have been through. I would not go through what you have been through, for all the luck in the world, you beautiful lovely thing.”
Audry had by this time begun combing Aline’s hair. “Why, Aline,” she said, “your hair is not quite so long as it was!”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Aline, and she told her all about the cutting off. “But it has very nearly grown again, it has been extraordinarily quick.”
“Yes, you are beautiful,” Audry went on, “look at that hair, look at that neck, look at those perfect ears.”
“Do not be silly, Audry!”
“Yes,” said Audry, not heeding, “and the luck is not over yet. You will be married very soon.”
Aline blushed. “Be quiet, Audry.”
“But you are far too beautiful and charming and good to be left long unmarried,” and Audry embraced her impulsively.
“Come, let us get into bed and sit and study the book.”
So Aline read to the end and discovered that it explained how to open the great iron chest.
The next day they managed to leave Shiona with Mistress Mowbray, and Aline, Audry and Ian took Master Mowbray into the library.
They sat in the great window seat and Aline read out of the little book and told the story of their adventures,392 which was frequently supplemented by Audry and Ian. Richard Mowbray was again entranced and he thought Aline’s new tale even more wonderful than Malory.
When she had finished they all went down to the secret room and Master Richard asked hundreds of questions about all their experiences. They examined everything and explored the secret passage to the cave and back.
“But there is still one thing that we have to do,” said Aline, “and that is to open the great iron chest and see what is inside. I have only just discovered how it is done and there is a good deal that requires doing first. But listen to this: Exactly under the middle of the great oriel window of the library, the book says,—that a foot and a half below the water in the moat is a chain made of links of greenheart wood, so as to withstand the wet; and at the end of that is a large round ball also of greenheart, and embedded in it with pitch is the great key of the iron chest. I have been thinking how to get it and, if the chain has not rotted and we do not have to dredge for the ball, I think I might go a-sailing for it in a tub, which would be fun. We might see to that this afternoon and then open the chest to-morrow.”
“You will probably upset,” said Audry, “but, as you can swim like a fish, that will not matter; but I shall laugh to see you tumble in.”
“You bad girl,” said Aline, and chased her round the room. “Well, I am going to try anyway.”
After dinner Master Richard went and ordered two of the men to bring a great tub from the laundry, while Aline went upstairs and changed her things, putting on393 a pair of boy’s trunks. She then threw a cloak about her and came down.
The tub was rolled round till it was opposite the window and then Aline insisted that the serving men should go away. A board, hastily thinned down at one end, made a sort of rude paddle and, with shrieks of derision from Audry, the others held the tub and Aline cautiously got in and squatted tailorwise on the bottom. They all laughed so much that they nearly upset the tub at the outset.
Aline then started on her perilous voyage, but, the tub being circular, every time she took a stroke with the paddle, it simply spun round and round.
Those on the bank held their sides with laughter, but the more they laughed the more confused Aline became. She tried taking a stroke first one way and then the other. This was not quite so bad, but the tub revolved backwards and forwards like a balance wheel.
“Try little short strokes pulling the paddle towards you,” shouted Ian, when the laughter had a little subsided. This answered somewhat better and the tub slowly made its way across, but with many vagaries and strange gyrations.
At last she reached the wall right under the great projecting corbel of the window, and, very cautiously putting down her arm, she felt the chain.
“Hurrah!” she shouted, “I have it”; but she spoke too soon. As she pulled the chain, the tub over-balanced and Aline tumbled head first into the moat. Audry collapsed altogether at this and rolled over on to the grass.
Ian, however, for the moment took it seriously and394 was going to jump in, but Audry seized one of his ankles to stop him and laughed still more till the tears ran down her cheeks. “You’ll kill me, you two,” she said, as Aline’s head appeared above the water with long green weeds hanging in her hair.
Aline swam to the chain and found that the ball was very heavy. She then righted the tub.
“Get in, get in quickly,” shouted Audry mischievously, and Aline, without thinking, made the attempt with the result that the tub lifted and turned over on her like an extinguisher. Audry was convulsed.
“You little mischief,” said Ian, and picked her up and held her out over the water at arm’s length; but she only laughed the more.
