THE PRISONER
As they walked rapidly back, their tongues moved faster than their feet.
“Well, you’ve beaten Burd Aline,” said Audry, laughing; “you’ve rescued
your knight before you even know his name. But I’m quite sure it’s
all the wrong way round;--the knight should rescue his lady. Besides,
what’s the good of a man in homespun; you need some grand person; you
do not know how to do these things, my lady. I wonder who he is.”
“He’s Scots anyway; one can tell that from his accent.”
“I suppose you think a Scots peasant better than an English gentleman.”
“I will not be denying it,” laughed Aline.
“Oh! then yours shall be a peasant-knight, you always choose things
different from other people. But I like his face, it looks strong.”
“Yes, but I am afraid he has had a terrible time,” said Aline; “how sad
those deep-set eyes are; but they seem determined.”
“Don’t you like his mouth and chin? It’s a strong chin and I like those
well-shaped sensitive lips.”
“Yes, but I think the eyes are more striking.”
“It’s no good, though, having a knight at all, certainly not a
peasant-knight,” said Audry roguishly, “unless he has nice lips.”
Aline smiled. “You’re getting frivolous. Now be serious, we have a
great deal to do.”
They reached the Hall, ran up to their bedroom and before they started
on their further explorations Aline took out the book so as to be
prepared for emergencies. She read on for some time and discovered
several things, one was the way to open the trap door that led into
the cave and especially the way that it could be made to open from
the outside if the inner bolts were not fastened. Another important
discovery was that the door of their room could be locked by an
ingenious bolt in the secret stairway, that pushed back from the
bolt-hole into the lock itself. This enabled any one to leave the room
unlocked when away, so as to excite no suspicion. Yet on returning,
after seeing that the room was empty, by peering through a small
slit, one could, by locking the door, make sure that one would not be
caught by any one entering the room at the same moment. The children
again made their way down the stairs to the secret room where they
paused a few moments to look at things for which there was not time
on the previous occasion. There were several cupboards, one of which
had stone shelves and was clearly intended for a larder. There was
amongst other things a large iron chest, which did not seem to have any
lock and which greatly excited their curiosity. In another chest they
found several pistols and swords besides a few foils and some fencing
masks. There were also some tools and some rope and a whole wardrobe of
clothes of many kinds. Most of the things were very old but a certain
number were comparatively recent. At the same time there was nothing to
indicate that the room had been used for the last twenty years.
“Come, we must not stay looking at these things, however interesting,”
said Aline; “we must be getting on. But I am glad there is a nice
place to keep food; only we shall have a great difficulty in getting a
supply.”
She opened a little door as she spoke and once more they found
themselves in a narrow passage that led down a flight of steps. It
turned abruptly to the right at the bottom of the steps and then went
absolutely straight for what seemed to them an interminable length.
It was only the thought of the wounded man that prevented them from
turning back. There was a little drain at the bottom of the passage
and the whole sloped slightly so that the water that percolated freely
through the walls was carried off.
At last they reached the end, where the passage terminated in a short
flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a basin hollowed in
the rock and this was fed by a spring of delicious water. They went
up these and found a curious door made of stone. It was fastened with
huge wooden bolts, a precaution, as they afterwards guessed, against
rust. They passed through and discovered that the other side of the
door was quite irregular and rough and the chamber in which they
found themselves, if chamber it could be called, was like a natural
cave. In the middle of the rocky floor was a great stone. Even this
looked natural although they found that, as the book had said, it was
so cunningly shaped and balanced that it would swing into a vertical
position without much effort and allow of a man dropping through on
one side of it. But the clever part of it was,--that what looked like
accidental breaks in the stone were so arranged that certain other
blocks could be fitted into them and the surrounding rock so that it
could not be moved. If then by any accident any one should make his way
into the chamber he would only think that he had come into a natural
cave. Audry let herself down through the hole and with the help of
Aline dropped to the ground, and found herself in a small fissure or
cave, more or less blocked by underwood, where the stream ran through
a little hollow or gully. She succeeded in getting back after making
several unsuccessful attempts.
“It is an excellent place,” said Audry, “but however shall we get him
through that passage, it is so very narrow and so terribly long.”
“We might even have to leave him in the cave room to-night,” Aline
replied, “but I think it would be a good idea to count our steps on the
way back. It will be interesting to know how long it is, and we shall
also be able to tell in future how far we are at any moment from the
end.”
