THE THIEF
Not many days after, Aline went down to Peter’s cottage. Joan had again
had a relapse and the physician had paid one or two visits. For the
moment she was better and sitting up in bed.
Aline had brought some beautiful roses whose fragrance filled the whole
place. Joan’s eyes quite sparkled with pleasure.
“Oh, Mistress Aline, how lovely!”
“I said you were to call me Aline, just as I call you Joan,” and Aline
kissed the little thin hand that seemed almost transparent. “Now you
must soon get well and be able to come and play games again; and see
what I brought you to wear when you can run about.”
Aline’s own wardrobe was very scanty, but one day Master Richard had
brought back from York a piece of good camlet which he had given to
Aline as a special present. “May I do just what I like with it?” she
had asked. “Of course,” he replied. So Aline had coaxed Elspeth to help
her, and, with much excitement, had made Joan an attractive little
gown. Aline was rather at a loss for some trimming that she wanted and
Audry had found her one day taking some off one of her own garments.
She had expostulated but Aline had only said,--“Oh, it looks all right;
I have left some on the upper part. I do not mind plain things.”
Joan’s gratitude was too great for words; she could only gently squeeze
Aline’s hand.
As Aline sat by the bedside the door opened and a dark bent figure
appeared against the light.
“Good-day, Peter,” she said, and catching sight of Aline she added,
“and good-day to you, Mistress.”
Moll had once been a fairly tall woman, but like Peter was now bent,
although not to so great an extent and was never seen without her
stick. Her face, wrinkled and worn as it was, more from evil living
than from actual age, as she was not really very old, still had some
trace of its original beauty, but there was a cruelty and cunning
in its expression that defied description. All the children were
frightened of “Moll o’ the graves” and would flee at her approach.
“You have a sick bairn here, Peter,” she began, ignoring Aline, “and I
have been wondering whether I could not help you.”
Peter looked as if the last thing in the world that he desired was old
Moll’s help.
“You have something laid by under this stone,” she went on, tapping the
hearth with her stick as she spoke; and Peter’s eyes seemed as if they
would drop out of his head.
“Ah, you need not think to keep anything from me,” said the old crone;
and suddenly turning round, she pointed her stick at Aline, “nor you,
young Mistress, you have your secret that you wish no one to know,” she
added vindictively.
It might have been merely a bow drawn at a venture, yet Aline felt
absolutely terrified of the old woman and meditated running from the
house, but the thought of Joan held her back. “No, and you need not
think you can get away either,” said Moll, as though reading her
thoughts. “You are by yourself this time,” and she interposed her gaunt
figure between Aline and the door.
“Come, Peter,” she said, “what will you be giving me, or shall I lay a
murrain on your sheep?”
“I’ll give you three silver crowns.”
“Ha! ha! ha!--three silver crowns for a child’s life,” and, dropping
her stick and holding out her skinny hands like the claws of some
obscene bird, she began slowly to shuffle over the floor toward Peter,
who stood rooted to the spot quaking in mortal fear.
Nearer and nearer the old hag drew toward him, scraping her bare
shrivelled feet over the floor.
Peter sank on his knees and crossed himself. “God’s blood,” he said, “I
will give you what you ask.”
“Then give me twenty crowns,” she said, and waving her arms over the
fire the flames turned blue and shot up as though to lick her hands.
She then opened a small pouch at her girdle and taking a pinch from
it threw it on the fire and a thick cloud of white smoke ascended and
filled the room with a pungent odour and then circled round the room in
fantastic shapes.
“In the smoke, in the clouds, I see the future writ,” she said; “I see
three children and their fates are intertwined. Ah, the first passeth,
the second passeth, the third remaineth. I see a great treasure. I see
trouble. I see joy and a great darkness.” Then turning to Peter she
said: “Keep your crowns this time; I can do nothing; the child must
go,” and she laughed a low cruel laugh,--“and your fate,” she said,
turning to Aline with a diabolic grin, “is like unto hers; but your
path is through the fire; yet there is joy and prosperity after strange
days for your little friend up at the Hall.” She laughed again, a blood
curdling fiendish chuckle, and grasping her staff she hobbled to the
door and was gone so swiftly that they could hardly believe their eyes.
Poor little Joan had fallen back senseless and it was some time before
Aline could bring her round. Was the old harridan deliberately trying
to frighten the child to death or could she really in some way foretell
the future?
The effect in any case was extraordinary and Aline had to pull herself
together before she felt equal to the walk home.
“What does she mean by my path is through the fire?” she asked Audry,
when she met her in the courtyard.
“Don’t think about it, don’t talk about it. Aline, you terrify me.”
“I do hope she has not done Joan any serious harm anyway,” said Aline.
