THE PACKMAN’S VISIT
When the men had gone Aline lay thinking, dreaming, building castles in
the air. What a narrow escape she had had! Life seemed full of troubles
and dangers. Here was she whose life had been a series of misfortunes
and now she had only just escaped death, and there was Ian, whose
escape had been as close as her own and who was still in uncertainty
and peril. He not only had misfortunes but was in danger all the time.
“It must be terrible to live in perpetual anxiety,” she thought. “What
a pity Ian is a heretic,” she mused; “it means that he is never safe
anywhere and it hinders his chances. He is obviously very clever in
spite of his humble station. Only think,--if he had not been a heretic
he might have become a prince of the church; after all the great
Cardinal Wolsey was only the son of a butcher and Ian is better than
that. I think his people had a little bit of land. Why, some of these
yeomen round here are almost like gentlemen. Ah! but if he had been on
the road to a cardinal, I should never have seen him and so I should
not be interested in him at all.
“Now I wonder,--but I suppose he could hardly be as clever as all
that; but why should he not become a great doctor in a university?”
and Aline drew herself a vivid picture of Ian as a sort of Abelard
gathering thousands of students round him wherever he went. But the
picture was spoiled when again she remembered that his heresy would
stand in the way. “How cruel they were to Abelard,” she said, “but
marry, they are worse now, and that was cruel enough.”
Then her thoughts turned from Abelard to the heart-rending picture of
Heloise and her love for him. “She was clever, too,” she thought, “I
should like to be clever like that. Why should not a girl be clever?
The Lady Jane was clever, as father was always reminding me and then
they chopped off her head, alas! So is the Lady Elizabeth’s Grace. I
dare say the Queen’s Grace will have her sister’s head cut off, too. I
believe the best people always have a sad time. Poor, poor Heloise!”
“I wonder,” she reflected, “if I ever could love like that, with
absolute entire whole-hearted devotion, giving up everything for my
love,--my friends, my honour, and even the consolations of religion.
And yet I believe that’s the right kind of love, not the kind that just
lets other people love you. Well, if one can’t be clever or love or do
anything that is best without suffering, then I think I would choose
the suffering. But, oh dear! it is very hard, I wonder if things get
easier as one gets older. I am afraid not. Yet fancy having the praise
of one’s love sung by all the world hundreds of years after one was
dead! That must have been a love indeed. Ah, Heloise, I should like to
love like you when I grow older. Yes, I would rather be Heloise with
all her sorrow than the grand ladies who marry for wealth or position
or passing affection and do not know really what love is at all.
“Yes, and I think I should prefer to marry some one very clever,
some one who really in himself was superior to other men, a man with
something that couldn’t be taken away like riches or titles or outer
trappings of any kind. Yes, my knight must be clever as well as brave.
I should like some one like father. But I think I should like him to
be great and wealthy, too, although these other things are best. It
would be rather nice to be allowed to wear cloth of silver and gold
chains,[12] but I suppose that is very silly. I wish father were alive
now to help me. I should like to be clever myself, too, and there is no
one here who can give me aid. Master Richard does not care about these
things; I wonder if Ian would be any good. It’s marvellous what he has
picked up. I wonder if he knows Latin. But that isn’t likely. I shall
ask him next time I see him, but I suppose I really ought to try and
sleep now.”
[12] The sumptuary laws very strictly regulated what people were
allowed to wear according to their rank.
So she fell asleep and dreamed; and dreamed that she was dressed in
velvet and cloth of silver and a gold chain; and a knight in shining
armour was kneeling at her feet and calling her his most learned lady.
Aline did not get well very quickly. It was not many days before she
was able to get up, but she was much shaken and easily tired, so that
she was hardly able to do more than walk a little bit about the house.
She was quite unequal to going upstairs and although at her particular
request she had gone back to her own room, Richard Mowbray himself
used to carry her up when it came to bed time. Sometimes he would
even carry her out on to the moors, and altogether he paid her more
attention than he had been wont to do. This made his wife more jealous
than ever and, although at the time it prevented her from ill-treating
the child, it only made matters worse afterwards.
One afternoon when she had somewhat gained strength, he carried her out
across the court and up the nine steps on to the library terrace. “I am
going to take you into the library,” he said as he set her down, while
he opened the door. Aline was pleased, as it was now some weeks since
she had entered the room.
He seated her in the glorious oriel window at the end, with its
beautiful tracery and fine glass, and put her feet up on the window
seat. The lower part of the window was open and revealed a wonderful
view of the rolling purple moors, while in the foreground was the
glassy moat, blue as the heaven above, bright and beautiful, as though
nothing untoward had ever happened there.
