HATE AND LOVE
Aline certainly did not belong to any ordinary type and she would have
puzzled the psychologist to classify. She was so many sided as to be in
a class by herself. She had plenty of common sense and intelligence for
her years and an outlook essentially fair minded and just. But she also
had a quiet hauteur, curiously coupled with humility, and at the same
time a winning manner that was irresistible; so that the strange thing
was that she had only to ask and most people voluntarily submitted
to her desires. This unusual power might have been very dangerous to
her character and spoiled her, had it not been that what she wanted
was almost always just and reasonable and moreover she never used her
power for her own benefit. Further, her humble estimate of her own
capacity for judgment caused her but rarely to exercise the power at
all. In practice it was almost confined to those cases where a sweet
minded child’s natural instinct for fair play sees further than the
sophistries of the adult.
She was practically unaware of this power, which was destined to bring
her into conflict with Eleanor Mowbray; nor did she take the least
delight, as she might easily have done, in exercising power for power’s
sake.
Eleanor Mowbray, on the other hand, like so many women, loved
power. Masculine force has so largely monopolised the more obvious
manifestations of power that it might be said to be almost a feminine
instinct to snatch at all opportunities that offer themselves.
Be that as it may, Mistress Mowbray loved to use power for the sake
of using it; she loved to make her household realise that she was
mistress. She did not exactly mean to be unkind, but they were servants
and they must feel that they were servants. Her attitude to them was
that of the servant who has risen or the one so commonly exhibited
toward servants by small girls, that puzzles and disgusts their small
brothers.
She would address them contemptuously, or would impatiently lose her
self-control and shout at them. She lacked consideration and would
call them from their main duties to perform petty services, which she
could perfectly well have done for herself. This was irritating to the
servants and there was always a good deal of friction. The servants
tended to lose their loyalty and, when once the bond of common interest
was broken, what did it matter to Martha, the laundry-maid, that she
one day scorched and destroyed the most cherished and valuable piece
of lace that Mistress Mowbray possessed; or of what concern was it to
Edward, the seneschal, that in cleaning the plate, he broke the lid
off her pouncet box and not only did not trouble to tell her, but when
charged with it, coolly remarked, after the manner of his kind,--“Oh,
it came to pieces in my hands!”
On one occasion, before the discovery of the secret room, when Edward
was away, Thomas, a sly unprincipled man, whose duties were with the
horses, had taken his place for the day. The four silver goblets, which
he had placed on the table, were all of them tarnished; and after the
meal was over, Mistress Mowbray said to him sharply,--“Thomas, what do
you mean by putting dirty goblets on the high table?”[8]
[8] The table on the raised dais at which the family sat. The
retainers sat at the two lower tables. See plan.
“I am sure I did my best, Mistress,” said Thomas; “I spent a great
amount of pains in laying the table, but we all of us make mistakes
sometimes.”
“Then go and clean them at once, you scullion, and bring them back to
me to look at directly you have finished.”
“Please, Mistress, that is not my work,” replied Thomas, “and I have a
great deal to do in the stables this afternoon.” As a matter of fact he
had finished his work in the stables and was planning for an easy time.
“Do you dare to talk to me?” she said, her voice rising. “You are here
to do as you are told; go and clean them at once, or it will be the
worse for you.” She knew that this time the man was within his rights;
but she was not going to be dictated to by a servant.
Thomas sulkily departed. When he reached the buttery he remembered that
he had noticed Edward cleaning some of the goblets the day before. He
soon found them, and then drew himself a measure of ale and sat down
with a chuckle to enjoy himself over the liquor, while allowing for the
time that would have been needed to clean the silver.
Meanwhile Mistress Mowbray began impatiently to walk up and down
the hall. The children were generally allowed to go out after dinner
and amuse themselves, but it was a wet day and Aline was looking
disconsolately out of the window wondering whether she should go into
the library or what she should do, when the angry dame thought that the
child offered an object for the further exercise of her power. “Why are
you idling there?” she said. “They are all short-handed to-day, go you
and scour out the sink and then take out the pig-bucket and be quick
about it.”