“But come, we must get ready for supper.”
Late in the evening as the family was seated in the great hall and the
servants had retired, just as the children were going to bed, Richard
Mowbray came in from going round the house as his custom was to see if
everything was all right. He seemed to be in a very irritable mood and
Mistress Mowbray asked him what was the matter.
“Matter, Eleanor,” he said, “you know very well I am worrying about
that cup. It’s the third thing that has disappeared this month and
I seem to be no nearer finding out than we were before. I am fairly
certain too that money has gone the same way. Beshrew me but I would
give a goodly sum to find the knave.”
“I think you might keep your discussions for another time,” said his
wife icily, glancing at Aline as she spoke; “we do not want our affairs
discussed by every stranger.”
“There are no strangers here, woman,” he said. “The child is a Mowbray
which is more than you are yourself; her great grandmother was my
grandfather’s only sister. Old James Mowbray who built this house loved
her more than his son and if the old man had had his way, it is likely
enough that the lassie would be the Mistress of Holwick. Woman, you are
too jealous. The child shall always have a roof to her head as long as
I am Master of Holwick.”
Master Mowbray was not particularly fond of Aline, although he was
beginning to fall under her spell, but he had a sort of rough sense
of justice, which was quite inexplicable to his wife; a trait of his
character that had descended in a marked degree to his little daughter.
“Anyway it is time for the children to go to bed,” said Mistress
Mowbray. “Run along, both of you, and, mind you, not a word of what you
heard just now.”
The children went upstairs and naturally could not help discussing
between themselves what Richard Mowbray had been saying. “I should like
to help Master Mowbray,” said Aline. “It seemed to upset him very much.”
“We wanted some excitement, Aline,” said Audry, “and now we seem to
have more than enough, what with a heretic and a thief. I wonder what
Father would do for us if we could find the thief for him.”
Consequently for the next few days the children were on the alert to
see if they could discover anything. When they went down to visit Ian
they told him the story and the three discussed it together.
“Anyway it does not matter telling you,” said Aline to Ian, “because
you are not a real person.”
“And why am I not a real person, pray?” said Ian.
“Oh, you do not belong to the world at all; you never see anybody and
live down here; you are only a sort of figure in our dream,” said Aline
playfully.
“That’s rather a shadowy kind of existence,” he said, “but it’s nice to
be dreamed into existence by such delightful people.”
“Look here, you two,” said Audry, “talk a little common sense. What are
we going to do about this thief?”
“I think it must be some one in the house,” Aline remarked. “I do not
think any one could get over the moat.”
“People like this lady would think nothing of swimming the moat,” said
Ian.
“People like this lady would not do anything of the kind,” said Aline;
“they could not even get out of the water on the inner side at all, as
it is a perfectly straight wall all round, and even if they did, they
would go drip, drip, drip, wherever they went and we have seen nothing
like that.”
“They could take off their clothes,” objected Audry.
“Yes, and if they were disturbed,” Aline continued, “and had to escape
in a hurry, I suppose they would not think they looked a little
conspicuous and suspicious, eh?”
“Where is the silver kept?” asked Ian.
“Most of it,” said Audry, “is kept in the treasury, the little room
near the gateway where the secret passage goes. I expect that is partly
the reason for the passage; so that if the owner ever had to flee from
the house in time of danger, he would come back and get his valuables
without risk; but what an opportunity a thief would have who knew of
the passage!”
Aline knit her brows and thought for some time. Menstrie, who was
very clever with his chalk, was making sketches of her. “What a very
thoughtful lady!” he said.
“Oh, is not that beautiful?” exclaimed Audry. “It is as beautiful
as you are, Aline dear. Where did you learn about drawing, Master
Menstrie?”
It was a charming little head with bold free lines and full of
expression, very like an Andrea del Sarto.
“Oh, when I was in Florence and Venice,” said Ian; “it was a great
time for me and I learned many things that it would have been almost
impossible to learn over here. I was lucky enough to get to know
both Paolo Veronese and Tintoretto as they called him, but I like
the Florentine work better still. I often think I might have been an
artist, but I have too many other responsibilities.”
Aline looked up at this point. “Yes, that is wonderful. Father was very
fond of drawing and had several friends who were artists. There was
Master Lindsay, who did a beautiful portrait of mother, but do you know
I do not believe he could have drawn as well as that; it is so bold and
free and yet sensitive and delicate in its details. His work was much
more cramped and over-elaborated. No,” she said, holding the drawing at
arm’s length, “I am sure he could not have done it nearly so well.”
“Well, never mind about the drawing,” said Menstrie; “what were you
thinking about?”