This they did and found that it was 1100 paces, which they reckoned
would be as nearly as possible half a mile. Before they entered their
bedroom again they experimented with the secret bolt that fastened the
door, which acted perfectly, although, like everything else, they found
that it would be the better for a little oil.
It seemed a long evening, but at last it was time to go to bed. The
children went upstairs and waited impatiently until they were quite
sure that every one was asleep. They had managed to secrete a little
food to take with them and also a few pieces of firewood, and put a
little more in the secret room as they made their way out. They had
already begun to get somewhat used to the stair and found even the long
secret passage less alarming. It was a clear night although there was
no moon, and they made their way without difficulty to the hollow tree.
They found Ian Menstrie stiff with cold and in great pain, but his
senses almost preternaturally alert.
“I am so glad you have come,” he said. “I thought that something had
prevented you and was wondering whether I could live here till the
morning.”
Ian’s nature was a combination of strength and tenderness and was as
likely to be exercising its force in protecting or shielding as in
attacking. He had resolutely carried on the work that he felt to be
his duty in spite of the most terrible risks and, when he had finally
been captured and concluded that it was equally his duty to escape,
he had carried out his plans with a ruthless determination; but, in
the presence of these children, only the extreme tenderness of his
character was called into play.
He looked at the two small figures and, in spite of his terrible
plight, his heart smote him that they should be wandering about at
night instead of getting their rest, and particularly Aline, who had
been through so much already.
“It is good of you to come, and oh, I do hope that you will take no
harm. How are you feeling, little one?” he asked, addressing Aline.
“Oh, I am all right,” she said brightly, for she did not wish him or
Audry to know how her arm pained her, and indeed the excitement was
in a way keeping her up. “It is you who are to be asked after; we have
brought you a little to eat now and there will be something else when
we get to the secret room.”
It was a painful journey. Ian set his teeth and tried to make the best
of it and lean on his small guides as little as possible, but he was
at the last gasp and he was a heavy burden. Luckily he had a naturally
strong constitution and forced it to do its work by the exceptional
strength of his will or he would have succumbed altogether. But he
felt that what he had been through in the last two weeks had weakened
his mental power and was glad that there was a chance for at least a
respite before he would be called upon to face his tormentors again.
In his present condition he felt that he could not answer for himself
and the thought was too terrible. Supposing that they should put him on
the rack once more and that he should deny his faith! Perhaps for the
present at least he was to be spared this.
They very slowly made their way along the bed of the stream and
eventually reached the cave. Aline helped Audry up through the trap
door first, and then the children just succeeded in getting the injured
man through, for he was becoming less and less able to help himself.
Then began the long weary passage.
It was an exhausting process and Ian Menstrie seemed to be settling
into a sort of stupor. They had gone about 700 paces when he fell right
down. “I will be going on in a minute,” he answered. So they waited a
moment or two and then asked him if he was ready. “Oh, I am coming in a
minute,” he said once more. They waited again for a time but when they
roused him, each time it was the same reply. “Oh, yes, certainly, I am
coming just in a moment.” Finally there was nothing to be done but half
carry him and half drag him along.
“I wish we had put him in the cave to-night,” exclaimed Audry.
“But we should never have got enough things there to make him
comfortable,” said Aline. “I think we are really doing what is best and
it will not be long now before we are there.”
Aline’s shoulder was excruciating, and she knew that it was bleeding
again. Her other cut had also opened with the strain, and every limb
in her little body ached as it had never done in her life. “I must be
brave,” she said to herself; “what would father have done if he had
been here?” The cold sweat stood on her brow but she never uttered a
murmur and was anxious that Audry, who was fairly worn out herself,
should not know how bad she was feeling. The last 50 yards she
accomplished in intense agony and her thankfulness to reach the chamber
was inexpressible.
They lit the fire and laid Menstrie on the bed. Then they gave him some
water which seemed to revive him a good deal and he was able to thank
them and to take food.
When he seemed to have come to himself Aline sat down on a chair. She
leaned back and commenced to shiver, her teeth chattered till her
whole frame shook. The others were frightened; it was clear that she
was suffering from collapse. Luckily there was a fair supply of wood,
as there had been several large pieces in the room when the children
discovered it, and they had brought a quantity of small stuff.
