COMING EVENTS CAST SHADOWS
It was a fine moonlight night and Ian was pacing up and down by the
side of the stream. He walked very fast, partly because the season was
getting cold and partly to calm his mind. He was agitated concerning
the future and troubled not only about himself but about Aline. He
was now distinctly better in health and felt that he would soon be
well enough to leave Holwick Hall. There were many difficulties. First
there was the immediate danger of getting away unseen. Then when he had
performed his mission in Carlisle there was the problem of the future.
He would be safer in Scotland, but he did not want to be too far away
from Aline. She might need his help.
Again he felt that sense of apprehension, almost of terror; something
was going to happen, but what? Which way was he to meet it? This
threatening, uncertain atmosphere, what did it portend?
Aline seemed touched by it. He had not spoken to her about it, but he
had noticed it in her manner; indeed they seemed mutually aware of it
as he looked into her eyes.
In any case he could not go to his father’s house. Should he go to
Scotland at all? The country he knew was in great confusion, torn
between her fear of France and the Regent, Mary of Guise, on the one
hand and her hatred of England on the other.
He was strongly tempted to go and fight, if fighting were to be done,
and the very documents that he carried might be the things that would
bring matters to a head. On the other hand if there were no fighting he
felt drawn to do something more for the faith. He had no home duties
and he hated inactivity. At last he settled the matter. Of course the
papers were to be safely delivered first, but neither the fighting
in Scotland nor Aline’s need for his help could be reckoned on as a
certainty. He would stay in Carlisle and be in reach of both. As for
the reformed faith he had for some time come to the conclusion that the
calling of a packman offered the best opportunities for spreading the
word. This, however, would require money which at present he had not
got. He would therefore try and find work as a smith or a carpenter in
Carlisle until he had saved the money.
That matter was settled then; and his health was now such that his
departure must not be long delayed. He stood still and looked up at the
clear sky. The roar of the waterfall not half a mile away filled the
silence of the night. It was very peaceful and the hills were bathed in
a sad mysterious beauty. But through all the calm lurked a suggestion
of dread.
Dare he leave the child behind at all? Yet if he took her he would be
putting her to greater risks every moment than the worst she could
suffer from Mistress Mowbray. Besides how could the expenses be met;
for the scheme would be impossible without horses; as, although he
himself could escape alone on foot, immediately Aline disappeared a hue
and cry would be raised? His mind grew tired with thinking and finally
he began to build wild castles in the air, in which he took the child
with him on foot and fought pursuer after pursuer, until he was slain
himself, not however before he had managed to put Aline into a sure
place of safety and happiness.
He had wandered rather further than usual down the stream and decided
that he had better turn back; moreover it was late and it would soon be
daylight. He retraced his steps until he came within a few paces of the
opening that led to the cave and was intending to enter, when he caught
sight of a dark figure seated under a small birch tree that had found a
sheltering place in this hollow on the bleak moor.
It was a woman and she was watching him. The shock was so sudden that
he had the greatest difficulty in preserving his presence of mind. He
decided to continue in the direction he was going as though bound on
some definite journey.
“You like the night-air, stranger, for your travels,” she said in a
shrill voice. She evidently did not mean to let him pass her.
“Ay, mother,” he said, “a night like this is as good for travel as the
day.”
He gathered at once who it was from Aline’s description. It was “Moll
o’ the graves,” and she seemed to rivet him to the spot with the gaze
of her unholy, but still beautiful eyes. She was holding a bone in
her claw-like hands and was gnawing the flesh off it. He could not
help noticing that she yet had excellent teeth. Could she by any
chance know who he was? In any case she had seen him now, so he might
stand and see if he could draw her out. However, she went on,--“I’ve
heard physicians recommend the night air for travellers with a sick
conscience.”
“Then if that be the case,” he answered, “it might apply to you as well
as to me.”
“Perhaps it may,” she said, “but I enjoy the fresh night air for its
own sake:--
O Moon that watches from the sky,
We see strange things, the moon and I.”
crooned the old woman, beating time with her staff.
“Do you know this part of the world?” she said suddenly.
“I cannot say that I do,” he answered.
“Then you miss things that are worth knowing. There are all manners
of folk about here from the Master of Holwick to miser Simson, from
bullying Eleanor Mowbray to gentle Janet Arnside, and from tough,
withered, bloodless old Elspeth to fresh tender morsels like Aline that
dropped in the moat,” she said as she grinned, shewing her teeth, “and
I know the fortunes of them all.”
The old woman was eyeing him keenly, but he managed to betray no
particular interest.
He thought, however, that he had better move away lest she should ask
him such questions that he would lose more than anything he would gain
from talking to her. He was thankful she had not seen him go into the
cave.
“I think I must be moving on,” he said.
