aline had rather overtaxed her strength and had a slight set-back, so that it was some time before she was strong enough to climb down the stairs and visit ian again. he was feeling very dejected that day. his collar bone and his ankle had healed; but although in some ways better, he was beginning to feel the want of fresh air and it told not only upon his health but his spirits. he was also desperately anxious to get on to carlisle where it was arranged that he should hand over the papers to johnne erskyne of doun, but he was by no means fit to travel on his dangerous errand. the worrying, however, made him worse and what he felt he required was some gentle exercise to get up his strength.

altogether it was with keener pleasure even than usual that he saw aline come. “oh, i am so glad to see you,” he said; “audry has been telling me the dreadful things that have happened, but i want you to tell me something yourself. sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you can.”

“but i am not an invalid now,” said aline, “and do not need special comfort. how are you; are you not tired of being shut up here?”

“yes, indeed, and you too will be wanting some fresh141 air to put you to rights again. audry says that you did not suffer much pain; is that so? but it must have been a terrible shock; you may well take some time to recover.”

“i am getting on marvellously well,” said aline, “and i have been thinking that you might be getting out a little bit. you could sit out near the mouth of the cave if one of us kept watch, and after dark it would even be safe to walk a little.”

“yes, i have been thinking that myself,” he replied. “i have been looking round this room to while away the time and have found some interesting things. i wonder, by the way, what is in that old iron chest there. it does not seem to have any lock, which is most strange.”

“yes, we must find that out,” said aline, “but really so many things have happened and there has been so much to do that we have not had time to think about it.”

“well, amongst other things i have found some rapiers,” he said, “and have been practising thrusts and parries, by way of getting a little exercise, but one cannot do much by oneself. two men imprisoned in this place might keep themselves in fair condition, although it is rather short of air for such activity; however, that cannot be.”

“oh, let me see the rapiers,” said aline. “ah, here they are,—and helmets and leather jerkins and gloves. i am going to dress up,” she added, laughing.

“there now, what do i look like? you must dress up too; i want to see how they suit you.”

ian put on a helmet and the other things while aline executed a graceful little dance round the room. when he had finished she said roguishly, “do you know anything142 about fencing? i have seen people fence. they stand something like this,” putting her right foot rather too far forward and turning it outward and not bending the knee sufficiently. “shall i teach you?”

“no, but i might teach you,” said ian, quite innocently.

“well, but do you know anything about it?” and aline smiled mischievously.

“i ought to do; when i was a wanderer in italy i learned a great deal that is entirely unknown here.”

“stand on guard then, and show me something.” as he moved, she appeared to copy his attitude. “engage,” and mechanically from long use he brought down his sword. in a flash she disengaged and cut over. he parried; she made a remise, and was in upon him with a hit over the heart.

aline burst out laughing while ian was thunder-struck. she took off her helmet saying, “we must not have any more to-day as i am not well enough, but we shall have some fine times later on. it was rather a shame though, but i could not help it, it was such fun. i was a little afraid that you would be too taken aback to parry at all, and that would have been very dull. i hope you are a good fencer really; there was said to be no one in scotland who could come anywhere near my father.”

“oh, that is how you come to know so much about it,” said ian, sitting down. even the slight effort had been too much.

“yes, my father taught me and told me that i was getting on very well, but i have had no practice since i came to holwick some eight months ago. things are143 much harder than they used to be. father used to give me much of his time. you see he had no boys and so he always said that he would like me to know the things that boys know. and yet i do not know that i am altogether fond of them. but i have always loved swimming, and fencing is delightful. somehow i never cared particularly about riding, but i have come to like it in the last week or two, since i have started again. it takes me away from the hall and that is a great thing.”

“i always loved riding,” said ian. “there is nothing like a good horse at a canter and the wind rushing over one’s face.”

“yes, i do not know why it was. of course we never had good horses after i was eight years old.”

“why do you want to get away from the hall?”

aline did not speak at first; then she said, “well, you see it makes a change.”

“is it mistress mowbray that is the real cause? come, little one, tell me truthfully, doesn’t she treat you well?”

“there is always a great deal to do, cleaning and mending and, when there is nothing else, there is always spinning and carding.”

“well, i suppose that we must all of us do our share of work.”

aline could not keep back the tears, which welled into her eyes and made them glisten. “yes, it is not really the work, i should not mind the work. indeed i am used to very hard work indeed; because, before the end, i used to have to do almost everything at home.”

“what does she do to you, child? has she been losing her temper again? come, tell me.”

144

“i do not like to say, but she does all kinds of things.”

“well, never mind if you do not want to tell me.”

“no, i do not mind telling you; it is that i am not sure how far i should say anything to any one at all. but you will never see her and it does relieve one’s feelings to be able to speak to any one.”