Aline gave a little gasp of surprise, but ran off at once. The buttery
door was open and she saw Thomas drinking and offering a tankard to one
of the other servants, and she heard him laugh loudly as he pointed to
a row of goblets, four of them clean and the rest of them dirty, while
he said,--“Edward cleaned those, and I am waiting here as long as it
would take to clean them.” He caught sight of her and scowled, but she
passed on.
Aline had soon finished the sink and ran quickly with the pig-bucket,
after which she returned to the dining hall to tell Mistress Mowbray
she had finished. Thomas had just come in, so she stood and waited.
He held up the four goblets on a tray for Mistress Mowbray to inspect.
“Yes, those are better, Thomas,” she said frigidly. Thomas could not
conceal a faint smile and the lady became suspicious. “By the way,
Thomas, there are a dozen of these goblets, bring me the others.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Thomas, triumphantly, “but they were all dirty
and I have just cleaned these.”
Mistress Mowbray saw that she could not catch him that way, but felt
that the man was somehow getting the better of her, so she merely
replied calmly,--“Then you can clean the whole set, Thomas, and bring
me the dozen to look at.”
Aline nearly burst into a laugh, but put her hand to her mouth and
smothered it without Mistress Mowbray seeing; but Thomas saw and as he
departed, crest-fallen, he vowed vengeance in his heart.
“Have you done what I told you, child?” Mistress Mowbray said, turning
to Aline. “Marry, but I trust you have done it well. It is too wet for
you to go out; you can start carding a bag of wool that I will give
you. That will keep you busy.”
Aline sighed, as she had hoped to get into the library and she wondered
what Audry was doing, who had been shrewd enough to get away, but she
said nothing and turned to her task.
At first Eleanor Mowbray’s treatment of Aline was merely the joy of
ordering some one about, of compelling some one to do things whether
they liked to or not, just because they were not in a position of power
to say no; but what gave her a secret additional joy was that Aline was
a lady and she herself was not. True, Aline’s father was only one of
the lesser Lairds, but he was a gentleman of coat armour,[9] whereas
Eleanor Mowbray was merely the beautiful daughter of the wealthy
vintner of York. It caused Eleanor Mowbray great satisfaction to have
the power to compel a gentleman’s daughter to serve her in what her
plebeian mind considered degrading occupations. It was for this reason
therefore that Aline was set to scour sinks, scrub floors and empty
slops, with no deliberate attempt to be unkind, but simply to feed the
love of power.
[9] A gentleman is a man who has the right conferred by a royal grant
to his ancestors or himself of bearing a coat of arms. It is not
as high a rank as esquire with which it is often confused.
As a matter of fact, so long as the tasks remained within her physical
strength, Aline was too much of a lady to mind and, if need had been,
would have cleaned out a stable, a pigsty or a sewer itself, with grace
and dignity and even have lent distinction to such occupations.
But these very qualities led to further antagonism on Eleanor Mowbray’s
part. They were part of that power of the true lady that in Aline was
developed to an almost superhuman faculty and which went entirely
beyond any power of which Mistress Mowbray even dreamed and yet
without the child making any effort to get it. Aline herself indeed
was unconscious of her strength as anything exceptional. She had been
brought up by her father, practically alone and had not as yet come to
realise how different she was from other children.
It was the morning after the discovery of the secret room that Mistress
Mowbray had the first indication that Aline had a power that might
rival her own. It was a small incident, but it sank deeply and Eleanor
Mowbray did not forget it.
She was expecting a number of guests to dinner and it looked as though
nothing would be ready in time. She rushed to and fro from the hall
to the kitchen upbraiding the servants and talking in a loud and
domineering tone. But the servants, who were working as hard as the
average of their class, became sullen and went about their labours
with less rather than more effort.
Eleanor Mowbray was furious and finding Aline still at her spinning
wheel, where she herself had put her, “’Sdeath child,” she exclaimed,
“this is no time for spinning, what possesses you? I cannot get those
varlets to work, everything is in confusion,--knaves!--hussies!--go you
to the kitchen and lend a hand and that right speedily.”
Aline felt sorry for her hostess, who certainly was like enough to have
her entertainment spoilt. She had already noticed that the servants in
the hall were very half-hearted, so she said, “I will do what I can,
Mistress Mowbray, perhaps I might help to get them to work.”