Aline meanwhile again righted the tub and then shouted to the others to bring an axe. Audry refused to go. She said she must wait for the end of the performance. So Master Richard ran and called one of the men, who brought the things required.
While he was gone Aline, with difficulty, got the ball into the tub. She then swam across for the axe and, taking it over, she cut the chain, threw the axe in with the ball and, pushing the tub before her, swam back to the other side.
“You will be getting to know this moat,” said Audry, as Ian pulled Aline, all dripping, up the bank. “This is your third adventure in the moat since you came.”
She then went up and changed her clothes and joined the others in the solar. There she found that Father Laurence had just arrived. He was looking worn and worried, but a smile lit up his face as Aline came in.
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The old man’s hand trembled as he laid it on her head. “You are growing tall, my child; we shall soon see you a woman. I have just arrived with some strange and horrible news, which I have been telling my Lord of Ochil. You remember old ‘Moll o’ the graves,’ Aline.”
“Yes, Father.”
“She’s dead, my child; I saw her a few minutes ago on my way up. She was lying at the foot of the Crags.”
Aline shuddered.
“We cannot leave the poor creature there,” he continued; “can you let me have a couple of men, Master Richard, and would you mind her lying here for the night? I will arrange for the funeral to-morrow.”
“Certainly,” said Master Mowbray, and he arose and accompanied Father Laurence.
Twenty minutes later Aline and Ian were crossing the courtyard and saw the bearers carrying the body on a hurdle into the room below the granary. Ian at once drew Aline away in another direction, that she should not see the horrible sight. He had caught one glimpse of the face, and it was enough. It was the same as he had seen in his awful vision in the fire,—the terrible grin,—the blood trickling through the teeth. “Come away, little one, let us go elsewhere,” he said.
After all was quiet again, Thomas Carluke walked stealthily across the quadrangle and entered the room where the body lay. A sheet had been placed over it, but he drew it aside. The grin on the face seemed to mock him. “Aha!” he said, “you fooled me twice, you old wretch, but you will never do it again. You need not laugh at me like that. I have cleared my score396 with you now. Did you not tell me that you would get rid of the child?—and they got her out of the moat. Did you not tell me she would be burnt?—and now Queen Mary is dead and there are no more burnings. You miserable worm, what was the good of your hate? You were no better than Andrew, no better than Father Ambrose. Pah! You defied me just now on the Crags, did you? Well, here you are; and I would do it again. Oh, it was so easy,—one little push. Ha, you still mock; no, you cannot hurt me,—no, no,” he repeated apprehensively. “You are dead, you cannot come back. I will not believe it. The devil has your soul. But I must go, must go.”
He drew the sheet over the body again and went out. “Fool,” he said to himself, “what am I afraid of? Fool, I say.”
Meanwhile Aline was walking with Audry through the garden.
“I am glad the horrible old thing is gone,” said Audry. “Are not you?”
“It seems too dreadful to say so,” Aline answered, “but I cannot pretend that I am sorry. She always seemed to me a sort of evil influence, a spirit of discord and hate.”
“Yes,” said Audry, slipping her arm round Aline’s waist, “just as you are the spirit of love.”
“Don’t be foolish, Audry; besides I do not believe that any one could love everybody.”
“No, but need you hate them? Come now, did you hate old Moll?”
“I do not know; somehow she seemed too mean, too397 petty and spiteful to hate. You could not fight her exactly. She was not worth fighting, so to speak.”
“But I always felt,” said Audry, “that behind the old woman, not in the old woman herself, was a power of evil and hate, a great power that could be fought.”
“Oh, yes, quite so. I think there are things to hate. I do not believe in sickly sentiment; but that poor wretched old woman in herself was rather a thing to be pitied than hated, and, now that I come to think of it, I never did meet any one really to hate.”
“What about Thomas?”
“That is just a case in point,” said Aline. “I despise him, pity him, but one would lose one’s own dignity in hating such a poor thing. Now if one could find some one really strong, really great and wicked, one could hate them. But no one of that sort has ever come my way.”
“Have you thought of Father Martin?”
“I did not hate him. I was afraid of him and I did not think him altogether a good man; but in the main he seemed to act up to his lights. Father Austin, I might have hated, perhaps; but I do not know enough about him. There is some one over there that I love,” she said suddenly, as Father Laurence appeared at the other end of the garden. “I think he is the best man I have ever seen.”