“I was thinking that the theft could not very well have taken place at
night. If it had, probably many more things would have gone. But some
one may have slipped into the little room for a moment when the old
seneschal’s back was turned. We might go along and find out when Edward
is there, whether we can hear and know what goes on from the secret
passage.”
“It is just about now that Edward fetches the silver,” said Audry.
“Come along then.”
So the two children jumped up and ran to the door. “Good-bye,” said
Aline, waving her hand, “wish us luck.”
Ian watched them go and then fell into a reverie. What a strange thing
it was that chance should have brought him to Holwick! He looked at
the drawing which was still on his knee. “Leonardo would have given
something to draw her head,” he mused. “But neither he nor Raphael
could have done it justice. Yes, she is like her, very like, and yet
more beautiful. Who could have believed that any one could be more
beautiful? This child’s father must have been handsome as she says.
I wonder in what way I am to be of service to her. It’s a pity that
she is of the old faith. Somehow I feel that that is going to be a
difficulty. I should find it very hard to get any assistance if it were
needed. The other side would not look at me and my side would not look
at her. I wonder if they would even help me myself,” he pondered.
“I do not hold with most of them by any means. I fancy that child’s
father would have been more to my liking. How narrow and unkind they
all are. Think of a Catholic like Sir Thomas More, a very saint of a
man, coming to the block. Will nothing ever soften men’s hearts? John
Knox is all very well, but he’s dour. No, John, my friend, Plato was
quite right; if you do not understand beauty you will have to serve a
little apprenticeship before St. Peter will open the gates. Harmony not
strife,--the Beauty of Holiness,--think of it, Master John, think of
it! With what humility and yet with what ecstasy we shall worship in
that presence.
“Ah, child,” he went on, “you are indeed the handiwork of God and, as
Plato says, I do pass through you to something more.”
As he spoke the vision of the child seemed to shape itself before his
eyes. Her little feet were bare as when he saw her first and she was
stretching out her beautiful arms toward him. Her face shone with a
strange light and then gradually he felt himself lifted up and the
vision changed, becoming more ethereal and more beautiful, till his
heart stood still. It was no longer a child, it was no longer even
human beauty at all. It was altogether transcendent.
He rose slowly and then knelt down. “Now I know,” he said, “this is the
heart’s adoration, this is worship. I never knew before.” He bowed down
utterly humbled and yet at the same time exalted and a voice seemed to
say,--“I am that I am.” He felt as one who is purified as in a fire and
then gradually a sense of peace stole over him.
He knelt there in a rapture for a long time until at length the vision
faded slowly away. But he realised that in some strange fashion new
strength had been given to him and that the temptations of life were
shrinking into littleness.
Meanwhile Aline and Audry made their way along the passage. It was
daylight so they felt that their light would not be seen. When they got
to the end they could hear perfectly and even see a little bit through
a tiny crack. They saw Edward, the seneschal, come in and take out the
great salt and the nef and then he carefully fastened the door. After a
while he came back and fetched some of the other things.
When the children returned to Ian, they both exclaimed,--“Oh, you are
looking so much better.”
For a moment he did not speak; he was watching Aline as she
unconsciously glided down the room with a sort of dancing step, humming
a tune and slowly waving her arms. She seemed filled with a new
sacredness, a new unapproachable otherworldliness; it was an apotheosis
of childhood.
“Well, you have come back to me,” he said at length. “What did you
discover?”
“Not a great deal,” Aline answered, “but we can see through a chink and
we may some day see the thief himself.”
“I am afraid that we shall never catch him,” said Audry, “and what is
the use of troubling about it? The thing is gone now and what is done
is done.”
“No, it might come back,” protested Aline, “and I shall not give up
hope yet awhile. Come along, you have got to finish that piece of
tapestry and it’s no use saying what is done is done, because what is
done is no use, unless you do some more.”
Both laughed and ran out.
They worked at the tapestry in the solar. Mistress Mowbray was there
engaged in the same occupation. By and by her husband came in. “I
suppose you have found out nothing about that cup,” she remarked.
“No,” said Master Richard, “and meseemeth I am not likely to do so.
Edward is confident that it cannot have been taken from the treasury.”
“Humph! He may say so. Look you now, Richard, if I were you I should
get rid of Edward. Turn him out of doors.”
“Do you think that Edward has taken it?” said her husband, looking
surprised.
“Why, who else could have taken it? It’s as clear as daylight. I cannot
see wherefore you hesitate.”
Richard Mowbray gazed steadily in front of him for a long time,
stroking his pointed beard. “Yes, I think it must be so; I shall do as
you suggest. Edward shall leave.”
“I am sure Edward did not do it,” said Audry impulsively.
“Nonsense, wench,” said her father, “what do you know about it?”