“Will you not wait and hear your future told?”
“No, I thank you; that can bide.”
“It’s not good anyhow,” said old Moll with a vindictive light in her
eyes, “it begins with heartache and goes on to worse.”
“Good night to you,” said Ian and started up the gully.
“Are you not coming back to your hiding place in there?” the old woman
called maliciously. “I saw you come out and I shall be sitting here
till you come back.”
“Horrible old villain,” he said to himself, but he called out, “No,
it’s all right for a temporary shelter, but no one could stay there.”
Things indeed looked serious, how was he to get back? But he could not
bear the thought of not saying good-bye to the children. Besides they
absolutely must know that part of their secret had been discovered.
He decided that unless the old hag roused his pursuers he was fairly
safe; he could keep out of sight in bog-holes or the like during the
day. If some one came very near, he must chance it and move on. True
there was some risk, but Aline must know.
The old woman was in the hollow where she could not see him; so he
crept round and hid himself where he could watch without being observed.
When daylight came he saw her rise and go into the outer cave; but he
could not see what further she did.
She then came back and sat down. Hours passed on, but she did not move.
About mid-day she produced a small sack from under her kirtle and
took something out and gnawed at it as before. She did the same again
towards evening.
Ian felt faint and hungry, but determined not to give in, even if he
had to wait another night, though as he would have to go some twenty
miles before he dared ask for food, his plight was becoming desperate.
He crept quite close to her on the bare chance of her going to sleep in
such a way that he could be quite sure of it and be able to slip past.
However, toward sunset he heard her mutter to herself,--“Well, I cannot
wait any more, it will be too cold.” She rose and hobbled over to
the cave, where she broke down a light switch and bent it across the
entrance, as though it had accidentally been done by the wind or some
animal.
She started a step or two down the little gully and then came back to
her resting place and looked about. She picked up three bones. “They
might tell tales,” she murmured, and, hiding them under her mantle, she
walked down toward the river. When she reached the river she threw the
bones into the dark water and watched them sink. But this Ian did not
see.
When Moll had gone, Ian went back to the secret room. He was
overwrought. This was a new peril for Aline and it made him grasp
what he had not realised before,--that if the children were caught
harbouring a heretic the consequences would be terrible indeed. He must
get away forthwith.
He went to bed, but he could not sleep. How far had he really been wise
after all, to say anything to Aline about the new faith? She certainly
was a most unusual child, but perplexities and responsibilities might
even be too much for an adult.
Was not my first instinct right, he argued, children are too delicate,
too frail, too beautiful to be flung into the anxieties of life?
There is a good deal to be said even for the priests, he reflected,
responsibility may become too crushing altogether.
Then too, his own mind was not at ease about the course that things
were taking, either in Scotland or England. On the whole he felt that
the Protestants were nearer the truth, but there was a beauty and a
spirituality of holiness not unconnected with the beauty of holiness
itself, which he saw in the old faith and which he was not willing to
abandon.
“I would not have a faith without beauty,” he said; “it would be a
travesty of faith, an unlovely thing and no faith at all. If we do not
consider the lilies which we have seen, we shall certainly never be
able to understand the King in his beauty whom we have not seen; and,
of a surety, this child flower hath lifted me higher than any other
experience of my life.”
But methinks it is meet that both sides should be presented, and some
day we may grow broad-minded enough to learn each from the other.
He lay awake most of the night so that when the children came down in
the evening he was looking tired and worn.
They came in slowly, very downcast and sad. Suppose that Ian had
disappeared for good and that they would never see him again! He was
seated where they could not see him at once, but when they caught sight
of him they both rushed forward.
“Oh, you are here safe and sound; what has happened? I am so glad,”
said both in a breath. Each child flung her arms round him and kissed
him.
“You will pull my head off if you are not careful,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, you did give us a terrible fright,” exclaimed Aline.
“Yes, we came and found the room empty,” said Audry, “and we hunted
all down the passage to the cave room; and I wanted to go through, but
Aline said, ‘No, there is evidently something wrong and it might not be
safe, we had better come round outside.’”
“I am glad you were cautious,” Ian interposed.
“But first we went down the other passage and found nothing, and then
we set out. Aline said we must be very careful in coming near the cave,
so we crept round very slowly; and suddenly, what do you think we saw?”
“Well, what did you see?”
“We saw ‘Moll o’ the graves,’” said Aline, “and we stooped down at once
and then ran away. She did not see us, as the back of her head was
turned our way.”
“I’m thankful for that,” said Ian, and then recounted his experiences.
He omitted the bone incident, but concluded by saying,--“We must be
careful about that birch twig. She evidently set it as a trap.”
“Do you suppose that she discovered the inner cave, the cave room
itself?” asked Audry apprehensively.