“Better than Ian?” asked Audry.
“I do not know, and it is impossible for me to say. Dear Ian. I used to feel that there was something weak about him, but I think I was wrong. The wonderful thing about him is that he is developed on every side. It is true that we have mainly seen the softer398 side and also for a great part of the time he has been ill. But I keep discovering new things in his character. In any case he has a far more difficult position than Father Laurence. I should think that really it would be a much easier thing to retire from the world like a priest, than to try and make oneself a more complete and fully developed being and remain in the world. And after all, the world would cease to exist if we were all priests and nuns. To live the worldly life is certainly the lowest, and to come out of the world is higher than that; yet I am not sure that there is not something harder and higher still; and I believe Ian has done it; but here comes Father Laurence.”
The children ran to him, and the three walked round the garden together. It was a rare picture, the fine tall figure, slightly bent, with the wonderful spiritual face, an epitome of the glory of age, and the two exquisite children, just approaching the threshold, on the other side of which they would soon reach the mysteries of adult life.
After they had talked for some time Audry asked, “How do you suppose, Father, that Moll met her death?”
“I cannot say, my children; she may have fallen over by accident, but Master Richard thinks that she threw herself over. You know, little girl, how she hated you,” he said, turning to Aline, “and she must have been bitterly chagrined that everything has gone so well with you. Perhaps he is right, but let us speak of other things.”
He stopped, and for a time no one said anything at all. Then, moved by some motive that he could not explain,399 he went on,—“Children, I shall soon have to bid you farewell.”
“Oh, why?” they both said in a breath.
“I do not know what prompts me to tell you, Mistress Aline,” he said.
Aline started; it was the first time he had ever addressed her like that; and the old man continued,—“I have not yet said anything to any one else, even of the old faith; and I know, child,” he went on, dropping into the more familiar manner, “that you are not of us; so why I should tell you, a mere child, and a heretic,”—he lingered on the word regretfully,—“I am unable to say. The Queen’s Grace is minded that there shall be an act of Uniformity for this realm and that the prayer book of 1552 shall be re-affirmed. It liketh me not and I shall not subscribe and therefore shall lose my benefice. I had hoped to end my days in Middleton, but it cannot be, and I must, if he be willing, take up my abode with my nephew. It will be a sore grief to me after all these years.
“But my work is done and I must not repine. One thing, Aline, child, I would say, and that is this,—thou mindest how I have ever told thee that the light must overcome the dark, and so has it been with the machinations of that poor evil woman. So hath it been with you; not that it will be ever so with things temporal, but it will be so in the world of the unseen and eternal. But farewell, my children, and I must go. Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
May almighty God bless you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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When he had gone Audry said, “How unjust it is that Father Ambrose will remain and that Father Laurence should go.”
“How so?” said Aline.
“Have you not heard; Father Ambrose hath said that he will subscribe to anything that will keep his place, and he is the very man who persecuted you in the name of the Church?”
“What a scoundrel!” said Aline. “I had liever see Father Laurence, the Catholic, than Father Ambrose, the protestant, hold his own, protestant though I be. I must see if the Duke may not be able to do something, though he be not of this realm. Now that Queen Elizabeth’s Grace hath come to the throne he hath many friends who are right powerful in this land. Father Laurence is an old man, and will not be long in this life in anywise; methinks it will not be a hard matter.”
“I hope you will succeed,” said Audry, “and I shall do my best with Master Richard that Father Ambrose be moved, whatever dishonest shifts he may practice.”
They had reached the door that led into the garden. “Come, Audry, the afternoon is spent and it is time for supper.”
THE next morning Master Mowbray went over to Newbiggin to look at the cottage that had been occupied by “Moll o’ the graves,” as it was his property, on the old Middleton estate which was much larger and more important than Holwick. The cottage was in poor condition and he decided that it should be rebuilt. It was dinner time before he came back, so they were not able to go down to the secret room till the afternoon.
“Now,” said Aline, as they entered, “first the chest has to be laid on its back.”
This they tried to do, but it was too heavy. They pushed and pulled, but they could not stir it.