So there was soon a roaring fire and they were able to give Aline
something hot to drink. Ian in spite of his own injuries did all that
he could. They managed to shift the oak bed a little nearer to the
fire and warmed blankets and wrapped Aline in them and laid her on the
bed. Gradually the shivering passed away, but she lay there looking
very white and shaken, with great black rings round her eyes, as if
they had been bruised. Her wounds caused her considerable pain. Audry,
who was a sweet hearted child but without the imaginative sympathy and
intense self-sacrifice of her little cousin, toiled up the stairs and
brought down some fresh linen. They then gently washed the wounds and
put clean oil upon them, Ian cursing himself all the while because of
his helplessness with his single hand, but able from many fighting
experiences to direct Audry in the manipulation of the bandages.
“Is that more comfortable?” he asked when they had finished.
“Yes,” she said smiling, “I feel ever so much better and I think that I
could go to sleep.”
Audry then assisted Ian to bandage his ankle, and under his directions
also saw that the broken bone was all right. He then lay down on the
bed and Audry curled herself in a great chair and went to sleep.
For Ian sleep was out of the question; and he lay there watching the
firelight dancing on the faces of the slumbering children, the one
beautiful with a robust health and well cut features and strongly built
limbs, finely proportioned throughout; the other beautiful entirely
beyond any ordinary beauty, with an extreme delicacy and subtlety
in every line of her face as he had already noticed in her figure,
yet never even suggesting the least touch of weakness. He had never
seen such hair, which seemed to cover the bed. Its rich deep colour
glowed with an extraordinary lustre and he noticed that her skin,
unlike that of most people with red hair, was absolutely clear and
marked by a strange translucent quality that was unique. One small
arm was lying out on the coverlet with the sleeve tucked up. He had
not realised before that a child’s arm could show so much variety of
form and modelled surface and yet retain the essential slenderness and
daintiness of childhood. She might well have been some fairy princess
sleeping among the flowers.
Aline’s beauty undoubtedly had about it something supernatural. It was
all in keeping with her manner and character. There was an atmosphere
of another world about her of which every one who met her sooner or
later became aware. It could not be put into words and could not be
analysed. In a sense it was unnatural, but so far from repelling any
one it had about it a mysterious, almost magical fascination that was
irresistible.
Only the basest natures failed to be drawn by it, and even in their
cases it was not that they did not feel it, but that they consciously
withstood it as a power with which their whole nature was at variance.
Ian was devoutly glad that she was no worse and offered up a prayer
of thankfulness that she was at least safe. As he looked at her he
recalled her soft, not very pronounced, musical Scots accent, and
his thoughts turned to the land of his birth. Her face too!--why
had he not noticed it before, how strangely like it was in certain
aspects to the face of his dreams, that still followed him wherever
he went, although he had not seen it for thirteen years? He had,
however, reluctantly to admit that this mere child’s face was even more
beautiful. After all she too had really been only a child, although
rather more than a couple of years older than himself, when he had
worshipped her with all the fervour of a boy’s adoration and had
suddenly lost sight of her when her parents had unexpectedly taken her
away to be married. But the face had lived with him day and night, and
no other face had ever come between him and his vision. Nor had the
discovery long afterward,--that she had died soon after her child was
born, ever inclined him to look elsewhere.
Aline moaned slightly and moved her head uneasily as though not quite
comfortable. He smoothed the pillow for her and registered a vow that
he would do all that he could to serve her, not only in return for what
she had done for him, but for the sake of the chance resemblance to
that one who had gone and who through all these years had meant so much
to him.
And yet who was he to serve or to help any one?--a wanderer with a
price upon his head; and he began to turn over the events of the
last few years in his mind. All had promised so well with him and
yet everything had been adverse. He had early distinguished himself
both for his learning and his military skill, which drew down upon
him the envy of his brothers, particularly the eldest, when, as a
mere boy, he was one of the few who distinguished himself in the
unfortunate battle of Pinkey Cleugh and he had looked forward to some
recognition or advancement, but the jealousy of his brothers had made
that impossible. Then he had fallen under the influence of George
Wishart[10] and incurred the undying anger of his father, and so great
was the enmity of the family that finally he fled the country, first
to England and afterwards, at Mary’s accession, to France and then to
Italy, where he spent some years and followed first the calling of a
smith. There he not only learned about the making of arms but acquired
a considerable facility in the new art of swordsmanship as practised
in Italy. Nor were his fingers idle in other ways; he executed designs
first in metalwork and then in wood and other materials and became
an accomplished draughtsman besides exhibiting great creative power.