“Not at all likely,” said Ian. “She cannot stand up straight even;
besides she was not there long enough; of that I am certain.”
Audry gave a sigh of relief.
“But she may tell other people,” said Ian. “You must keep your ears
open very carefully.”
It was an awe inspiring prospect, the future certainly was not
reassuring.
In order to give a new turn to the conversation Aline said:--“Do you
know, the day before yesterday I went over to Newbiggin and talked
to several of the people? I did not ask any questions, but they told
me a great deal of themselves. There evidently are some pretty fair
scoundrels in the village, even on their own showing.”
“What are you going to do?” said Ian.
“I do not know yet,” she said, “I must find out some more, but I am
tolerably sure that the villains are in the minority.”
“I do not suppose there is much to choose,” said Audry. “I should let
them all go. Why trouble yourself?”
“But, Audry,” Aline objected, “you yourself hate unfairness; and I
cannot bear to think of Mistress Mowbray having her own way with those
who are innocent.”
“I think, also, my princess enjoys some other kinds of fighting than
with foils,” Ian interposed.
“Well, perhaps there’s a little bit in that too; my father was a
fighter.”
“Somehow, little one,” said Ian, “I cannot help wishing you would
leave it alone. I feel you would be better to have nothing to do with
Newbiggin. It sounds very silly, but old Moll lives in Newbiggin, and I
have a strange dread of it that I cannot explain.”
“That is very curious,” said Audry, “so have I. There has been
something weighing on me like a bad dream for many days. I cannot
explain it. Aline, dear, you let it alone.”
“I wish you two would not talk like that,” said Aline, “because I have
had exactly the same feeling and it is most uncanny; but I cannot give
up the Newbiggin people because of my feelings.”
“Come, let us have some fun,” she continued; “we look as if we had not
a backbone among us.”
She went to the sword-chest as she spoke and took out a pair of foils.
“Now, this will do my stiffness good, and Audry can act as umpire.”
They had a good deal of practice since the first encounter. Ian was
really a brilliant master of the art and was much amused at the way
that Aline had completely hoaxed him. Aline made rapid progress and Ian
used to tell her that, child as she was, she would probably be able
to account for a fairly average swordsman, so little was the art then
understood in Scotland or England.
After a bout or two, they sat down to rest.
“You know,” said Ian, “I think I ought to be leaving you soon. I am
ever so much better than I was and it would be well for me to be away.”
“Why,” said Audry, “are you not comfortable here?”
“Of course I am comfortable,” he said, “but I cannot stay here forever,
it would not be fair to you. Besides it is time that I was doing my
work in the world.”
“But it would be terribly risky,” said Audry, “and after the narrow
escape you had, I think you might consider you had done your share.”
“No, because I feel that I have something so valuable for people, that
it is worth any risk.”
“But look how you have suffered and you will bring the same suffering
to others; in fact you hesitated about telling us.”
“But that was because you are children, and somehow I do not feel that
a child is called upon to undertake such great responsibilities.”
“I do not see why a child should not judge,” said Aline; “it is all so
simple and beautiful. If it is worth dying for, people should be glad
to have it, whatever the suffering. I think I feel ready to die like
poor George Wishart. So if your going helps other people, even if it
makes us very sad you must go. When do you think you ought to start?”
“I have a definite errand to undertake. I have never told you about it,
but I am acting as a special messenger with some important papers, and
I have been thinking it over and have come to the conclusion that I
should be leaving here in a week at most, but less if possible.”
“What, so soon?” exclaimed both the children at once.
A deeper gloom than ever seemed to fall over the party as this was
said, and although they tried to feel cheerful, they knew it was a poor
attempt. No one spoke for a long time. Ian sat with his head between
his hands and Aline gazed into the empty fireplace at the dead ashes of
the fire that had been lit when Ian came.
These days with Ian had made the Holwick life far more bearable for
her. There were her Greek lessons and the fencing lessons, but bad as
it would be to lose them it would be worse to lose her friend. He was
generally very reserved with her; but if she was in trouble he always
opened out. She glanced up. Ian had lifted his head and their eyes met.
What would she do without him?
Audry held one of the foils and drew with it on the floor. The silence
was oppressive.
At length Aline spoke. “Where shall you go, when you leave us? You
cannot think how sadly we shall miss you.”
“I shall probably miss you more than you will miss me, sweet child,”
and Menstrie looked at her with a strange longing pain in his heart.
It was thirteen years since any one person had filled his life as
this child had done, and now he was to lose her. “Surely,” he said to
himself, “life is compact of most mysterious bitterness”; but he tried
to be cheerful for the child’s sake and said, “Never mind, Aline, I
shall come and see you again. I think I shall try and become a packman
like your friend who gave you your necklace, if I can get some money
somehow to begin, and then I can pay many visits to Holwick. I believe
I could disguise myself well enough, as I do not think that any one
here really knows me,--the few that saw me will have forgotten me. We
can meet in this room and I shall be able to bring you news and some
interesting things from far away.”