“It is a nice, quiet retreat this,” he said, “but it was more suited to
your great-great-grandfather who built it than to me. My father used
to spend a great deal of time here as a young man, but latterly he was
almost entirely at his other place in Devon as it suited his health.
Of course that has gone now; we are living in hard times, although we
still hold the old Middleton property, which is our principal estate;
Holwick is only a very small place. But he always took an interest in
this library and right up to the last he used to send books up here
to add to the collection, but his own visits here must have been very
rare.”
“What was my great-grandmother like, did you ever see her, sire?” said
Aline.
“Yes, Aline Gillespie was a very beautiful woman, and exceedingly
clever. She was also very gentle and a universal favourite. My
great-grandfather, James Mowbray, was almost heartbroken when she
married, although he was warmly attached to your great-grandfather,
Angus, but it meant that she had to go and live in Scotland. My
grandfather was fond of her, too, although he was always a little bit
jealous.”
“Do you remember her, sire?”
“I saw her now and then and remember that she used to give me presents,
one was this well-wrought Italian buckle, which I still wear on my
belt. She was very fond of books too, and there was some talk of my
great-grandfather having intended to leave her half the books in this
library; but he died rather suddenly and I imagine, therefore, that he
had not time to carry out his intention.”
“I suppose then that she would often sit where I am sitting now. How
interesting it is to picture it all.”
“Oh, yes, she had a special ambry in the wall, that old James Mowbray
had made for her. It is there behind that panel, with the small
ornamental lock. I think that the key of it will be about somewhere.
The library keys used to be kept in the little drawer in this table at
the end.”
“I did not know that there was a drawer,” said Aline.
“I fancy it is made the way it is on purpose, so as not to be very
conspicuous. You cannot call it a secret drawer though. I doubt if that
kind of thing was in the old man’s line, although he had some strange
fancies. Yes, here they are,” he said, pulling out the drawer. “See,
this is the ambry,” he went on, opening the cupboard as he spoke.
“Would you like it for your own treasures?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Then you can have it.”
Aline’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, thank you so much, that is
delightful.”
“I am not certain what these other keys are for,” said Master Mowbray.
“This is, I think, the key of that old kist which used to have some
papers that were at one time of importance relating to the house. If
you like to rummage over old things you may enjoy having a look at
them. I think that you are a good girl and that I may trust you, but
you must remember always to lock it and put everything back. One of the
other keys is, of course, the key of the rods that hold the books and
the remaining key I have forgotten. You had better take your own key
off the bunch, but keep them all in the drawer as before.”
He put the keys in the drawer and came back and sat on the seat
opposite her. “I have never heard you read,” he said, “and Audry tells
me that you are a fine reader. I have almost forgotten how to read
myself, so little do I practise it nowadays. Are you tired, child?
Would you read me something?”
“Yes, sire, if it would please you,” she said.
“You can call me Cousin Richard,” he replied. “I remember how my aunt,
your great-grandmother, whom you slightly resemble, once read to me in
this very room, when I was a boy.”
“Oh, what did she read?”
“There was one story, a poem about a father who had lost his little
daughter, and saw a vision of her in heaven.”
“Oh, ‘Pearl,’ a lovely musical thing with all the words beginning with
the same letters. I do not mean all the words; I do not know how to
explain it; you know what I mean.”
“Then there was another one about a green girdle and a lady that kissed
a knight.”
“Yes, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’; it is a pretty tale.”
“But I think what I liked best of all was Sir Thomas Malory.”
“That is what Audry likes best,” said Aline; “she thinks that some of
the books that I read are too dry, because they are not stories, but I
am not sure that I too do not like ‘The Morte d’Arthur’ best of all.”
“Read me something out of that.”
She turned to the well known scene of the passing of Arthur. Master
Mowbray leaned back against the window-jamb and looked across at her
in the opposite corner. The late afternoon sun was warm and golden.
She was wearing a little white dress, which took on a rich glow in the
mellow light. Over her hair and shoulder played the colours from the
glass in the upper part of the window. She knew the story practically
by heart and her big eyes looking across at him seemed to grow larger
and rounder with wonder and mystery as she told the tale.
Under the spell of the soft witching music of her voice he was
transported to that enchanted land, and there he saw the dying king
and Sir Bedivere failing to throw the sword into the water:--“But go
again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of
my life, for I have taken cold ... for thou wouldest for my rich sword
see me dead!” Then followed the passage where Sir Bedivere throws in
the sword and the mystic barge comes with the three Queens, and as
Richard Mowbray looked over at the little face before him he saw in
the one face the beauty of them all. So on the wings of a perfect
tale perfectly told he forgot the perplexities and anxieties that
encompassed him, and himself floated to the Land of Avilion while he
gazed and, like Ian Menstrie, was lured by the same charm and began
to wonder whether she were not indeed herself from the land of faëry.