“You, indeed,” said the irate lady, “ridiculous child!--but go along
and assist to carry the dishes.”
Aline rose and passed into the screens and down the central passage to
the kitchen. The place was filled with loud grumbling, almost to the
verge of mutiny.
As the queenly little figure stood in the doorway, the servants nudged
each other and the voices straightway subsided.
“Hush, she will be telling tales,” said one of the maids quietly.
“Nonsense,” said Elspeth, Audry’s old nurse, who was assisting, “surely
you know the child better than that.”
For a moment or two Aline did not speak and a strange feeling of shame
seemed to pervade the place.
“Elspeth,” said Aline, while the flicker of a smile betrayed her, “if
you run about so, you’ll wear out your shoon; you should sit on the
table and swing your feet like Joseph there.”
“Now, hinnie, why for are you making fun of an old body?”
“I would not make fun of you for anything,” said Aline; “but look at
his shoon; are they not fine,--and his beautiful lily-white hands?”
“Look as if you never did a day’s work, Joe,” said Silas, the reeve.
“Oh, no, he works with his brain, he’s thinking,” said Aline, putting
her hand to her brow with mock gravity. “He’s reckoning up his fortune.
How much is it, Joseph?”
“Methinks his fortune will all be reckonings,” said Silas, “for he’ll
never get any other kind.”
“Well, we’ll change the subject; there’s going to be a funeral here
to-night,” Aline observed.
“No, really?” exclaimed half a dozen voices.
“Yes, it’s a terrible story and it really ought not to be known; but
you’ll keep it secret I know,” she said, lowering her voice to a
whisper.
As they crowded round her she went on in mysterious tones, “You know
John Darley and Philip Emberlin.”
“Yes,” said Joe, rousing himself to take in the situation, “they are
coming here to-night.”
“They’ve a long way to come and they are not strong,” said Aline, “and
they will arrive hungry and just have to be buried, because there was
nothing to eat. Yes, it’s a sad story; I’m not surprised to see the
tears in your eyes, Joseph, and, in fact, in a manner of speaking you
might say that you will have killed them, you and your accomplices,”
she added, looking round.
A good tempered laugh greeted this last sally.
“Marry, we have much to get through. How can I help? It would be a
sorry thing that Holwick should be disgraced before its guests. Give me
something to do.”
There was nothing in the words, but the tone was one of dignity
combined with gentleness and sympathy.
The effect was peculiar;--no one felt reproved, but felt rather as
though there was full sympathy with his own point of view; yet at the
same time he was conscious that he would lose his own dignity if he
became querulous and allowed the honour of the house to suffer.
Aline helped for a short time and then, leaving them for a moment
all cheerful and joking but working with a will, she looked into the
buttery, where she saw Thomas and Edward, the seneschal, a pompous but
good hearted fellow, merely talking and doing nothing.
“You are not setting us a good example,” she said laughing; “everybody
else is working so hard,” and then she added in a tone that combined
something of jest, something of command and something of a coaxing
quality, “do try to keep things going; Master Richard would be much put
about if he failed in his hospitality.”
This time there was undoubtedly a very gentle sting in the tone that
pricked Edward’s vanity; yet his own conscience smote him, so that he
bore no ill will.
He said nothing, however, but Thomas remarked;--“Yes, Mistress Aline,
the sin of idleness is apt to get hold of us, we must to our work as
you say.”
Aline raised her eyebrows slightly, the ill-bred vulgarity of the
remark was too much for her sensitive nature. Thomas was marked by
that lack of refinement that cheapens all that is noble and good by
ostentatious piety and sentimentality.
Aline gave a little shiver and passed on to do the same with the
others. She also took her full share in the work, so that in fifteen
minutes everything was moving smoothly. It was done entirely out of
kindness, but Eleanor Mowbray felt that it was a triumph at her expense
and although Aline had helped her out of a difficulty, she only bore a
grudge against her.
Thomas also was nettled. Aline had got the better of him; he suspected
her, too, of seeing through his hypocrisy; which, as a matter of fact,
she had only partially done, as she was so completely disgusted at his
vulgarity that she did not look further.
