CARLISLE
Luckily Matthew Musgrave, who had given Wilfred permission to go, asked
no questions beyond inquiring whether he had settled things to his
satisfaction.
“I had some difficulties,” said Wilfred, “but everything is all right
now.”
Wilfred lodged with Musgrave, but they would often both come round
to the hostelry where Ian was. On one of these occasions a number of
men were seated round the fire with tankards of ale, when a big burly
fellow came in and asked mine host to draw him a tankard. Catching
sight of Matthew, he went up to him and clapping him on the back, he
asked how things were going.
“Well enough, thank you, Andrew, and how is all with you, now that you
have settled down near the old place again?”
“Oh, not so badly; it is harder work than at Holwick, but it’s good
being near one’s own folk.”
Ian started slightly at the name of Holwick, but no one noticed and he
guessed that this must be Andrew Woolridge. He waited a moment and then
cautiously entered the conversation. “Where is Holwick?” he questioned.
“It’s not very far south from here,” said Andrew, “on the Tees a few
miles from Middleton.”
“What were you doing there?” asked Ian.
“Oh, I was working at Holwick Hall, Master Richard Mowbray’s place.”
“What sort of a place was that?”
“A fine big place, but they had not the money that the family used to
have.”
“What were they like?” inquired Ian.
“Yes, tell us something about them,” said Matthew; “you have never told
us much.”
“Oh, they were all right. Master Mowbray was excellent and so were the
young mistresses, but Mistress Mowbray herself was a tartar.”
“Was that why you left?” asked little Wilfred.
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Andrew. “I had a bit of a quarrel with
them. These things will happen, you know”; and he laughed. “In fact,
now that I think over it, I believe they were in the right. They were
decent people, but queer in some ways, and so I thought I had better
shift over here.”
“What was the quarrel about?” asked Matthew.
“Oh, that is too long a story; but I thought they should supply me with
enough corn for the winter and they were not willing. Maybe I wanted
too much; anyhow I came away, but I am sorry sometimes too.”
“Why?” said Ian.
“Well, if you must know I was sorry for the little mistress, Aline
Gillespie, who lived with them. She and I did not get on very well;
but Mistress Mowbray treated her like a dog. Mistress Aline, though,
did me a good turn once, when I got into trouble, and somehow I would
have liked to do her a good turn too, by way of paying back. I do not
like being in any one’s debt. But there, I make mistakes like most of
the rest of us. What do I owe you?” he said, turning to the innkeeper.
“It’s time I was going.”
Andrew settled his score and was just leaving when another man entered.
“Hullo, Andrew,” said the newcomer, “whither away in such haste? Come
back, man,” and then he added something in a low voice in which Ian
distinctly caught the word “Holwick.”
This was a strange coincidence, Ian thought, to meet two people within
a few minutes who both knew Holwick and he wondered who the newcomer
might be. He had not long to wait.
The stranger turned to the innkeeper and said, “Timothy, man, I’m back
again; you’ve got a place for my pack-horses for the night, I hope.”
“There’s always room for old friends,” said the innkeeper.
“Is there anything you’ll be buying yourself?” asked the stranger.
“Faith, man, but I’ve some fine things, but you’re getting that set up
in Carlisle that a man who only brings goods from Flanders and Italy
and Persia and India, to say nothing of the latest novelties from
London, is hardly likely to please you. But I’ve got some rugs now that
would just stir your heart. You never saw the like. I have just refused
300 florins for one of them, but I’ll let an old friend have it for
that price.”
“Oh, stop your gammon, Walter,” said the innkeeper. “You need not tell
me your tales. If there’s anything good and cheap, I may take it, but
I do not want any of your flowery word fancies.”
“Odds bodikins! mine host is very plain spoken,” rejoined Walter, “but
come along, sirs, what do you want?” addressing the little group, and
he unrolled a bundle as he spoke.
Although Walter made the most of them, his wares really were thoroughly
good stuff, and he had a happy taste in making his selections;
consequently he always did good business wherever he went, and it was
rumoured that he had a pretty pile laid by for a rainy day.
He sold a few things to those present and was rolling up the bundle,
when Ian caught sight of a singularly beautiful silver buckle of
admirable design and workmanship. It was of a superior class to most
of the trinkets that the packman had with him. He said nothing at the
time but waited for a more favourable opportunity, as the packman was
staying for the night.
In the evening Ian and the packman were seated alone at the fire. Ian
looked around carefully, the door was shut, so he decided that he might
broach the subject of Holwick.
“I suppose you travel far,” he said.
“Yes, Master Mitchell, I cover the length of the country once every
year, but I work mainly in the north between here and York.”
“Are you going to York now?”
“Well, I expect to do--after a time; but I am going to Hexham and
Newcastle and Durham and shall then work my way up the Wear and down
the Tees and probably up Wensley dale.”
“Do you know Upper Teesdale?”
“Why, yes, but it’s an out of the way place. Yet, do you know,--many
of these out of the way places are my best customers. When I was last
there I sold a large quantity to Master Richard Mowbray of Holwick
Hall.”
“You know them then?”
“In a business way, yes,” said Walter.
“There’s a little girl that is living there, that I know slightly,”
said Ian.
“What, Mistress Aline Gillespie! the bonniest child I ever saw in my
life. I shall never forget that child, although I have only seen her
once. ’Sdeath, man, she has the face of an angel and the soul of one
too, beshrew me if she has not.”
“Well, she comes from my country, although I cannot say that I have any
extended acquaintance with her any more than you have.”