“‘For I will go to the vale of Avilion,’” he repeated to himself, “‘to
heal me of my grievous wound.’”
“Yes, this is a healing of the wounds of life,” he added. “I never
realised before that beauty had such power. Come, child, it is time we
went,” he said aloud and gently lifted her in his arms; “we must see
what the others are doing.” So he carried her out on to the terrace
that ran in front of the library and down the steps and across the
quadrangle to the great Hall. There they found considerable excitement;
a packman with five horses had arrived from the south and every one was
making purchases who had any money laid by.
“Now that is a fine carpet,” he was saying as he unrolled a piece of
Flemish work. “It was made at Ispahan for the Shah of Persia and is the
best bit of Persian carpet you will ever see. That would look well in
my lady’s boudoir. I would let you have that for five florins.”
He did not seem very pleased at the master’s entrance at that moment;
Richard Mowbray glanced at it and remarked, “But that is Flemish
weaving.”
“Did I not say Flemish?” he said. “Oh, it is Flemish right enough; it
was made for the Duke of Flanders.”
“And if I had said it was Tuscan I suppose it would have been made for
the Duke of Tuscany.”
“Ah, master, you make mock of me; see, here, I have some buckles of
chaste design that might take your fancy or these daggers of Spanish
make, or what say you to a ring or a necklace for one of the ladies?”
“We have no moneys for gauds and vanities.”
“But beauty will not bide, and when you have the money it may be too
late; you would not let it go ungraced. Prithee try these garnets on
the Lady of Holwick. They would become her well, or this simple silver
chain for the young mistress,” looking at Aline for the first time. “By
my troth she is a beautiful child,” he exclaimed involuntarily.
“Ah well then, my friend, good wine needs no bush.”
“Nay, sweets to the sweet, and for fair maids fair things.”
“Truly you are a courtier.”
“Ay, and have been at court, and those of most courtesy have bought
most of my wares.”
“Enough, enough, what have you of good household stuff, things that a
good housewife must buy though the times be hard. Come, show my lady
such things as good linen and good cloth.”
“You bring him to the point,” said Mistress Mowbray; “yes, sirrah, what
have you in the way of linen?”
“I have linen of France and linen of Flanders; I have linen fine and
linen coarse.”
He unrolled several samples as he spoke, and Mistress Mowbray selected
some linen of Rennes of fine texture, which she said would do to make
garments for Audry and herself. “And your supply of clothes that
you brought from Scotland is in need of some plenishing,” she said,
glancing at Aline. “There will be work for idle hands. Here, this stout
dowlas[13] will stand wear well, and be warmer too.”
[13] A very coarse sort of canvas used for underclothes by the poorest
classes in the sixteenth century.
Aline felt the blood rush to her face, but she said nothing. It was not
that she thought much about her clothes; indeed she had the natural
simple taste of the high born that eschews finery, yet a certain
daintiness and delicacy she did desire and had always had, and it was a
bitter disappointment, a disappointment made more cruel by the public
shame of it.
Walter Margrove, the packman, looked at her; he had not travelled
amongst all sorts and conditions for nothing and he took the situation
in at a glance.
“Yes, Mistress Mowbray,” Aline said at length, “I shall have a great
deal to do.”
Richard Mowbray had left the hall, but old Elspeth who was standing by
said, “I will help you, childie.”
Mistress Mowbray scowled at her, and muttered,--“Well, I hope, Aline,
that you will work hard,” then turning to Margrove she asked to look
at other wares. Such opportunities did not often occur in a remote
place like Holwick and it was very difficult to do one’s purchasing at
a distance; so although she only bought things of real necessity she
laid in a large supply from the packman’s stock.
On these occasions the surrounding tenants were allowed to come up
to the hall and Walter Margrove, when Mistress Mowbray had departed,
started to put his things together to take them into the courtyard.
The children stayed behind to watch him for a few moments and as he
was leaving the Hall he pressed a small packet into Aline’s hand and
said in a whisper, “Do not say anything; it is a pleasure, just a small
remembrance.”
The packet contained the small silver necklace that he had been showing
before. It was not of great intrinsic value, but was of singularly
chaste design and though exceedingly simple was of much beauty.
Aline was immensely surprised at the unexpected joy, and for the time
it quite made up to her for her previous disappointment.