It was not till the afternoon that the children had any opportunity to
pursue their own devices and they decided, as the day was fine and the
storm had cleared away, that they would go down to the river near-by
and see the waterfall before the water had had time greatly to abate.
They did not go straight across the moor, but went by way of the small
hamlet of Holwick. Everything looked bright and green after the rain,
varied by the grey stone walls, that ran across the country, separating
the little holdings. The distance was brilliantly blue and the wide
spaciousness that characterises the great rolling moorland scenery was
enhanced by the beauty of the day.
The children turned into the second cottage which was even humbler than
its neighbours. It was a long, low, thatched building, roughly built
of stone with clay instead of mortar. Within, a portion was divided
off at one end by a wooden partition. There was no window save one
small opening under the low eaves which was less than six feet from the
ground. It was about eight inches square and filled with a piece of
oiled canvas on a rudely made movable frame instead of glass. In warm
weather it often stood open.
The children stumbled as they entered the dark room and crossed the
uneven floor of stamped earth. There was no movable furniture save
one or two wooden kists or chests, a dilapidated spinning wheel and a
couple of small stools. In the very middle of the floor was a fire of
peats on a flat slab of stone in the ground and a simple hole in the
roof allowed the choking smoke to escape after it had wandered round
the whole building.
An old man, bent double with rheumatism, hastened forward as the
children came to the door and, holding out both his hands, shook
Audry’s and Aline’s at the same time. “I am right glad to see you,” he
said, “and may the Mother of God watch over you.”
He quickly brought two stools and, carefully dusting them first, bade
his young visitors sit down by the fire.
“How is Joan to-day, Peter,” asked Aline, “she isn’t out again is she?”
“No, Mistress Aline, she has been worse the last few days and is in
bed, but maybe the brighter weather will soon see her out and about.”
He hobbled over toward a corner of the cottage, where a box-bed stood
out from the wall. It was closed in all around like a great cupboard,
with sliding shutters in the front. These were drawn back, but the
interior was concealed by a curtain. He drew aside this curtain and
within lay a little girl about eleven years old with thin wasted
cheeks and hollow sunken eyes. She stretched out her small hand as the
two children approached and a smile lit up the white drawn face.
Aline stooped and kissed her. “Oh, Joan,” she said, “I wish you would
get well, but it is always the same, no sooner are you up than you are
back in bed again. I have been asking Master Mowbray about you and he
has promised that the leech from Barnard Castle shall come and see you
as soon as he can get word to him.”
“It is good of you to think and plan about me, Mistress Aline, and I
believe I am not quite so badly to-day, but I wish that horrid old
‘Moll o’ the graves’ would not come in here and look at me. She does
frighten me so. Mother was always so frightened of Moll.”
“She is a wretched old thing,” said Audry, “but do not let us think
about her.”
“You mustn’t thank us, anybody would do the same,” said Aline; “you
cannot think how sorry we are to see you like this, and you must just
call me Aline the same as I call you Joan. See! Audry and I have
brought you a few flowers and some little things from the Hall that old
Elspeth has put up for us, and when the leech comes, he will soon make
you well again.”
“I sometimes wonder whether I shall ever get well any more; each time
I have to go back to bed I seem to be worse. All my folk are gone now
and I am the only one left. The flowers are right bonnie though and
the smell of them does me good,” she added, as she lifted the bunch of
early carnations that the children had brought.
After she had spoken she let her hand fall and lay quite still gazing
at the two as though even the few words had been too great an effort.
The bed looked very uncomfortable and Aline and Audry did their best
to smooth it a little, after which Joan closed her eyes and seemed
inclined to sleep.
“I wish we could get her up to the Hall,” said Aline in a whisper, “the
smoke is so terrible and I never saw such a dreadful place as that bed.”
“Mother would never hear of it; so it’s no use your thinking of such a
thing.”
They returned to the fire and sat down on the stools for a few moments
before leaving.
“Ay, the child is about right,” said the old man, “her poor mother
brought her here from Kirkoswald when her man died last November.
Sarah Moulton was a sort of cousin of my wife who has been lying down
in Middleton churchyard this many a long year. She lived in this very
house as a girl and seemed to think she would be happier here than in
Kirkoswald. Well, it was not the end of March before she had gone too
and the lassie is all that is left.”