“Let us use some of those stout poles there, standing in the corner,” said Ian; “then we can lever it over.”
This they did and with some difficulty the chest was turned over.
“I expect that is the very thing for which the poles were used,” Audry suggested.
“Probably,” said Aline, as she put her finger on the top right hand rivet head and slid it an inch to the left.
“Oh, that is how it works,” exclaimed Master Richard, greatly interested.
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“Now you have to turn it back again.”
“Oh, dear,” they all cried; but set to work, and again the chest stood upright. Aline then moved the second rivet in the same way.
“Now turn it over again,” she said.
“This is too much, we are not galley slaves,” expostulated Ian. “You are a tyrant, Your Highness.”
“Well, anyway I help, my Lord,” answered Aline, with mock gravity.
“‘Help,’ you wee kitten!” said Master Richard; “I think I do most of this; and it is my belief,” he added, “that it is not to my interest that the chest should be opened at all.”
“Why not?” they all exclaimed.
“Never mind. Come. I want to see what’s inside i’ faith.”
Once again they heaved and tugged and turned it over. Aline then moved the rivet. “Now turn it back again.”
“Look here, we cannot go on that way,” said Master Richard. “There must be thirty rivets. We shall rebel, my liege.”
“No, you must do your duty.”
So once more they struggled and turned it back.
“There, you have done your part,” said Aline, and they all stood round and laughed at each other, when they saw how hot they looked. Every one watched Aline with great curiosity as she now slid aside the whole of one of the iron plates of the chest and disclosed a small lock. Into this she fitted a key and turned it with some difficulty. It was the key on the bunch in the library, whose use Master Richard had not403 known. This enabled all the central part of the front to hinge down and disclose the large lock to which belonged the key from the moat.
The lid was very heavy and it took two of them to open it. The contents were covered by a black velvet cloth, and above it lay a parchment upon which was inscribed in large letters:
ALINE GILLESPIE
IN ACCORDANCE WITH MY WILL, WHICH
LIETH BEHIND THE LOCK OPPOSITE THAT
WHICH CONCEALETH THE BOOK.
James Mowbray.
Aline gazed in blank astonishment when she saw her own name.
“That is your great-grandmother’s name,” said Master Richard, “but it is all right, the chest is yours all the same, as you are the sole heiress of that line. But if you do not mind I should like to see the will, even before you lift the velvet cloth.”
Aline ran upstairs, her heart beating with wild excitement, and was followed by Audry. The lock moved exactly as the other one had done and there lay the lost will.
“How stupid of us not to find it before,” said Audry, “but, oh, I am so glad that something really good has come to you at last.”
They ran down again.
“Here it is,” said Audry, who was holding the will.
“Let his Grace read it,” said Master Richard, “as he is a disinterested party.”
It was a long will, but the tenour of it was,—that the old Mowbray estates at Middleton went to James Mowbray’s404 son, but the little Holwick property, with half the contents of the library, was left to his daughter, Aline, and to her heirs after her forever.
The will concluded,—“And that the said Aline Gillespie and my son-in-law Angus Gillespie may be able to keep up the Holwick estate in a manner that is befitting, I also bequeath for the use of the said Aline and Angus and their heirs after them the great iron chest and its contents, the which chest, with the name of Aline Gillespie inside, is now within the secret room; and the means for the discovery of all these things are in the little book in the library, concealed in the lock opposite to this. The parchment with holes, that is hidden in the cover of the aforesaid book, is to be placed over each page in turn and the letters that appear through the holes may then be read as words.”
“Well, little one, I always suspected that the Holwick property might be yours; but James Mowbray died suddenly and the will was never found,” said Master Richard.
He saw clouds of anxiety gathering on the child’s face, so he went on,—“You must not think about it now; let us look at the chest.”
Aline lifted the velvet and on the top was a tray. It was filled with orphreys and other embroideries of the celebrated opus anglicum and was of immense value. So perfectly had the chest fitted that the colours were all as marvellous as the day they were done.
Below this was another tray, which contained exquisitely carved ivories and wonderful enamel work, several beautifully bound illuminated manuscripts of the highest possible excellence, many of the covers being405 elaborately garnished with precious stones, and two jewelled swords, one of Spanish make and one from Ferrara that almost equalled Ian’s own.
