ian was alone in the secret room. he had been busy writing and a great pile of papers lay before him. he was tired and felt he could write no more, so he picked up some sketches he had made of the children. they would often come down and sit for him and he had gathered quite a collection. what a wonderful pair they were. audry was the easier to draw. she was not quite so tantalisingly subtle with her laughing brown eyes and roguish lips. the face was clearly cut, with decided character, from the well defined brows and the strongly marked forms about the eyes down to the firm determined little chin. “were it not for a certain pair of faces,” he said, “that haunt me day and night i should have said that there could not be anything more beautiful.” he then turned to the sketches of aline and put them aside one by one impatiently;—why could he not catch the elusive swing of those graceful poses? it was no use; they were unattainable. he was looking discontentedly at a sketch of her face and wondering whether any one could ever draw the infinite variation in the finely modelled form of aline’s mobile lips, when audry came in.
he put the drawing down by the papers on the table.
“writing again,” said audry; “you are always writing. i cannot think what it is all for.”
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“one must be doing something,” he answered.
she hardly seemed to heed his reply. “it is nice to have some one to come to,” she said; “everything is all wrong just now.”
“what is the matter, dear?” he asked, noticing that the child had been crying.
“oh, i have such a tale to tell you about aline. you know that mother thought that the thief was edward, and father has been spending ever so much time and trouble over it and has practically proved that it could not be edward; because, though edward may have taken the cup, there was some money that went one day when edward was away from holwick. so mother must needs get it into her head that it was aline.”
“how utterly ridiculous!” said ian.
“yes, and at first i do not think she really thought so; it was only because she does not like aline and is particularly angry with her just now, because it was aline who was the cause of her being shown up as wrong about edward; and——and,” the child went on sobbing as she spoke,—“it was partly my fault. mother knows i love aline and i was rude to her the other day and she knows it punishes me more than anything else for her to be unkind to aline”; and here audry quite broke down.
“do not cry, dear child,” said ian, stroking her thick brown locks. “come, tell me all about it and we’ll make a nice plan to put things right for aline.”
audry and her mother never got on very well together. both were headstrong and impulsive, but whereas audry’s nature was generous and kind, the lady of holwick was a hard selfish woman. she loved her daughter96 in her selfish way, but power was her one desire, and she wanted entirely to dictate the course of her life for her; and even in the things of little importance was apt to be tyrannical. aline had become a cause of much contention between them, and eleanor mowbray had now added to her natural dislike of aline a desire to spite her daughter by ill-treating her little friend.
“well, you know that aline is in the habit of taking things to the sick people round about,” audry went on, when her grief had a little subsided, “and old elspeth generally acts as almoner. mother, however, has interfered lately, and has said that she will not allow it without her permission and that, she will hardly ever give,—never, for the people that aline most cares about. so aline has been buying things with her own money and you know she has not much.”
“no, poor child, it must be very sad for her.”
“indeed it is, master menstrie, but what has happened is sadder still. i met her coming back from the arnsides yesterday, and some one must have told mother that she had been there; for mother said i was to tell aline to go and speak to her directly she came back. i warned her how angry mother was and aline asked me what it was all about. i said that i was not absolutely certain, but that i thought it was because she imagined that aline had been taking things from the hall. i went with her to see mother,” audry went on, “and i never saw mother so furious, and you know how angry she can be.”
“i cannot say that i do,” said ian, “i have never even seen her.”
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“well, anyway, she was purple with wrath and would not allow aline to say a word,—‘what do you mean, you dirty little thief,’ she said, ‘taking things that do not belong to you and giving them to your good-for-nothing friends, you little beggar-brat, you? here you are living on charity and you must needs steal things from under our very noses.’
“when she paused to take breath, aline told her that she had bought the things with her own money. but that only made mother more angry than ever. ‘what, you dare to lie to me, money indeed, what money have you, you miserable child of a penniless wastrel? your father was never more than a petty laird at the best and he had not even the sense to keep the little he had. if you have any money we all know where you got it. no wonder you were so certain that edward had not taken it,’ she said with a sneer.
“aline drew herself up in that stately way that she has. she took no notice of what mother said about her being a thief, but answered;—‘my father was a gentleman, your father did not bear arms. you may call me what you like, but i will not have my father spoken of like that.’”
“dear little princess,” said ian.
“mother nearly choked with rage and almost screamed; ‘you insolent hussie, he was a wretched good for nothing ne’er do weel, or he would not have left you unprovided for.’
“then for the first time in my life i saw aline lose her temper. it was not like mother at all, but a sort of unnatural calm. she turned as white as chalk and said very slowly and softly, almost hissing the words;-‘woman,98 you are not fit to have cleaned father’s shoon. leave the dead alone.’
“mother rushed at her, calling her thief and liar, and i tried to stop her, but she hit me and sent me down full length upon the floor. she snatched up a heavy riding strop and beat aline furiously with it. i implored her to stop but she only hit out at me. i think she was out of her mind with passion.