The children bade farewell and went out. As they passed the end of the
house they saw the black figure of an old woman creeping round the back
as though not wishing to be seen.
“Oh, there’s that horrible old woman! ‘Moll o’ the graves,’” said
Audry; “let us run. I wonder what she has been doing listening round
the house; I hate her. You know, Aline, they say she does all manner
of dreadful things, that it was she who made all old Benjamin Darley’s
sheep die. Some people say she eats children and if she cannot get hold
of them alive she digs them up from their graves at night. I do not
believe it, but come along.”
“No, I want to see what she is doing,” said Aline; “I am sure she is up
to no good. I believe that she has been spying outside waiting for us
to depart, so that she can go in.”
“But you cannot prevent her,” said Audry.
“We must prevent her,” said Aline; “she might frighten Joan to death.”
Aline was right and the old woman came round from the other end of the
house and approached the cottage door. Aline at once advanced and stood
between the old woman and the door, while Audry followed and took up
her position beside Aline.
“What do you want, mother?” said Aline.
“What business is that of yours?” said the old dame savagely; “you
clear away from that door or I will make it the worse for you.”
She raised her stick as she spoke and glared at the children. It was
not her physical strength that frightened them, as they were two in
number, although she was armed with a stick, but something gruesome and
unearthly about her manner. Aline took a step forward so as half to
shelter Audry, but her breath came quickly and she was filled with an
unspeakable dread.
“You must not go in there,” said the child firmly; “there is a little
girl within who is sick and she must not be disturbed.”
“I shall do as I please and go in if I please,” she muttered, advancing
to the door and laying her hand on the latch.
Aline at once seized her by the shoulders, saying, “I may want your
help, Audry,” and gently but firmly turned her round and guided her
on to the road. Moll made no resistance, as she feared the publicity
of the road and moreover the girls were both strong and well built,
though of different types. Aline then stepped so as to face her, and
keeping one hand on her shoulder, she said, as she looked her full in
the eyes,--“go home, Moll, Joan is not well enough to see any one else
to-day,--go home.”
The old woman’s eyes dropped; she was cowed; she felt herself in the
presence of something she had never met before, as she caught the fire
in those intense blue eyes. “I will never forgive you,” she snarled,
but she skulked down the road like a beaten dog.
The children stood and watched her, feeling a little shaken after their
unpleasant experience.
“What a good thing you were there,” said Audry. “I am sure she would
have frightened Joan terribly.”
“Come, let us forget it,” and they raced down to the waterfall.
It was a magnificent sight, one great seething mass of foam,
cream-white as it boiled over the cliff; while below, the dark brown
peat-coloured water swirled, mysteriously swift and deep, and rainbows
danced in the flying spray. They walked down the stream a little way
watching the rushing flood, when Aline suddenly cried out, “Audry, what
is that on the other side?”
Just under the rock, partly concealed by the over-hanging foliage,
could be made out with some difficulty the form of a man. He was lying
quite still and although they watched for a long time he never moved at
all.
“I wonder if he is hiding,” said Audry.
“I am sure he is not,” said Aline. “It would be a very poor place to
hide, particularly when there are so many better ones quite close by.
He may be drowned.”
“Possibly, but I think he is too high out of the water.”
“Then perhaps he is only hurt; I wonder if there is anything that we
could do.”
“We might go up to the Hall and get help,” Audry suggested.
“Yes,” said Aline, doubtfully, as the thought crossed her mind that he
might be the poor stranger whom the country-side was hunting like a
beast of prey and although she could not explain her feelings she felt
too much pity to do anything that might help the hunters and therefore
it would not be wise to go to the Hall. It was partly the natural
gentleness of her nature and partly her instinctive abhorrence of the
vindictive way in which Mistress Mowbray had spoken on the previous
night.
Then a shudder passed through her as she looked at the foaming torrent.