He might even have become one of the world’s great artists had not
circumstances directed his energies into other fields.
[10] The great Scottish reformer and martyr.
It was his brothers he knew who were behind his present trouble and it
cut him to the quick. He had no enmity to them. It was not his fault
that they had not distinguished themselves. For the sake of friendship
he would willingly have obliterated his achievements and have given up
everything to them; but of course that could not be, yet they would
not forget. He had been for the last month in prison and strong as he
undoubtedly still was, it was nothing to what he had been. Many a time
had his slight wiry frame astonished his comrades by its extraordinary
powers of endurance.
He was lightly built and excellently proportioned, with rather broad
shoulders that particularly suited the costume of the day. He had
on more than one occasion sat for artists in Italy, including Paolo
Veronese himself, because of the exceptional beauty of his figure.
His escape had been almost a miracle, as he had no friends in the
country and he had to think and carry on everything himself; he had
been nearly caught again twice and he had shuddered as he thought of
the fate of George Wishart whom he had himself seen strangled and burnt
at the stake. It was true that for the moment he was safe, but for how
long? He looked at the beautiful child and shuddered again. Suppose
he should in any way implicate her. The priests would have no more
pity upon her than upon himself. No, that he would not do. He would
die rather than that. Would it not be best for him to go away at once
rather than be a possible cause of injury to anything so gentle and
brave and fair?
He rose up as the thought came to him; yes, he would go away; it should
never be said that he had brought calamity upon a child. He stumbled
across the floor and made his way down to the passage, but he had not
realised how weak he was. Hitherto he had been buoyed up by excitement;
now that that was over the pain was more than he could stand and he
fainted and fell heavily to the ground.
When he again came to, he realised the impossibility of his getting
away down the long passage, and he also began to wonder whether after
all he might not be of more use if he stayed. He did not as yet know
who the child was; it was clear that she was Scots and did not belong
to the family of Holwick Hall; perhaps in the workings of Providence he
had been sent there to be of some use to her. He could at least wait
and find out a few things and then see what was best to be done. So he
crawled back to the room again and waited for the morning.
To while away the time he took off his shoes to see that they were all
right.
They were peculiarly made, with false inner soles of many thicknesses
of parchment, covered with oil silk and several layers of paint.
These were the precious documents that had been purposely written in
that shape. The false soles were secured by stout canvas and thin
leather covers which formed part of the shoes. They could not be taken
out without cutting the shoes to pieces.
As far as he could see they seemed to have sustained no damage in spite
of the wetting.
There were three minute slits or peepholes in the corners and middle
of the room. These were evidently intended as lookout places and were
covered with small sliding shutters which he opened. The night seemed
almost interminable, but at length the dawn began to break. He waited
as long as he dared and then woke Audry.
“Where am I?” she exclaimed; “oh, I remember. How are you and how is
Aline?” She rose as she spoke and went towards the sleeping figure. “I
suppose we ought to wake her,--Aline, dear, wake up.”
Aline opened her eyes and gradually roused herself. She was certainly
better than on the previous night, but still obviously very ill.
However, there was nothing to be done but to get her upstairs somehow,
and then there was no alternative but to leave her in bed.
The children looked at each other. “Whatever shall we say?” said Audry.
“We must not say what is not true,” answered Aline.
“No, but we cannot tell them everything.”
“It is very difficult.”
“Could you not say that you fell on a rock, Aline?”
“That is not what I mean is difficult.”
“I do not understand.”
“I mean it is difficult to know how to speak the truth. Even if we do
not say what is untrue we let them think wrongly.”
“Well, we cannot help that, Aline.”
“I do not know, it seems to me that it comes to the same thing as if we
told them a falsehood.”
“Oh, bother them; if they ask no questions they will get told no
stories.”
Aline’s mind was not satisfied; but, after all their calamities,
fortune now favoured the children. There came a knock at the door
and Elspeth, Audry’s old nurse, came in. “You are rather late this
morning,” she said, and then she noticed that Aline was still in bed,
“and one of you not up. Marry now, but it is a good thing for you
that Mistress Mowbray has other things to think of this morning. She
has just received an urgent letter from her sister at Appleby to say
that she has been taken sick, and will she come over without delay.
The serving man that brought the letter has only just now returned
homeward.”