“oh, i am so unhappy. i try to love mother and it is so difficult. i wish that i had never been born.”
ian did his best to comfort the child and after a time she calmed down and said that she would go and find aline.
when she had gone ian paced rapidly up and down the room, going over the miserable story in his mind. certainly there was one good thing in his not escaping the first night as he had intended; he was at least here to try and make plans with her to help her, but how was it to be done? the more he thought the more hopeless he became. delighted, as he knew his mother would be to look after the child, he knew that as long as his father lived it was impossible; he would find out who had sent her and turn her out of the house or worse than ever—and ian felt his flesh creep—his father might think that she was a heretic too and then.... again the vision of aline burning in the flames rose vividly and distinctly before him, as though it were an actual sight. ian groaned in agony. “o lord,” he cried, “not that, not that!” he was nearly beside himself; but as the vision passed away he grew calmer. he still walked rapidly to and fro, however, and clenched and unclenched his hands till the nails dug into the flesh. here was this99 sweet child, the sweetest thing that he had ever seen in his life, for whom he was ready to do anything,—he was perfectly willing to suffer all things for her, he was willing to die for her if need be, not only to save her life, but even to make her happy, if he could make sure of it,—and yet, here he was, absolutely unable to do anything at all, not even to save her from one jealous woman. it was pitiable, it was almost ludicrous; he who had escaped the forces of the inquisition and the united endeavours of the whole countryside, to be foiled in this way by one woman.
then he clenched his teeth. no. there must be a way and he must find it: “and if there is not one,” he said, bringing his fist down on the top of a chair with a crash, “i will make one.” the chair broke under the blow. “exactly so,” he said; “if they will not yield they shall break.”
after a time audry returned with aline. the child did her best to be cheerful, but it was obviously impossible; so ian thought that it would be best for her to relieve her feelings by talking about it, if she could not put the subject away from her mind altogether.
“everything sad seems to have happened all at once,” she said. “mistress mowbray said such dreadful things about father and now she has been telling every one that i am a thief and poor little joan does not seem able to get over the effects of moll’s visit.”
“you mustn’t pay too much attention to what mother says,” audry said softly. “she loses her temper just as i do and i do not think that she really meant anything that she said about captain gillespie. it was only that she was so angry.”
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“well, that is what i minded most, at least at the time. after all, poor father has gone and it does not really matter to him now what she says, and it does matter to me when people think that i am a thief. every one seemed to be staring at me as i passed to-day.”
“i think that must be mainly your imagination, little one,” said ian, toying with a tress of the wonderful hair. “no one who really knew you could believe it for a moment, and the other people do not really matter, do they?”
aline was a little bit consoled, but she said rather pitifully,—“all the same i wish we could find out the thief.” then a fresh cloud seemed to gather and she went on; “do you think that ‘moll o’ the graves’ really can tell the future? she said that little joan and i were going to die,—and what did she mean when she said that my path was through the fire?”
ian shivered and caught his breath as he thought of his vision, but he spoke as calmly as he could. “oh, one cannot say; i am afraid that the awful old witch is trying to frighten the child to death.”
“yes,” said audry, “they say that she and joan’s mother, sarah moulton, had a terrible quarrel about something and many people think that it was old moll who terrified her into her grave and that she wants for some reason to do the same with the child.”
“the best thing,” said ian, “is to take no notice of her. we must not give way to superstition. it is only by allowing her to frighten us that she can really do anything. what were you going to tell us about joan, aline?”
“well, she just seems to get weaker and weaker. i101 met master barlow to-day, who had come over again from barnard castle to see her and i said, ‘of a truth, what is the matter with joan?’ and he replied, ‘i do not know what is wrong with her, little maid; but i fear she has no chance in that abode.’
“so i feared greatly and asked him what might be done and i told him what master richard had said about sending her to barnard castle. that, he said, was good, but he would suggest better. he knew a very learned physician in durham and also a good woman who would house the child if master mowbray would be at the expense of sending her, it being a far cry, nigh upon forty mile. yet he did not hold out much hope even then.”
“oh, i am sure father will do that,” said audry, “and then you will see little joan coming back well and strong. come, what you want is a run in the fresh air.”
“i want to go down to janet arnside’s again, so i will go now.”
the children left the room and climbed the secret stair. on their way out they turned along beside the moat, which always had a certain fascination for aline. there were now king-cups and bog myrtle growing on the outer bank, where the part of the wall had broken away, and sheltered from the wind on the south side, water lilies were floating in the dark water. it was a still, lovely day and the beautiful walls and windows of the old hall were perfectly reflected in the wide expanse of the black mirror, where also could be seen the clear blue of the sky and the great cumulus-clouds.
“i love this old moat,” said aline.
“i cannot say that i do; yet i am unable to say why, but i always think it looks cruel and i feel that something102 terrible might happen in that deep water, some unsolved mystery, i do not know what it is.”
“yes, i see what you mean, but at the same time it looks kindly and protecting as it goes round the house; it might be cruel, but somehow i feel too that it might be kind.”
“well, i must go and darn my hose,” said audry, “and you said you wanted to go down and see janet arnside and her boy.”
audry picked up a large stone as she went, and threw it into the water; it fell with a heavy sullen splash and the sound echoed back from the walls. aline stood a moment and watched the widening rings till they gradually died away, and then turned down toward the hamlet.
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the hall from n. w. showing pele-tower granary and ledge