“then come and sit by me and tell me all about it.”

aline came and sat by him on the old settee. “you see it is not exactly because she hits me that i mind, although i have never been hit by any one before; but she is always doing little petty things that in some ways are harder to bear than being knocked about;—for instance, when we sit down to breakfast there are always two pitchers of milk, which we have with our porridge. they are neither of them quite full, and she takes one of them and pours out some for herself and cousin richard, then she looks into it to see what is left and generally pours most of it into the other pitcher. after that she hands the full one to audry and the one with only a little drop in the bottom to me.”

“does audry know?”

“of course not,—dear audry,—i am sure if it would benefit audry i would go without milk altogether. i would not have her know for worlds; she would quarrel with her mother over it.”

“what else does she do?” ian asked.

aline then told the story of the packman. she did not yet know what had been done by elspeth and the others about the linen, but she pulled up the necklace which she was wearing under her dress and shewed it to ian. “now is that not pretty? i have always wanted a necklace and father had promised only a little while145 before he died that as soon as he could afford it he would get me one; so i try to think of it as if it was father’s present.”

the tears again gathered in the beautiful eyes and this time one rolled over on to her cheek. she brushed it away hastily; but ian drew her gently towards him and kissed her for the first time. “sweet little maiden,” he said, “i hope that god will be good to you after what you have been through in your young life.”

“i do not like the priest here,” she continued; “of course i like father laurence, but middleton is too far away and when i went to confession the other day i said something to father ambrose about father, but he was not a bit kind and sympathetic like our dear old priest at home. i always keep a candle burning for father; that is what i mainly spend my money on, and i wanted him to tell me how long he thought it would be before my father’s soul would get to heaven; do you think it will be very long, and will my candles help him? somehow i do not see why god should make any difference because of our candles; suppose my father had had no little girl to burn candles; or suppose that i had had no money, that would have been worse still.”

“these things are very difficult, sweet child, but i am sure that the love of your little heart that happens to show itself in buying the candles must meet with its own reward, whether candles themselves are necessary or not. but i am afraid that i cannot be of much use to you, little one, because i am no longer of the old faith.”

“tell me something about that then. father said that he would tell me when i got older.”

“i do not want to unsettle you,” ian said; “but of one146 thing i feel sure,—that god would never deal harshly with a child that believed what it had been taught. when we get older it is different, just as it is in the other responsibilities of life. that is largely why we are put here in this world,—to learn to think for ourselves and take up responsibilities: things are not made too easy for us, or we should not have the high honour that god has given us of largely building our own characters,—of making ourselves.”

aline sat quiet and thoughtful for some time. “master menstrie,” she said at length, “i am not so very young now and i think that i should like to begin to know something about these things.”

“you have not read the bible, i suppose,” said ian.

“no, it is wicked to read the bible.”

“why?”

“the priests say so.”

“but how do you know that they are right? after all, what is the bible? it is the word of god, and although even the bible was written by human beings, it is largely the words of our lord himself and the writings of people who actually knew him or lived in that very time.”

ian talked to her for some time, and then aline said that she would like to read the bible.

“there is no reason why you should not,” he said, “but you must remember that you are undertaking a great responsibility, and that though it may bring great joy and comfort, it will be the beginning of sorrow too, and you are very young,” he added, looking at her wistfully. “i have a little english translation of the new testament,” he went on after a pause, “which i can147 lend you, but audry was telling me the other day that you could read greek.”

“oh, only easy greek,” said aline. “i have read some of aesop and that is quite easy, but father and i used to read homer together and that was delightful although more difficult.”

“did you read much? what did you like best?”

“oh, yes, i read a great deal; at least it was really father reading, at any rate at first. i did not do much more than follow, but i got so used to it at last that i could read it without great difficulty. there was so much that i liked that i could not say what i liked best, but there was little that was more delightful than the story of nausikaa. i shall never forget her parting with odysseus.

“father told me that the lady jane grey read and enjoyed plato and demosthenes, when she was about the age i am now, besides knowing french and italian thoroughly. i have read a little plato and have tried demosthenes, but i did not care about him so much.”

“i love plato,” said ian. “after the bible there is nothing so helpful in the world. you seem to have done very well, little maid; but can you read latin?”

“that is amusing,” she said, “because i was going to ask you if you could read latin. now i shall want to know if you can read greek or if you read in latin translations. oh, yes,” she went on, “i can read latin quite easily. i dare say there is some latin that i cannot read, but anything at all ordinary i can manage. yet i do not like latin as well as greek, and the things that are written in latin are not half as interesting.”

