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 knew167 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,168 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.169 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.

170

“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.

171

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, children172 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.

173

“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.

174

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 feeling175 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 somehow176 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, when177 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 yourself178 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”

179 “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—

180

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—

“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.

and then cut them out.”

“yes,” said ian, “and the only other thing necessary is that the paper should first be neatly ruled with quarter181 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.”