“What is the matter with Aunt Ann?” asked Audry.
“Oh, it is nothing to fret yourself about, hinnie,” the old woman went
on, “but such an upset and turmoil in the house you never saw. Mistress
Mowbray is carrying he were to be staying there the rest of her life;
and Appleby only those few miles away too. Well, I must hurry away; I
have more to do than I can manage.”
“Oh, nurse, can Aline stay in bed this morning? She is not very well;
she hurt herself a little yesterday. I will bring up her breakfast; it
is nothing serious.”
“All right, dearie,--it’s nothing serious?” she repeated as she heard
Mistress Mowbray’s voice calling angrily from the bottom of the stairs.
“I am glad of that, but I must go,” and she departed.
Aline had kept her face away so that Elspeth should not see how ill she
looked. The children were much relieved when they heard the footsteps
die away.
In a way Aline’s illness even helped them, as it enabled Audry to take
up food without suspicion, and it was thus possible, owing to the
general confusion in the house, to lay in a small supply for the other
invalid below.
The next morning Aline was considerably better, having the marvellous
recuperative power of childhood, but it was clear that she would not be
herself for some time.
“You do look a sight, you know,” said Audry, throwing her arms round
her neck. “Your eyelids and all round the eyes up to the eyebrow are
still black. Whatever shall we do now, because nurse will certainly
come up to-day?”
“She is a dear old thing and you can always get round her. I shall get
up and go down and stand with my back to the light and keep my head
low, and hope that no one will notice; then you must get nurse to let
us have a holiday and take our dinner with us on to the hills. We
can stay away till it is dark and then no one will see. I am ever so
much better to-day and shall be all right to-morrow. We need only go a
little way and it is a beautiful day, and I can lie in the sunshine.
I wonder how poor Master Menstrie is,” she went on. “I am afraid that
he will take a great deal longer to get well than I shall. You will of
course look after him.”
Aline’s plan succeeded beyond expectation. Master Mowbray was in a
hurry, as he wanted to ride over to Appleby for a few days and Nurse
was busy with preparations. So Aline spent the long summer days on
the moors watching the great white clouds roll over the hills and
thinking of all that had happened in the last few days and the new
responsibilities that had fallen upon her. It was clear that it would
be a difficult matter to feed their guest, particularly as she was
determined not to take food from the house. Perhaps it was true as
Audry said, that people had no right to demand answers to any question
that they might choose to ask; but certainly that did not justify one
in taking what did not belong to one. She was just at the age when
the intelligence begins to arouse itself and face the great problems
of life and this was only one of the questions that stirred her young
mind. There was also the matter of the heretics and again Audry had in
her frank direct way supplied the answer of fair play and common sense.
Aline made up her mind that she would ask Master Menstrie about some of
these things; at least, as Audry had said, there could be no harm in
hearing both sides and she must judge for herself.
Audry went back after a while to see Master Menstrie; and Aline, when
she had been out on the moor for a long time, returned to the Hall as
the afternoon sun was getting low. Before going in, she sat down by the
moat and looked across at the grey pile. The water seemed to be shallow
at that point as though the bank had slipped in and yellow irises were
growing at the edge.
Although the bulk of the building was little more than a hundred
years old, except the early pele tower that had been built into the
structure, time had laid its fingers upon it and it looked very mellow
in the afternoon sun. The stone shingles of the roof were covered
with golden lichen, while, behind the parapet of the little old
tower, a piece of ivy had taken root and hung down through one of the
crenellations trailing a splash of green over the grey wall. There was
a stern beauty about it and the long line of narrow oilettes in the
granary added to the somewhat fortress-like appearance.
As she sat there she saw a small figure approaching; it was Joan.
Aline beckoned to her and she came up shyly and Aline drew her down
to a seat at her side. “I am so glad to see you out again, Joan; I do
hope this is going to be a real lasting improvement,” she said, taking
a little wasted hand in one of her own and putting the fingers of her
other hand round the small wrist. “Why, there’s nothing there at all,”
she went on, blowing at the hand and letting it fall; “see how easily I
can blow it away; why, if I blew hard I should blow it off. You must be
quick and get stronger.”
The little maid shook her head sadly.
“And you mustn’t look so doleful either,” and Aline kissed her in the
corner of each eye which made Joan laugh.
“There, that’s better; now you must forget yourself and I will tell you
a story.”