“i quite agree with you. i learned latin as a boy,148 but when i was in venice working on some great iron hinges, my employer, who was a great scholar, took an interest in me and he enabled me to get a fair knowledge of greek. i have steadily practised it since and can now read anything, except some of the choruses and things like that, without difficulty. however, if you can read latin, there is no need for you to read an english translation at all, and it is much safer; as the priests do not mind any one, who can read latin, reading the bible nearly so much as those who cannot. i expect that there will be a copy of the vulgate in the library; although it is very unlikely that there will be anything in the original greek; though there might be the septuagint.”

“what is the vulgate then?”

“oh, a translation of the bible into latin. it is really a revised edition of the ‘old latin’ translation, made in the time of pope damasus and after, largely by st. jerome in the fourth century.”

“i shall go and have a look as soon as i can.”

ian sat and looked at her without speaking. she certainly was a most unusual child, but he was by no means anxious to trouble her mind with disturbing perplexities. there is a good deal to be said even for the priests, he reflected; responsibility may be too crushing altogether.

“well, i have to go and do some spinning and mistress mowbray will be wondering where i am; but you will give me lessons in greek, will you not?”

“certainly, we will start next time you come to see me. see if you can find some greek books in the library. good-bye.”

aline departed and sat at the wheel till supper and then went up with audry to their room.

149

what was her surprise as she looked at her bed to see it covered with neatly folded little piles of beautiful linen.

child as she was she knew at once that both the linen and lace upon it were of exceptional quality.

“o audry dear! what is all this?” she exclaimed.

“well, you will never guess, will she, elspeth?” said audry, turning to the old nurse who had stolen in to see how the gift would be received.

“nobody could bear that you should wear dowlas, hinnie,” said the old dame, “and so practically every one in the neighbourhood has had a hand in what you see there. janet arnside made this camise, and martha, the laundry-maid, made that nightrobe. joseph, the stableman, and silas bought the bit of lace on this. edward bought this larger piece of punto in aria here. i made these with the tela tirata work with my own hands and i do hope you will like them.”

“indeed i do,” said aline, bewildered as much by the demonstration of widespread affection as by the altogether unexpected acquisition. “elspeth, you are a dear, and, oh, it is good of them, but what will mistress mowbray say?”

“mistress mowbray is not to know, that’s what they all said; if she did, marry, she would say that we were all doited, and you would not let her think that, would you, dearie?” said the old woman slyly. “you will be careful not to get us into trouble, for we meant it kindly.”

aline was quite overcome and they went through every piece and learnt its history.

“i cannot help liking nice things,” said aline.

150

“and why should you not?” exclaimed the old woman; “it is only vulgar when you put dress before other things or think about it every day. old mistress mowbray,—your grandmother, my dear,” turning to audry, “used often to say that it was the mark of a lady to dress well but simply and not to think much about it.”

“i should much prefer simple clothes except for great occasions,” said aline, “if only for the sake of making the great occasion more special; but even then i like the rich broad effects that father used to talk about with long lines and big masses and full drapery rather than elaborate things. some of these newer styles i do not like at all.”

“yes, i agree with you,” audry chimed in, “but i should like to wear velvet other than black, and i have always longed to have some ermine.”

“well, unless they alter the laws of the land for your benefit, childie, you will have to marry a baron; but you should be thankful for what you have got. i should soon be tried in the court[14] if i started wearing black velvet,” said elspeth.

14 the sumptuary laws regulated what each rank was allowed to wear.

“does your ambition soar to diamonds and pearls, audry?” asked aline, laughing.

“no, i will leave them to the princesses and duchesses. but look here, aline,” said audry, with an air of triumph, picking up a particularly beautiful smock, “i bought all the material with my own money and made it every bit myself, and elspeth says i have done it very well.”

151

“you darling,” said aline, and kissed her cousin again and again. “oh, i do feel so happy.”

“but you have not finished,” said audry, “and here’s a parcel you have not undone.”

aline picked it up and turned it over. on it was written:—“from mistress mowbray.”

“a parcel from mistress mowbray; how strange!” and the little smooth white brow became slightly wrinkled.

inside she found a note and a second wrapping. the note ran as follows,—

to aline gillespie,

finding that others are concerned about your garments i have made it my duty to let you have something really appropriate to your condition at holwick and that will express the feelings with which i shall always regard you. i trust you will think of me when you wear the necklace, although the contents of the pendant are another’s gift.

eleanor mowbray.

x her mark.

“how does she regard me and what is appropriate to my condition?” queried aline as she undid the second wrapper.

to her astonishment and amusement it contained an old potato-sack made into the shape of a camise. after what mistress mowbray had said about the coarse dowlas, aline was half inclined to believe the gift was genuine. but, as she smiled, there fell out a red necklace made of small pieces of carrot with an enormous potato as a pendant.

“now, whoever has done this?” she cried, breaking into a merry peal and looking at audry and elspeth.

they both shook their heads.