“Oh, well, it has nothing to do with me, but it’s hard on the old man
if he did not do it,” Audry replied. “Come along, Aline; I’m tired of
this tapestry; we’ve done enough. I want you to read to me. May we go,
mother?”
“Yes, yes, run away, both of you”; and, lest Audry’s remark should have
had any effect, she added, to her husband;--“It will be an excellent
plan in many ways. Edward is getting past his work in any case. I shall
be very glad to have some one else.”
“Certainly, Eleanor, it shall be as you wish.”
Audry had run on. Aline had risen and stood irresolutely looking at the
Master of Holwick. “But, Cousin Richard, you will wait a bit, won’t
you?” she said coaxingly.
“Why, child?”
“Because it might not be Edward, and, probable as it seems, you cannot
be certain.” She rose and put her arm round him and in her most
bewitching way added,--“You will think it over, won’t you? I know I
am only a little girl, but what would you think, Cousin Richard, if
afterwards it turned out that you were wrong?”
“Aline,” shouted Mistress Mowbray, “I will not have you interfering.
Edward shall leave at once. We cannot have a thief in the house.”
“It isn’t just, Mistress Mowbray. You do not know that he is a thief;
you have no proof.”
“Wench, I can dismiss my servants when I please, thieves or not
thieves.”
In addition to the claims of justice Aline felt a definite feeling of
antagonism rising in her, a touch of the fighting instinct. “Of course
you can do as you please,” she said, “but that does not make it fair.”
“I tell you Edward shall go; he is getting too old and that is enough
reason.”
“Richard,” she continued, “am I mistress of this house or is that
skelpie? The man is only a servant and I can treat him as I like. I am
within my rights.”
Aline could not resist going on, yet she hated the whole thing; she
felt that her attitude was unbecoming, if not impertinent; but she
could not let Edward go without a struggle, nor could she abandon a
fight which she had once begun; that was not human nature. “You may be
within your rights,” she said, “and he may be only a servant; but that
is just it;--if you belonged to the servant class yourself that sort of
reason might be enough, but ‘noblesse oblige’ as father used to tell
me. That is so, is it not, Cousin Richard? and we must investigate the
case before Edward is sent away.”
Eleanor Mowbray flushed crimson; Aline had found the weak spot in her
armour. The vintner’s daughter was not a lady, but the one thing in
life that she desired was to be thought one.
“Yes, child,” said Master Richard, for the remark had touched his
proper pride. “Yes, keeping within his rights is good enough for
common people. But gentle blood demands more than rights. It has
higher standards altogether. It is a matter of honour, not of rights.
Many things are right but they are not honourable. The churl does not
know the meaning of honour. By my troth, lassie, you remind me of my
mother’s father, the Duke of Morpeth, who used to say that aristocracy
was the pride of humility, the pride that could not be demeaned by
humbling itself, the pride that could not lower itself by standing on
its rights. Our Lord, he used to say, was the noblest knight and the
first gentleman of chivalry. Ah, little maid,” he went on, “you must
forgive me my reminiscences; the serious things of life cannot be left
out.”
“No, Cousin Richard, I’m listening.”
“I remember,” he continued, “how he used to quote ‘He that sweareth to
his own hurt and changeth not shall never be moved,’--‘qui facit haec
non movebitur in aeternum.’ That was his illustration of the principle
in practice; the vulgar man sticks to his bargain or his promise; the
gentleman goes entirely beyond his promise and does what is expected
of him, whether he had given his word or not. The vulgar man tries to
wriggle out of an engagement if it does not suit him; the gentleman
stands to the most trivial engagement, even if there is no formal
promise, though it may cost him much sacrifice. Honour compels him,
‘noblesse oblige.’ The man of poor blood has no honour; he merely has
honesty and he thinks the gentleman is a fool. He has not climbed high
enough to see.
“You are right, little one; there would be nothing wrong in dismissing
Edward; we have no promise, no contract: we may even act to our own
hurt by keeping him, if he really should be the thief, but honour
demands it. The matter shall be thoroughly investigated before we do
anything with Edward.”
Aline having gained her point ran away. She had not intended at first
definitely to withstand Mistress Mowbray. However, Master Richard had
agreed with her and she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Not so Mistress Mowbray. She was mortified and she was not going to
forget it. Besides the child had committed the unpardonable sin of
showing that she was a lady and making it equally clear that she,
Eleanor Mowbray, belonged to a lower class. Mistress Mowbray was
learning her lesson.
Day after day the children used to go at the proper hour and once or
twice Edward did leave the door unlocked for a few moments; but they
never saw any one come in and finally began to lose heart and feel that
they must give it up as hopeless.