“I am sorry for that bairn,” said Walter, lowering his voice and
looking round; “she has none too happy a time with the Mowbrays. But
there, it may be gossip,” he continued, as the thought occurred to him
that he was not sure of his listener. “One hears such funny tales as
one goes about the country; one does not know what to believe.”
“You are going that way again then?” said Ian.
“Yes, yes, and perchance if you know the child, you would like me to
tell her that I had seen you.”
“May be so; and I might send her one of your trinkets. I saw a little
buckle that might take her fancy.”
Walter got up and fetched the bundle and produced the buckle.
“Honestly, man,” he said, “that is a more expensive class of thing than
most of my stuff; but I will let you have it cheap. Yes, really cheap;
I know you think I always talk like that, but I swear I am speaking
true.”
There was an earnestness in the man’s tone and manner that was quite
unlike his usual jaunty way of talking and Ian felt he might venture to
say more.
“I believe you,” he said. “Well, I will buy it and send a letter with
it, but promise me that no one else shall see you give it to her.”
“You know the old cat too, then, do you?” said Margrove, a little off
his guard.
“Mistress Mowbray, you mean,” said Ian. “Well, I know about her; and in
these days least said is soonest mended.”
“Yes, we dwell in strange times,” the packman responded, “the land has
passed through sad experiences,” and then, fearing he might have said
too much, he added, “Maybe it is all right, but I have no fancy to see
human flesh fry.”
“Nor I either,” said Ian. “I saw them burn George Wishart, and I shall
not forget that on this side of my grave.”
“It’s my belief,” said Walter, “that the church does itself more harm
than good by the burnings; it does not have the effect that they
expect.”
“I believe your sympathy is with those who are burned,” said Ian,
looking at him keenly.
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t; but anyway I say that Mother Church
does not always see where her own interests lie. But my business is
chaffering and I do not meddle in these matters, see you there.”
“Tut, tut, man, you need not mind me, say what you like. I care for
the burning no more than you do and no finger of mine would ever be
stirred to get a man into trouble.”
“Well, neighbour,” said Margrove, “you speak fair, neither would I. If
George Wishart had come to me I should not have told them where to find
him.”
“Then keep my secret,” said Ian, “and give Mistress Aline the buckle
without a soul knowing it. While I am about it,” he added, “I will take
this chatelaine, and that will do for the other little mistress.”
“Then it was not only in Scotland that you knew Mistress Aline,”
remarked Walter, looking at him shrewdly.
Ian was half sorry that he had said so much, he might have enclosed
the chatelaine for Audry without telling Walter Margrove; but he said
off-handedly;--“The Gillespies lived in Scotland, but were cousins of
Richard Mowbray. I have never seen him, but I know he has a daughter.”
“Ay, he has a daughter, and she would be worth going some way to see
too; only she is outshone by her cousin. But Mistress Audry is a bonnie
lassockie and will make a fine woman. Yet it’s a pity the Mowbrays have
no boy. It’s a sad thing for the family to die out.”
Both men were silent for a time and then Margrove spoke. He looked at
Ian questioningly,--“I believe I have seen your face before,” he said;
“your name’s not James Mitchell.” He gave the fire a stir, and as the
flame shot up he said, “Were you ever at Northampton?”
“I was,” said Ian.
“Then you are the man to whom I owe everything. Why did I not
recognise you before? I have heard they had seized you and I heard
afterwards that you had escaped to France,--see this,” he went on,
drawing a small copy of the New Testament from his doublet. “I have not
the courage to go about as you do; but I too have done a little, and,
if need be, I hope I shall have strength not to deny the faith.”
There was silence again, this time Ian spoke. “I wonder if you know
where a Greek Testament could be obtained, you travel much and see many
things.”
“It is strange that you should say that. I have two concealed in an
inner pouch in my pack, that have come over from Amsterdam and I was
taking them to Master Shipley near York, who had asked me to obtain one
for him.”
“Then will you let me have the better one and take it along with the
buckle?”
“Is that it, then?” said Margrove. “Poor child, poor child!”
“No,” said Ian, “you are wrong, they do not know at Holwick that the
child has any thoughts that way; you must act with all the caution you
can command.”
Walter brought the testaments and Ian chose the smaller one, which was
most beautifully bound with little silver clasps. Walter wanted not to
charge for it, but Ian pointed out that that would deprive him of the
pleasure of being the donor.
“Before we retire,” said Ian, “I should like to ask you how you came
to meet Andrew Woolridge. Do you know his story? You can be quite open
with me, as I know why he left Holwick.”
“Then for heaven’s sake don’t tell the people here,” said Walter. “The
man is consumed by remorse, though he tries to pass it off lightly. He
is honestly trying to do everything that he can. You are not the only
one who has sent a present to Mistress Aline. I can tell you that much,
and if Andrew knew who you were, he would not mind. He is a changed man
since he left Holwick. He told me that the vision of the child haunted
him day and night.
“He does not like to talk about the child, but really, if I believed in
spells, I should think the child had magic in her. I never saw a man so
completely spell bound and I must confess that although I only saw her
once, she holds me almost as though I were enchanted.”
“It is the same here,” said Ian.
“It is a most marvellous thing,” Walter continued, “because she seems
quite unconscious of it; not in all my experience have I ever met or
heard of anything like it before. That’s three of us, in fact the only
people that we know anything about, and it may be the same with every
one she meets.”
They talked a little longer and Ian discussed his plans for taking up
the packman’s life when he had gathered sufficient money, as a means of
spreading his message through the land. Then as the hour was getting
late they went to their rooms.