152

she examined the potato and found that it had been scooped out and held a packet very tightly rolled up, within which was a piece of walter’s choicest lace. on the packet was written, “to somebody from somebody’s enemy.”

“from whose enemy?”—said aline,—“mine?”

“‘who chased whom round the walls of what?’” audry observed. “i expect the two somebodies are not the same.”

“well, but whom is it from?”

at this moment aline caught sight of the upper part of a head trying to peep round the door. it vanished instantly.

she paused for a moment and then gave chase down the newel-stairs. round and round and round lightly flashed the little feet and she could hear great heavy footsteps at much longer intervals going down, apparently three steps at a time, some way below her.

she reached the bottom just in time to see the figure of silas dash into the screens; but he vanished altogether before she had time to catch him and thank him for what was obviously his gift.

the next day after dinner aline ran out gaily across the quadrangle, lightly reached the eighth step in two bounds, covering the remaining step and the terrace in two more, and was in the library ready to prosecute her search. she had a long hunt for the latin bible in which after much diligence she was successful.

she then thought that she would try the key of the old chest and on opening it found it half full of ancient parchments concerning the estate. she discovered that they were quite interesting, but she did not linger looking153 at them just then. the chest was divided one-third of the way from the front longitudinally up to about half its height and it was possible to put all the parchments into the front half.

aline moved all the papers and then got into the back part of the chest to see what it felt like, before she did anything else. just as she did so, she heard the library door open and her blood ran cold. in a flash she wondered whether it would be better to get out of the chest or to shut the lid. she decided on the latter, and was just able to shut down the lid quietly when she heard the footsteps that had first gone into the other part of the library turn back in her direction. she had luckily taken the key in her hand with which the chest could be locked on the inside and succeeded in fastening it with hardly any noise.

the steps approached the chest and then a voice said, “i thought aline was in here;—and what was that noise?”

it was audry’s voice so aline ventured to laugh.

“good gracious, what is that?” exclaimed audry, and after a click the lid of the chest, to her still greater astonishment, lifted itself up. she sprang back and then in her turn broke into laughter, as aline’s head emerged from the chest.

“what a fright you gave me!” said each of the children simultaneously, and then they both laughed again.

“you dear thing, aline,” and audry flung her arms round her cousin. “oh, i am glad that it is you, but you must be very careful about that kist; i do not think that we had better use it unless one of us is on guard. how did you find the key?”

154

“cousin richard gave it me; i forgot to tell you, but he does not know anything about the secret room as, oddly enough, he happened to say, when speaking of secret drawers, that he did not think that old james mowbray had any fancies of that kind.”

“he would have found that he had rather elaborate fancies of that kind if he knew what we know, would he not, you little wonder-girl;—what adventures you do have;—whatever will you drag me into next?”

“anyhow i never had adventures till i met you, so perhaps it is due to you.”

“oh, no, you, not i, are the wonder-girl right enough; you have great adventures by yourself.”

“let us come down and see ian,” said aline.

“all right; you go down this way,” audry replied. “i want to know how it acts; i’ll wait to see you safe down and then i will go round the other way.”

“no, you would like to try the new way; i will go round.”

“thank you, very well.”

a few minutes later the children met again in the secret room, and audry explained how simple and convenient the new way was.

aline then produced the bible and after a little talk she read several chapters, translating as she went.

it was a new world to the children and ian watched their faces eagerly as she read.

audry, in her impulsive way, was taken with the simplicity of the story. aline, who was an unusually thoughtful child, was surprised, but reserved her opinion.

it was the beginning of many such readings. at first155 ian said nothing; but, when they had finished reading two of the gospels and began to ask questions, he talked with them and explained many difficulties. what amazed aline was the entire absence of any allusion to any of the ceremonial that had seemed to her young mind to form so large a part of religion. also the simplicity of the appeal, to come directly to the divine without any intermediary, attracted her greatly in a way that perhaps it would not have done when the old parish priest of her earlier days was a really beloved friend.

ian was disturbed in mind; he saw that the children were gradually but surely being influenced and that the old faith would never be the same again. but it must mean trouble and affliction; the district where they were was staunchly catholic, and the measures that mary’s advisers were taking were stern and cruel. that little face with its associations of bygone years, and its own magical attractive power that seemed to hold all but a few of every one with whom aline came into contact! how could he bring lines of pain there? and yet how could he withhold what meant so much to himself, this which seemed to be a new and living light? then that awful vision of george wishart rose up again before him and with a vivid intensity he thought he saw the form of little aline standing by him in the heart of the flames. there was too that awful prophecy of the horrible old woman about aline’s path being through the fire. surely there could be nothing in it? the perspiration stood on ian’s brow: he caught his breath. slowly the vision cleared away and there were the children seated before him. what if things, however, should come to this! his very soul was in agony torn this way and that.