Beneath this tray again was a layer of soft leather bags in ten rows of five each, every one of which contained five hundred gold pieces.
This brought them about one-third of the way down the chest. The remainder was in three portions. In the middle was a large oak box, that exactly fitted from front to back, and left about a fifth of the chest on each side. These fifths were filled with solid gold and silver bars, packed like bricks to fill every crevice. Their total value was four or five times that of the gold pieces in the bags.
Richard Mowbray and Ian lifted out the oak box and it was found to contain a collection composed of the choicest examples of art in metal work that any of them had ever seen in their lives. There were large mazers and other cups, a wonderful nef, and skilfully wrought platters. There were daggers and hunting horns and belts. There were chatelaines and embracelets and diadems. Then in a smaller receptacle were lesser things, such as rings, pendants, necklaces, chains, clasps and buckles. But finely jewelled as many of them were, it was the supreme art of the designs and the craftsmanship of their execution that was their main attraction.
Little Aline was too overcome to speak. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to say;—“And are all of these things mine?”
“Of course they are,” said Master Richard, “and I do not know any one more worthy of them.”
She was silent for some time and then said,—“Well,406 we cannot leave them all lying round. I must put everything back.”
The others helped and, although every one kept commenting on the lovely things and the strange experience, Aline never said a word all the time. It was clear that she was thinking hard and that the putting back of the things was only to give her an opportunity to settle her thoughts.
When they had finished they all stood up.
“Now we can save the Ochil estates,” said Aline triumphantly. “Ian, I give you half the gold and silver and one of the swords, and you are to have the other half, Audry darling, and Cousin Richard is to have Holwick Hall as long as he lives and the other sword. Then everybody is to have some nice presents from the trays and the box, Audry and Cousin Richard, and Joan and Mistress Mowbray and all the others, and Ian is to have the rest.”
“Impossible,” said Ian.
“Nonsense,” said Master Richard.
“Absurd,” said Audry.
“I absolutely mean what I say,” said Aline.
“But you have left nothing for yourself,” objected Audry.
“Yes, I shall have Holwick when I am old and no longer able to do anything; and if you are not married we can live together.”
“My little maiden must not be foolish,” said Ian. “I think you are quite right to let Audry have half, unless you let Cousin Richard have the use of it first, for it would go to Audry, and I am sure you are right about Holwick; but my estates have nothing to do with you,407 sweet child. Besides how are you going to live until you are too old to do anything? You cannot go a begging, princess, and some one would have to take care of you.”
“O dear, I had not thought about that. Yes, I suppose I should need some one to look after me.”
“I will look after you, little heart, if Cousin Richard will let me,” said Ian softly.
Richard Mowbray laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I agree,” he said.
Aline put up her hands and drew down Ian’s face till their lips met. A look of happy content shone in her eyes. “Then I shall be well protected,” she said.
My dear Children:
The time has now come to say good-bye, both to you and Aline; but it might interest you to know that I read the story to a little girl before it was quite finished and asked her if there was anything she would like to suggest. “Yes,” she said, “a birthday party.”
Now a sixteenth century birthday party was rather a difficulty as I never saw one described; but then there were so many difficulties of that sort. People in those days, for instance, thought that shaking hands was a much warmer sign of affection than kissing. You probably know that in France men still kiss each other at the railway station. But that would not do for my story. So, as in the case of language, I have modernized to suit my purpose. When, therefore, your learned uncle tells you that the story is all wrong and that they did not fence with helmets and that the curtsey was not invented till much later and that the library is far too big and so on; you just tell him to write you a sixteenth century story and then you send it to me, and we will see how he gets along.
If any of you would write to me and tell me what you would like altered or what else you would like put in, I should be delighted. The story is only written to please you and I wish I could see you and tell it to you myself. Also you might let me know what you think ought to happen to Aline and then, if you like408 the story, I will write you a sequel. But you must tell me how old you are, that is a very important point.
With best wishes from Avis and myself;—now do not tell me that you do not know who Avis is,—look at the dedication and the first chapter and guess.
Yours aff’ly,
Ian B. Stoughton Holborn.
1735 Grand Central Terminal,
New York City.
(or, in Britain, Merton College, Oxford).
The End