“Yes, do bring me a chatelaine,” said Audry. “I have always wanted one
and Father has either forgotten or been unable to get it.”
“Is there anything you would like, birdeen?” said Ian, addressing Aline.
Aline thought for a moment; why should he bring her things, he was
obviously poor and never likely to be anything else? What was the
younger son of a yeoman who had been a wanderer, a smith and a soldier
of fortune ever likely to have in the way of money? Even her own father
who had been a small Laird had never been able to purchase her the
necklace that he had so desired to do. “I do not want you to bring me
anything,” she answered finally, “if only you can keep yourself safe,”
and then she added hesitatingly, “Would a Greek Testament be expensive?”
“No, not at all,” said Ian. “Would you like one, little angel?”
“Yes, very much indeed; but oh, I am afraid it will be a long time
between one visit and the next, and we shall not know what has become
of you,” and Aline sighed.
“I think I could write to you sometimes,” he said. “We might get hold
of Walter Margrove, who suggested something of the sort to you, and for
greater security we could make duplicates of the parchment with the
holes that you found in the book. I could write the letter so that it
looked like an announcement of my wares.”
They discussed the matter for some time and the next day set about
making the parchment slips, and for the following few evenings they
were busy with several preparations. Ian’s clothes all had to be mended
and put in good order and they took some of the clothes that they had
found in the secret room and by slight alterations were able to make
him a second outfit.
They also found a leathern wallet that with a little patching made a
sound serviceable article.
Ian further made a suggestion to Aline in case they should have reason
to suspect that the key to their correspondence was known. “Let us take
your name and mine,” he said, “to make the foundation of a series of
letters and we will write the names downward like this--
A
L
I
N
E”
“Yes, and what next?” said Aline.
“Well, after each letter, we will write in order the letters in the
alphabet that follow it. After A we will write B C D E F G, and after
L we will write M N O P Q R, and whenever we get to Z we start the
alphabet again. So if we write our whole names it will look like this--
A. B C D E F G
L. M N O P Q R
I. J K L M N O
N. O P Q R S T
E. F G H I J K
G. H I J K L M
I. J K L M N O
L. M N O P Q R
L. M N O P Q R
E. F G H I J K
S. T U V W X Y
P. Q R S T U V
I. J K L M N O
E. F G H I J K
I. J K L M N O
A. B C D E F G
N. O P Q R S T
M. N O P Q R S
E. F G H I J K
N. O P Q R S T
S. T U V W X Y
T. U V W X Y Z
R. S T U V W X
I. J K L M N O
E. F G H I J K
Now there are 25 letters in each column, and if we just put a number at
the top of our communication, we shall know where we are to begin to
use the sequence.”
“I see,” said Aline, “if the number is 51 we shall begin at the top of
the third column; if it is 56 we shall begin 6 letters down the third
column.”
“And if it was 176,” said Ian, “what should we do?”
“Well, we should have to make another column the same way and we should
begin at the top of it.”
“Now suppose the number is 1, we shall then begin at the very
beginning, and the way we should use the letters would be like this.
Suppose this is the message,--
“Arthur Melland wishes to notifie the good people in the Lothians
of the lasting excellence of his wares. His pack is regularly
filled with all the newest materials and, too, all is most
marvellously finished in design.
Our first letter was A, and the first A we find is the A of ‘Arthur.’
Our second letter was L, and the next L that we find is in ‘Melland.’
Our third letter was I and the next I that we find is in ‘wishes.’ Our
fourth letter was N and the next N that we find is in ‘notifie.’”
“Oh, that’s quite easy,” said Aline, “and so you mark them all like
this--
“_A_rthur Me_l_land w_i_shes to _n_otifi_e_ the _g_ood people
_i_n the _L_othians of the _l_asting _e_xcellence of hi_s_
wares. His _p_ack _i_s r_e_gularly f_i_lled with _a_ll the
_n_ewest _m_at_e_rials a_n_d, too, all i_s_ mos_t_ ma_r_vellously
f_i_nished in d_e_sign.
and then cut them out.”
“Yes,” said Ian, “and the only other thing necessary is that the paper
should first be neatly ruled with quarter inch squares, and each of
the key letters carefully written in a square. It does not matter about
the others. But then when the receiver gets the letter he knows that
the squares to be cut must be exactly an even number of quarter inches
from the edge of the paper.”
“I hope I shall remember it if needful,” Aline said.
“I don’t,” said Audry.
“Why not?” exclaimed the others in astonishment.
“Because I hope it won’t be needed and that would certainly be
simpler.”