At that moment Audry appeared on the scene. “Well, you are a pair, you
two,” she said, with a kindly sparkle in her merry brown eyes; “you
could not raise a spot of colour between you; but, Joan, it’s good to
see you out at all, in spite of your pale cheeks. How are you and what
did Master Barlow say?”
“I do not think he knew what was the matter; but he said that I ought
to go away and see if other surroundings would help me. He was a kind
old man.”
“We must see what we can do, Joan, when Master Mowbray comes back from
Appleby.”
“I do not think it is good for either of you to be out in the evening
air,” said Audry. “Come along in, Aline.”
“What is the matter with her, Mistress Audry?” said Joan.
“Oh, nothing,” said Aline; “I shall be all right to-morrow, but I must
obey this tyrannous lady; good-bye, Joan.”
Audry had had difficulties with her patient. Menstrie so far from
improving grew distinctly worse. His head was causing him great pain
and the want of sleep made him a wreck. She had no scruples about the
food like Aline, maintaining in her blunt way that it was the duty of
the house to be kind to the stranger and that, if the other people did
not do their duty, then she must do it for them whatever it involved.
But she was very glad that Aline had so much improved after a few days
as to be able to come and see the invalid with her.
He was obviously in a high fever and was gradually getting delirious.
The old nurse took very little notice of them while her mistress was
away and they would slip out on to the moors and make their way back
to the secret room by the underground passage. As Aline grew strong
Ian’s illness laid a greater and greater hold upon him. Aline insisted
in sitting up with him the greater part of the night. There was not
a great deal that she could do; but she prepared a concoction from
a little yellow flowered plant that grew upon the moor and that was
deemed good for fevers and administered this at regular intervals.
He spoke but rarely, but his eyes would follow her wherever she went.
When his head was exceptionally bad he would complain of the burning
and she would place wet cloths on his brow, or in fits of shivering she
would do all that she could to keep him warm.
At length he seemed to take a distinct turn for the better. One night
after a violent perspiration she was trying to change the bedclothes
and make him more comfortable when he spoke to her quite clearly and
in a voice unlike the almost incoherent ramblings of the last few
days,--“What a wonderful little angel you are,” he said.
“I could not do less,” she replied.
“I see no reason why you should do anything at all; how long have you
been tending me like this?”
“Audry has been attending you a great part of the time.”
“Then I have been ill for a long while.”
“Some little while,” she said, “but you are better now; I have been so
frightened that you would never get well any more.”
“But that would not matter to you.”
Aline laughed,--“Why then I should have had all my trouble for nothing.”
“But it would have been simpler to have taken no trouble at all.”
“Simpler, but how dull; do you know this is the most exciting thing
that has ever happened to me?”
“A poor kind of excitement,” he said; “why, you are looking very ill
yourself; do not people notice it?”
“Oh, yes, they say, ‘You are a little scarecrow.’”
“Who say?”
“Mistress Mowbray, she has come home again to-day.”
“I did not know that she had gone away, but is that all that she says;
does she not suggest doing anything?”
“Marry no, she only said, ‘Child, you have been eating too many good
things while I am away; you must not get ill; I have a great deal of
work for you to do. To-morrow you have to work hard after all this time
of idleness.’ Now you must not talk any more; it is a great thing to
hear you talk properly at all, and it would be foolish to let you make
yourself ill again.”
He wanted her to go on; but again he saw that firm determined look in
her manner that he had noticed before and knew that it would be useless
to try and move her. “Well, little princess,” he said, “if those are
your commands I suppose that they must be obeyed.”
“Certainly, sirrah, it is time that you went to sleep.”
It was fortunate for the children that Menstrie’s illness took a turn
for the better when it did, for it would have been impossible for them
to give him much time after Mistress Mowbray’s return. But it was clear
that it would be a long time before he would be able to get about.
They both came in on the following night and found that while there
was no doubt about the improvement, he was miserably weak and ill.
Aline tried to prevent him from talking, but he was anxious to hear how
things had gone with them. “Well, what have you been doing all day?” he
said.
“We have been hemming great holland sheets,” said Aline.
“Well, that is not very exciting,” he said.
“More exciting perhaps than you think,” said Audry. “Mother was very
cross, and Aline certainly had an exciting time.”
“Hush, Audry,” said Aline very softly.
