GOOD-BYE
The days slipped by all too quickly and the children spent every
available moment in the secret room. But it was not very safe for them
to disappear from sight too often and moreover, other obligations had
to be fulfilled. Sometimes they were able to arrange that one should
remain with Ian while the other was occupied elsewhere.
On one of these occasions, while Audry was in the secret room, Aline
went down to the Arnsides. On the way she met Father Laurence coming
up from Middleton. It was an unusual thing for him to come to Holwick
and Aline was surprised. “Good day, Father,” she said, as she dropped a
curtsey.
“Bless you, my child,” said the old man, looking at her keenly, “talium
enim est regnum dei,”[16] he whispered softly to himself. “How profound
Our Lord’s sayings were. Yes, it does one good even to look at a
child,” and then he noticed that Aline seemed sad and troubled and
lacked her usual buoyant vivacity. “Are you not happy, little maiden?”
he said gently.
[16] For of such is the kingdom of God.
Aline looked at him with an expression of wonder; “No, not exactly,”
she said.
“What is it, my child?”
“Oh, many things, Father; the world is difficult.”
They had drawn near to the side of the road and Aline was leaning
against the wall; she plucked the top of a tall ragwort and began
pulling off its yellow petals one by one.
The priest put his elbow on the wall and looked down at her. He was
very tall indeed, with a rather thin face and deep sad eyes. He at once
saw that she did not want to tell him her troubles and he had too much
instinctive delicacy to press the child. He laid his disengaged hand
kindly on her head, and she looked up at him.
“Strange,” he thought, “I might have had such a child of mine own; but
no, it was not to be. Yes, I know what sorrow is: I have indeed made my
sacrifice.
“All things work together for good, Aline,” he said aloud, “the forces
of good must win in the end, but the powers of darkness are strong and
the victory may be long delayed; yet it will come.”
“But the world is cruel, Father,” said Aline.
“Yes, my child, I know, and the world often seems to be victorious; but
it is only victorious in the things of the world. The principle of love
and the principle of beauty will outlast the world,” and he smiled a
sweet smile.
Aline gazed into his face and he seemed to be looking into the things
beyond.
“Be of good courage, little maiden, fear not them that have power to
hurt the body. The Lord be with you, and may the Mother of God watch
over you; farewell.”
He turned as he spoke and Aline saw him cross over to the cottage of
Benjamin Darley. She went on to the Arnsides and found both mother and
son at home.
“Ah, Honey,” said the old woman, “it is good to see your bonnie face,
it’s a sight for sair een.”
“Mistress Aline is not looking very well, mother,” said John.
“Nonsense, John,” said Aline, and added brightly,--“I have come to ask
you all you can tell me about Newbiggin. I know I can trust you.”
“Dear heart,” said Janet, “you do us honour.” She skilfully lifted the
peats with the long tongs and rearranged them on a different part of
the hearth and soon there was a bright fire.
“That’s a merry blaze,” said Aline; “it seems to cheer one’s heart.”
For an hour they sat and talked about Newbiggin; and the child, with
what she already knew, was able to make a shrewd estimate of the true
state of affairs.
After a while the subject not unnaturally turned to “Moll o’ the
graves” and Aline was dismayed when she heard that Moll had been
talking about seeing a man on the moors, and saying that it would be
the beginning of troubles.
“What did she mean by that?” asked Aline.
“She would not explain,” said Janet; “she refused to tell any one
anything more. ‘The time is not yet, the time is not yet,’ she kept
repeating; ‘when all is ready and I have discovered the workings of the
fates, I will tell you more than you wish to know.’”
“People have gossiped about it a great deal,” Janet went on, “but Moll
will say nothing further.”
“I trust that her evil desires may be foiled,” said Aline, “but I must
not tarry.”
As she went up the street she again met Father Laurence coming out of
Peter’s cottage and he seemed more sorrowful than ever.
“Peace be with you, Aline,” he said. “I have a right melancholic thing
here,” holding out a letter. “But it cannot grieve thee beyond what
thou already knowest. It is a letter from Durham, long delayed in
transit, concerning the death of little Joan. Will you read it or shall
I?”
Aline’s eyes filled with tears, “I should like you to read it,” she
said.
Father Laurence then read--
“To Peter Simson in Holwick
“It beseemeth me to send thee word, although my heart is right
heavy within me, of the passing of the small damsel y-cleped[17]
Joan, who came from Upper Teesdale. Of this you will have already
heard: but my sister was herself sick of an ague at the time and
Sir Robert Miller, her confessor, saith that her mind wandered.
He writeth this for me. She herself lingered not many days,--God
rest her soul,--and, when I came from Skipton, where I dwelled,
she was buried.