Any help that could be given must be through that. Aline was only
a child; but until she came to Holwick Hall she had lived entirely
with older people and realised as children rarely do the full horror
of death. It was so easy to stay where she was, she was not even
absolutely certain that the stranger was in any real danger. It was not
her concern. But Aline from long association with her brave father had
a measure of masculine physical courage that will even court danger
and that overcame her natural girlish timidity, and along with that
she had in unusual degree the true feminine courage that can suffer in
silence looking for no approval, no victory and no reward, the stuff
of which martyrs are made. “He is obviously unfortunate,” she said to
herself,--“Oh, if I could only help him, what does it matter about me,
and yet how beautiful the day is, the rainbows, the clear air, the
flowers and dear Audry; must I risk them all?”
She was not sure, however, what line her cousin might take and
therefore did not like to express her thoughts aloud. On the other hand
she could do nothing without Audry, but she thought it best to keep her
own counsel and do as much as she could before Audry could possibly
hinder her. So she only said;--“But if we went for help to the Hall
it might be too late before any one came, if he is injured and still
alive.”
At this moment both of them distinctly saw the figure move, and Aline
at once said, “Oh, we must help him at once. I am sure we should not be
in time if we went up to the Hall. We might find no one who could come
and there might be all manner of delays.”
“But whatever can you do, Aline, he is on the other side?”
“I shall try and swim across,” she said, after thinking a moment.
“What, in all this flood! That is impossible.”
“I think I could manage it, if I went a little lower down the river
where the torrent is not quite so bad.”
“Aline, you will be killed; you must not think of it.”
But Aline had already started down the bank to the spot that she had in
her mind. Audry ran after her, horror struck and yet unable to offer
further opposition.
“Well,” she said, “you are always astonishing me,” as Aline was taking
off her shoes; “you seem too timid and quiet, and here you are doing
what a man would not attempt.”
“My father would have attempted it,” was all that Aline vouchsafed in
reply.
She took off her surcoat, her coat-hardie and her hose, and then turned
and kissed Audry. “There is no one to care but you,” she said, “if I
never come back.”
For a few moments the little slim figure stood looking at the black
whirling of the treacherous water, her dainty bare feet on the hard
rocks. Her white camise lifted and fluttered over her limbs like the
draperies of some Greek maiden, the sunlight flushing the delicate
texture of her skin, while her beautiful hair flew behind her in the
breeze. It was but a passing hesitation and then she plunged in and
headed diagonally up the river. She struck out hard and found that she
could make some progress from the shore although she was being swiftly
carried down the stream. If only she could reach the other side before
she was swept down to the rapids below, where she must inevitably be
smashed to pieces on the rocks! It was a terrible struggle and Audry
sat down on the bank and watched her, overcome by tears. “Oh, Aline,
little Aline,” she cried, “why did I ever let you go?” At last she
could bear to look no longer. Aline had drawn nearer and nearer to the
rapids, and although she was now close to the further bank there seemed
not the slightest hope of her getting through.
She held on bravely, straining herself to the utmost, but it was no
use;--she was in the rapids when only a couple of yards from the
shore. Almost at once she struck a great rock, but, as it seemed by
a miracle, although much bruised, she was carried over the smooth
water-worn surface and by a desperate movement that taxed her strength
to the uttermost, was able to force herself across it and the small
intervening space of broken water and scramble on to the shore.
When Audry at length looked up, Aline was standing wringing the water
out of her dripping hair, shaken and bruised and cut in several places,
but alive. She took off the garment she had on and wrung it out before
putting it on again. She then paused for a moment not knowing what to
do. Blood was flowing freely from a deep cut below the right knee and
also from a wound on the back of her right shoulder. She hesitated to
tear her things for fear of the wrath of Mistress Mowbray, but at the
same time was frightened at the loss of blood. Finally she tore off
some strips of linen and bandaged herself as well as she could manage
and made her way to where the man was lying.
Ian Menstrie had had a hard struggle. He had been working as a
carpenter in Paris and had fallen in with some of his exiled countrymen
and become for a time a servant to John Knox. It was three weeks
since he had left France with the important documents that he was
bearing from Knox and others; and only his iron determination had
carried him through. Time and again nothing but the utmost daring and
resourcefulness had enabled him to slip through his enemies’ hands. He
had actually been searched twice unsuccessfully before he was finally
arrested as a heretic at York. After extreme suffering he had escaped
again and the precious papers were still with him. He had reached Aske
Hall in Yorkshire, some twenty miles or so, over the hills, from
Holwick, the home of Elizabeth of Aske, mother of Margaret Bowes, whom
Knox had married, a lady with whom the reformer regularly corresponded.