“I shall not hush, Aline. I wish that mother would not act like that to
you. Do you know,” she went on, “that whenever Aline made the stitches
just the least little bit too big or turned down the hem the least bit
too much or too little, she hit her. Aline, if I were you I would not
stand it; I would tell my father.”
Ian half rose in his bed with anger and then fell back again. “There
you see what you have done,” said Aline, as Ian went as white as the
sheet. It was some moments before he was able to speak and the children
watched him anxiously.
“What a shame,” he went on, in calmer tones.
“Well, we won’t talk about that now,” said Aline; “let us talk of
something nicer. Master Mowbray is going to give me a falcon and I am
going to ride like Audry.”
“I thought that I heard you say that you did not care about riding,
little one,” he said.
“I do not know that I do particularly, but Master Mowbray wished it
for the sake of Audry. I do not think he cared about me one way or the
other. I thought that it might help us in several ways in feeding you.”
“I am afraid I do not quite see that,” he said.
“Well, for one thing, the falcon would have to be fed and sometimes
there would be things that I could give to you and I could get other
things for the falcon instead. I do not like taking things from the
house, and that is why I have tried as far as possible to snare you
rabbits or catch fish in the river. So far we have done very well, but
it is meal or bread that is the chief difficulty.”
“And do you think the falcon or the horse is going to get the bread?”
he asked playfully.
“If you were not ill,” she said, shaking her little hand at him, “I
would punish you.”
He caught the hand and kissed it. “Well, never mind, but I do not see
how either the horse or the falcon is going to help you.”
“It is this way. If we go riding it will be a reason for going
expeditions, and then we can make it an excuse to buy food. If I were
to go and buy food round about here, there would be all manner of
questions asked at once.”
“But, child, you have not any money, and if you had it would not be
right to spend it on me.”
“But I have some; I have five pounds Scots that my father gave me long
ago that I have been keeping in a safe place, and I have six florins
that have been given me by other people.”
“You never told me that you were so rich,” said Audry. “Why, think what
you could buy for all that!”
“Can you get down my jerkin, Audry?” asked Ian,--“Thank you! See if
you can find in the inner pocket a leathern purse?--That’s right, now
in that you will find ten gold rose angels. Take out two of them and
let me know all that is spent on my account. I would not hear of you
spending money on me.”
Aline demurred, but Menstrie would brook no opposition. So there was
nothing to be done but take the money. After the children had gone Ian
began to consider his new responsibilities. He already began to feel
that Aline was in some way his special care. He had a peculiar power
of seeing both sides of things and realised that there was always
something to be said for each. But this never paralysed his action
as it does with many. He remembered the Athenian view of the sin of
neutrality and that the first duty is to make up one’s mind.
In action he was usually able to find a line not neutral, that is to
say neither, but one that stood firmly and decisively for something
even beyond the best of both and this he would carry through at all
costs. He found this all the easier as his personality, his resolution
and clear explanations made him a born leader and he generally
compelled others to take his higher point of view. But this could not
always be the case and then he would take the side that on the whole
was the better. He had thrown in his lot with the protestant party,
not by any means because he entirely agreed with them,--he often told
them they were no better than those they opposed,--but he definitely
saw more prospect of progress in that direction. He had an iron will,
that is absolute self-control and the determined capacity that no
difficulties, no obstacles and no suffering could cause to swerve.
He was entirely free from the weakness of obstinacy, or of pleasing
himself.
In more personal matters it was the same. At the present there were the
claims of his country, the claims of his faith and the claims of this
child. He loved children and nothing stirred him so much as to see a
child illtreated.
How were these claims to be met? After all, were they so conflicting?
The only real problem was that Aline was in England, while his other
duties lay in Scotland. Clearly he must get her to Scotland. In whose
charge to place her, he could arrange later. That much then was settled.
As he thought this, he distinctly heard a voice say,--“No, it is not.”
He looked behind, but saw no one. The voice continued,--“She will
become a heretic and then...?”
“Who is there?” he cried, sitting up in bed. There was silence and he
heard no more, only he fancied he saw Wishart again in the fire and
Aline was along with him. “I am overwrought,” he muttered; “that is
impossible anyway, as poor Wishart died long ago. No, Aline,” he went
on, “as long as my life can stay it, such shall never be,--never. Where
there’s a will, there’s a way.”
He leaned back exhausted and soon fell into a troubled sleep. He
remembered nothing when he woke, but found the sheet torn to shreds, as
though he had fought some malign enemy.