“I only know from a neighbour that the damsel had gained health
until latterly and that the end was on a sudden. She spake much
of the young lady at the Hall, who had given her great bounty;
and in especial would she have the shoon and the belt returned,
which were new. But these same I cannot find, and methinks they
must have gone to Newcastle with the other orphans who were in my
sister’s house, and whom the good dame who came thence to nurse
my sister, took home in her charge, and may our Lady requite her
kindness.
“An thou wouldst speak to the Mistress Alice or Ellen,--the name
escapeth me,--I would give thee much thanks.
“ELIZABETH PARRY.”
[17] Named.
“But I never gave her any shoes or belt,” said Aline. “Poor little
Joan, her mind must have failed her at the last, or Mistress Parry
must have been as much in error as she was about my name. She was a
dear child,” she continued, “and it is bitter dole[18] to me. I have
burned a few candles for her soul, but I have not much means.”
[18] Grief.
“Trouble not thy gentle heart,” said the old priest, “I will myself say
mass for the child, and no one shall be at any charge. God keep thee,
Aline, as he may.”
When she reached the Hall she went to Ian and Audry and told them what
she had learned, and they were much disquieted at the evil speaking of
old Moll; but there was nothing that they might do and they could only
hope against hope.
Ever since hearing the letter that Father Laurence had read, the sad
figure of little Joan had floated before Aline’s eyes, and that night
she went to the library and opened the ambry and took out the little
packet and gazed at the pathetic contents. “I wonder whether I shall
ever be able to find the boy, Wilfred Johnstone,” she said. “But I
expect he will have forgotten already, boys never remember long,” and
then she recalled a remark of her father’s,--“A boy remembers longer
and is more constant than a girl, unless he has won her; but after she
is won she is the more faithful.” “I should like to know if that be
true,” she thought.
At length the evening came when Ian had to start. It was a fine bright
night as the three made their way down the secret passage for the last
time.
“How strange it has all been,” said Aline, “since we first discovered
the secret room and this passage. What a different thing life means to
me from what it did then!” She was leading the way carrying the wallet
containing the food, while Audry carried a staff and a big heavy cloak.
“It has been a wonderful time for me,” said Ian, “and I can never
realise to the full the marvellousness of my escape or your great
kindness to me. I feel that God must have arranged it all, just because
it is so strange. I seem to have every little incident written in
undying characters in my mind, and I could recall almost every word of
your conversations with me. Even if we never meet again, you will live
with me always.”
“Oh, but you will come back and we shall meet again,” Audry
interrupted, “you must not talk like that.”
“I hope that I shall,” he said, but the tone of his voice was so sad
that no one spoke again till they came to the cave-room.
They lifted the stone and Ian climbed down first and then lifted the
two through the opening. As he held Aline in his arms a great wave
of feeling nearly overcame him altogether. For the moment he felt as
though he could not put her down; it was like voluntarily parting with
all that made life precious. He clasped her tightly to him for a moment
and then he set her very gently on her feet. It was not too dark to see
her face, and as he looked at it he realised that he had never seen it
more sad and yet it had never looked more beautiful. The light was not
bright enough to see the colour, but he could just discern something
of its richness in the gleam of her thick long wavy hair, reaching far
down below her waist. They all found it very difficult to speak and
the children wished him a safe journey and a happy issue with very
trembling voices.
“Think of me sometimes,” he said, “when I am gone, and pray for me. May
God be with you and do more than I can ever ask in my feeble prayers.”
He kissed both the children, and holding Aline’s little face in both
his hands he said,--“Oh, if I could only do something for you, little
one, I could be happy, no matter what it cost. Somehow I feel that we
shall never meet again in spite of what Audry says; still that does
not make it impossible for me to do something for you. Remember that I
shall always be living in the hope that some such chance may come and
that the greatest pleasure you can give me is to let me use myself in
your service. But now I must go.” He kissed her once again and then
took the cloak, staff and wallet and strode into the darkness; which
soon closed round him and hid him from their sight.
After he had gone a hundred yards or so across the moor, he paused; it
was almost more than he could bear; so he knelt down and prayed that
all good things might come to Aline and, if it were not selfish to ask
it, that it might be given to him to suffer on her behalf,--some pain,
some sacrifice, some physical or mental anguish, that might directly
or indirectly add to her joy or lessen her sorrow. After this he felt
strengthened and even elated at the thought of the suffering that he
hoped would come. It was not enough to give her happiness, the more it
would cost him, the more he would welcome it.
He walked as fast as the light and the nature of the ground would
permit, and when the morning dawned he had passed the wild cataract of
Caldron Snout and was on the spurs of Knock Fell.