But almost at once he again had to give his pursuers the slip, and he
made his way up Teesdale with the precious papers still on him.
Although they were hot on his trail he had managed to get through
Middleton in the night unobserved and would probably have reached the
hills and got away North, unseen; but he met a little four-year-old boy
on the road, who had fallen and hurt himself and was sitting in the
rain and crying bitterly. There was nothing serious about it, but the
child had a large bruise on his forehead. Ian had hesitated a moment,
looking apprehensively behind, but stopped and bathed the bruise at a
beck close by, comforted the child and carried him to his home and set
him down just outside the little garden.
The delay, however, had cost him dear; the day was now fully up and
two or three people noticed the stranger as he left the road to try
and make for the steepest ground where pursuit would be less easy.
Shortly afterwards he had seen men in the distance, both on foot and
on horseback, setting out on his track and, with infinite difficulty,
availing himself of every hollow, at the risk of being seen at any
moment he had made his way to the river. If only he could get across,
he argued, he might consider himself tolerably safe. They would never
suspect that he was on that side and it was in any case the best
road to the North. He knew little of the country, of course, or that
there was a better place to attempt the feat lower down the stream.
He leaped in where he found himself and being a strong swimmer he
made his way over but was sucked down by an eddy and dashed against
the cliff on the opposite side, but on coming to the surface again he
had just sufficient strength to get out of the water and crawl along
the ledge of rock to where the overhanging leaves afforded at least a
partial concealment. Indeed, the place was such an unlikely one that
anybody actually searching for him would probably have overlooked it.
He had lain there for hours, the pain in his head being intense. One
ankle was badly sprained and much swollen and he felt sure that he
had broken his left collar bone. He had had nothing to eat for days
and the dizziness and the pain together caused him repeatedly to fall
into a fitful doze from which he would wake trembling, with his heart
beating violently. It was after one of these dozes that he woke and,
on opening his eyes, saw a little figure in white bending over him,
whose large dark blue eyes, filled with pity, were looking into his
face. Her long hair fell down so as to touch him and her beautiful arms
rested on the rock on either side of his head. At first he thought it
was a water-sprite with dripping locks, of which many tales were told
by the country folk, and then he noticed the blood oozing from below
the bandage on the little arm. “Who are you?” he asked at last, as his
senses gradually returned.
“My name is Aline and I have come to help you,” she said.
“But, sweet child, how can you do that?”
As his brain became clearer he became more able to face the situation.
Who could this exquisite fairy-like little damsel possibly be, and
how could she ever have heard of him and why should any family that
wished to help him do it by the hands of any one so young? Then she was
wet and wounded, which made the case still more extraordinary. “Little
one,” he went on, “why have you come; do you know who I am?”
“No,” she said, “but I saw you lying on the rock and so I came across
to try and do something for you.”
“You do not mean to say that you swam that raging river?”
“It was the only way to reach you.”
“And you are really a little girl and not a water fay?” he asked half
playfully and half wondering if there really could be such things, as
so many people seriously believed. It was almost easier to believe in
fairies than to believe that a little girl had actually swum that flood.
“Of course I am; you have hurt your head and are talking nonsense.”
It seemed hard to tell her who he was; this charming little maiden
would then hate him like the rest. It was not that he thought that she
could possibly be of serious assistance to him; but it was a vision of
delight and there was a music in the sound of her voice that to the
exile reminded him of his own country. Yet he felt it was his duty and
indeed the child might be running great risks and get herself into
dire trouble even by speaking to him, so intense was the hatred of the
heretics.
“Child, you must not help me. I am a heretic.”
“I guessed that you were,” she said, and the large eyes were full of
pity, “but somehow I feel that it is right to aid any one in distress.”
“When you are older, little one, you will think differently. It is
only your sweet natural child-heart that instinctively sees the right
without prejudice or sophistry.”