As the packman went into the courtyard a great crowd gathered round
him, both chaffering and gossiping. “Who is the beautiful young
mistress that has come to Holwick?” he asked.
“Oh, she is a distant cousin of Master Mowbray,” said one, “but you
have no idea of the things that have been going on since you were last
at Holwick.”
“What things?”
“Why, the child has been nearly killed,” said old Elspeth who had
followed the packman out. “Poor wee soul, it makes my old heart bleed
to think of it even now.”
Elspeth then recounted the tale of all that had taken place.
“Then why is Mistress Holwick not more grateful? She seems to have
saved her and her good man a pretty penny indeed.”
“The woman is crazed with jealousy or envy or what not,” said another.
“But the child seems a lovable one to my thinking,” said Margrove.
“There has never been a better lassie in Holwick is my way of looking
at it.” It was Janet Arnside who was speaking; she had come up to see
Elspeth, and take the opportunity of buying a few trifles at the same
time. “My boy just owes his life to her; she has been down to us times
without number, and I have never seen anything like the way that she
gets hold of one’s heart. I cried the whole day long when I heard
of her being hurt like that, and it just makes me rage to hear the
things that they tell of Mistress Holwick and the child. It would have
been the worst thing that ever happened to Holwick if anything really
serious had befallen her that night.”
“Ay, ay,” said several voices in chorus.
“And why should not the bairn have fine linen, I should like to know?”
she went on.
“It is a downright shame,” said a man’s voice.
“Well, neighbour,” said Janet, “I am not the one to interfere in other
folk’s business, but I am not the only one that the child has blessed,
not the only one by a long way.”
“No, that you are not, mistress,”--“No, indeed, think of my wife’s
sickness,”--“Think of my little lass,”--“Ay, and mine,”--“And my old
father,”--said one voice after another.
“Can we not do something, neighbours?” said Janet. “Why not speak to
Master Richard himself?”
“It is an ill thing to meddle between husband and wife,” said Margrove.
“By my halidame I have a half mind to speak to the jade myself. She
cannot hurt me.”
“No, but she can hurt the child more, when you have gone,” rejoined
Elspeth. “Look here, it is not much, but it is something; let us get
the linen ourselves, and it will help Master Margrove, honest man, at
the same time. I shall be seeing to the making of the clothes and I can
make a tale for the child and prevent her speaking to Mistress Mowbray.
The Mistress does not pay that much attention to the little lady’s
belongings I can tell you. She leaves it all to me, and bless you if
she sees any linen garments I shall tell her that they are of those
that came from Scotland.”
“Ay, ay, agreed, agreed,” they all shouted. “Give us the very best
linen you have, master, and some of your finest lace and we will clothe
her like a princess under her kirtle.”
“I’ faith, you are the right sort, but it is no profit I will be making
on this business; no, you shall have the things at the price I paid
for them and not a groat more, no, not even for carriage and I will
give her some pieces of lace myself. See here are some fine pieces of
Italian work. This is a beautiful little piece of _punto in aria_ and
this is a fine piece of _merletti a piombini_: But stay; she shall have
too a finer piece still, something like the second one; it is Flemish,
_dentelles au fuseau_, from Malines”; he drew it forth as he spoke and
fingered it lovingly amid marked expressions of admiration from Elspeth
and the other woman.
“It’s nothing to some beans that I shall give her,” interposed Silas,
the irrepressible farm-reeve. “They are French, you know, from Paris,”
imitating Walter’s manner.
“Be quiet”; “stop your nonsense,” they all shouted.
“I am not quite sure,” he went on dreamily and quite unperturbed,
“whether I shall thread them on a string to wear on her bosom, or cook
them for her to wear inside; but certainly she shall have them for
nothing; not a groat will I take. I should scorn to ask the price they
cost me.”
Jock, the stableman, stepped forward and struck out playfully at Silas.
“He always carries on like that,” he said; but Silas dodged aside and
put out his leg so that Jock stumbled and collapsed in confusion into
Walter’s arms.
“A judgment on the stableman for insulting the reeve,” said Silas,
marching off with mock solemnity.
As he reached the gate he turned back. “No offence, Walter; put me down
for ten florins for our bonnie little mistress. I’ll bring it anon.”
The others gasped at the largeness of the sum as the good-natured face
of the reeve disappeared through the archway.
Soon after, the crowd thinned away and Walter was packing up his
things, when Aline happened to come to the hall door. He saw her and
went quickly to her and before she could thank him for his present of
the necklace he said, “If at any time there is anything that you would
like me to do out in the wide world, a message for instance, remember
that I am always ready to help you.”
“I do not think that there is anything just now,” she said.
“Then God be with you,”--and he was gone.