“I am afraid that I do not understand you; but we must not stop talking
here, we must get you to a place of safety.”
“Will your people help me?” he said, as a possible explanation occurred
to him. “Are they of the reformed faith?”
“Are they heretics? you mean; no, indeed.” There was just the suspicion
of a touch of scorn in her voice; it was true that to her a heretic was
a member of a despised class, but there was also a slight, commingling
of bitterness that gave the ring to her words, and which he did not
detect, when she thought of the unreasoning and uncharitable prejudice
that Mistress Mowbray had shown the day before.
“But that does not mean that I would not help you,” she went on. “See
this is what we must do. Somehow or other we must get back to the other
side and first I ought to bandage your head. Have you hurt yourself
anywhere else?” She looked him up and down as she spoke. “Oh, your
ankle is all swollen and bleeding where you have torn your hose; we
must try and do something for that.”
“That can wait for the present,” he said, glancing apprehensively at
his shoes, which mercifully were still uninjured on his feet; “the
worst thing is that I think that I have broken my collar bone. But
before we do anything I must try and help you bandage your shoulder
more satisfactorily for it is bleeding very badly. That will not be
very easy,” he added, smiling, “as I have only one arm and you yourself
cannot reach it.”
She let him try and between them they managed it somehow, and he
wondered again as he tenderly manipulated the bandage, how such a
little fragile thing could be undertaking such a strenuous task.
“I have not time to explain,” said Aline, “but there is a secret
chamber in the Hall where you could be hidden, but we could not
possibly get you there until it is dark. There is, however, a hollow
tree on the other side where we sometimes play, in which you can sit
with your feet outside and they can be covered up with grass and
leaves. It is perhaps a little dangerous but I see no other way if your
life is to be saved. Can you bend your arm at all?” she went on. “Has
it any strength in it?”
“It is practically useless,” he replied.
“Well, somehow or other we have to swim back across that river; and it
is lucky that it is enormously easier from this side. The rapids set
towards this bank and on the other side there is a sort of backwater
opposite to where the rapids begin on this. We can also with very
little danger venture to start some twenty yards higher up than I did
when I was coming.”
“But I do not think I could swim at all in that rush with only one
arm, and in any case you will have to go round; you must not dream of
attempting to swim that water again.”
With all her gentleness there was something very queenly about Aline.
She lifted her head and said,--“We must both go and you must somehow
hold on to me and there is no more to be said.”
He tried to dissuade her, but the little thing was adamant. He despised
himself for allowing a child to help him at all, but was almost as
under a spell. His will power under normal conditions was one of the
most remarkable things about him; but the pain of fatigue and the long
nervous strain had deprived him for the moment of his self-mastery. His
head was full of strange noises and he seemed as though he were in a
dream. At last he yielded, retaining just enough self-consciousness to
determine that he would let himself go, and drown, if he were too great
a drag on her. It was clear, as she said, that if she had already swum
the other way, there was little real risk for her alone. Moreover the
water was falling all the time and, even since she had come over, the
stream was slightly less.
Before starting Aline looked round everywhere cautiously and then
called to Audry, who was watching on the other side, to have a long
branch ready to hold out to them. When Audry had obtained the branch
they entered the water. Although the pain was almost intolerable he
had decided to put his injured arm on her shoulder and it answered
beyond their expectations. He was a very strong swimmer and all that
it was necessary for Aline to do was to give the slight help necessary
to counteract the one-sided tendency and to improve the balance of the
forward part of the body, which otherwise would greatly have reduced
the speed. So well did they manage it that they even got across with
some ten yards to spare, being still further helped by Audry’s branch.
They clambered up the bank, a task not easy of accomplishment, and took
Ian Menstrie at once to the tree which was close by. Aline put on her
clothes, taking the remains of her linen shift for bandages. Luckily
she had on several occasions in her father’s house helped to nurse
the injured and knew how to bind the collar bone and make as good a
piece of work of the ankle as the extemporised bandages would allow.
Then bidding him good-bye the children hurried back to the Hall. Aline
longed to take him food but decided that, sad as it was, it would be
better to run no risks whatever. Moreover, she wanted to discover the
passage under the moat and there was none too long before the evening
meal.