CHAPTER X THE PACKMAN’S VISIT

WHEN the men had gone Aline lay thinking, dreaming, building castles in the air. What a narrow escape she had had! Life seemed full of troubles and dangers. Here was she whose life had been a series of misfortunes and now she had only just escaped death, and there was Ian, whose escape had been as close as her own and who was still in uncertainty and peril. He not only had misfortunes but was in danger all the time. “It must be terrible to live in perpetual anxiety,” she thought. “What a pity Ian is a heretic,” she mused; “it means that he is never safe anywhere and it hinders his chances. He is obviously very clever in spite of his humble station. Only think,—if he had not been a heretic he might have become a prince of the church; after all the great Cardinal Wolsey was only the son of a butcher and Ian is better than that. I think his people had a little bit of land. Why, some of these yeomen round here are almost like gentlemen. Ah! but if he had been on the road to a cardinal, I should never have seen him and so I should not be interested in him at all.

“Now I wonder,—but I suppose he could hardly be as clever as all that; but why should he not become a127 great doctor in a university?” and Aline drew herself a vivid picture of Ian as a sort of Abelard gathering thousands of students round him wherever he went. But the picture was spoiled when again she remembered that his heresy would stand in the way. “How cruel they were to Abelard,” she said, “but marry, they are worse now, and that was cruel enough.”

Then her thoughts turned from Abelard to the heart-rending picture of Heloise and her love for him. “She was clever, too,” she thought, “I should like to be clever like that. Why should not a girl be clever? The Lady Jane was clever, as father was always reminding me and then they chopped off her head, alas! So is the Lady Elizabeth’s Grace. I dare say the Queen’s Grace will have her sister’s head cut off, too. I believe the best people always have a sad time. Poor, poor Heloise!”

“I wonder,” she reflected, “if I ever could love like that, with absolute entire whole-hearted devotion, giving up everything for my love,—my friends, my honour, and even the consolations of religion. And yet I believe that’s the right kind of love, not the kind that just lets other people love you. Well, if one can’t be clever or love or do anything that is best without suffering, then I think I would choose the suffering. But, oh dear! it is very hard, I wonder if things get easier as one gets older. I am afraid not. Yet fancy having the praise of one’s love sung by all the world hundreds of years after one was dead! That must have been a love indeed. Ah, Heloise, I should like to love like you when I grow older. Yes, I would rather be Heloise with all her sorrow than the grand ladies who marry128 for wealth or position or passing affection and do not know really what love is at all.

“Yes, and I think I should prefer to marry some one very clever, some one who really in himself was superior to other men, a man with something that couldn’t be taken away like riches or titles or outer trappings of any kind. Yes, my knight must be clever as well as brave. I should like some one like father. But I think I should like him to be great and wealthy, too, although these other things are best. It would be rather nice to be allowed to wear cloth of silver and gold chains,[12] but I suppose that is very silly. I wish father were alive now to help me. I should like to be clever myself, too, and there is no one here who can give me aid. Master Richard does not care about these things; I wonder if Ian would be any good. It’s marvellous what he has picked up. I wonder if he knows Latin. But that isn’t likely. I shall ask him next time I see him, but I suppose I really ought to try and sleep now.”

12 The sumptuary laws very strictly regulated what people were allowed to wear according to their rank.

So she fell asleep and dreamed; and dreamed that she was dressed in velvet and cloth of silver and a gold chain; and a knight in shining armour was kneeling at her feet and calling her his most learned lady.

Aline did not get well very quickly. It was not many days before she was able to get up, but she was much shaken and easily tired, so that she was hardly able to do more than walk a little bit about the house. She was quite unequal to going upstairs and although at her particular request she had gone back to her own room, Richard Mowbray himself used to carry her up when129 it came to bed time. Sometimes he would even carry her out on to the moors, and altogether he paid her more attention than he had been wont to do. This made his wife more jealous than ever and, although at the time it prevented her from ill-treating the child, it only made matters worse afterwards.

One afternoon when she had somewhat gained strength, he carried her out across the court and up the nine steps on to the library terrace. “I am going to take you into the library,” he said as he set her down, while he opened the door. Aline was pleased, as it was now some weeks since she had entered the room.

He seated her in the glorious oriel window at the end, with its beautiful tracery and fine glass, and put her feet up on the window seat. The lower part of the window was open and revealed a wonderful view of the rolling purple moors, while in the foreground was the glassy moat, blue as the heaven above, bright and beautiful, as though nothing untoward had ever happened there.

“It is a nice, quiet retreat this,” he said, “but it was more suited to your great-great-grandfather who built it than to me. My father used to spend a great deal of time here as a young man, but latterly he was almost entirely at his other place in Devon as it suited his health. Of course that has gone now; we are living in hard times, although we still hold the old Middleton property, which is our principal estate; Holwick is only a very small place. But he always took an interest in this library and right up to the last he used to send books up here to add to the collection, but his own visits here must have been very rare.”

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“What was my great-grandmother like, did you ever see her, sire?” said Aline.

“Yes, Aline Gillespie was a very beautiful woman, and exceedingly clever. She was also very gentle and a universal favourite. My great-grandfather, James Mowbray, was almost heartbroken when she married, although he was warmly attached to your great-grandfather, Angus, but it meant that she had to go and live in Scotland. My grandfather was fond of her, too, although he was always a little bit jealous.”

“Do you remember her, sire?”

“I saw her now and then and remember that she used to give me presents, one was this well-wrought Italian buckle, which I still wear on my belt. She was very fond of books too, and there was some talk of my great-grandfather having intended to leave her half the books in this library; but he died rather suddenly and I imagine, therefore, that he had not time to carry out his intention.”

“I suppose then that she would often sit where I am sitting now. How interesting it is to picture it all.”

“Oh, yes, she had a special ambry in the wall, that old James Mowbray had made for her. It is there behind that panel, with the small ornamental lock. I think that the key of it will be about somewhere. The library keys used to be kept in the little drawer in this table at the end.”

“I did not know that there was a drawer,” said Aline.

“I fancy it is made the way it is on purpose, so as not to be very conspicuous. You cannot call it a secret drawer though. I doubt if that kind of thing was in the old man’s line, although he had some strange fancies.131 Yes, here they are,” he said, pulling out the drawer. “See, this is the ambry,” he went on, opening the cupboard as he spoke. “Would you like it for your own treasures?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Then you can have it.”

Aline’s face lit up with pleasure. “Oh, thank you so much, that is delightful.”

“I am not certain what these other keys are for,” said Master Mowbray. “This is, I think, the key of that old kist which used to have some papers that were at one time of importance relating to the house. If you like to rummage over old things you may enjoy having a look at them. I think that you are a good girl and that I may trust you, but you must remember always to lock it and put everything back. One of the other keys is, of course, the key of the rods that hold the books and the remaining key I have forgotten. You had better take your own key off the bunch, but keep them all in the drawer as before.”

He put the keys in the drawer and came back and sat on the seat opposite her. “I have never heard you read,” he said, “and Audry tells me that you are a fine reader. I have almost forgotten how to read myself, so little do I practise it nowadays. Are you tired, child? Would you read me something?”

“Yes, sire, if it would please you,” she said.

“You can call me Cousin Richard,” he replied. “I remember how my aunt, your great-grandmother, whom you slightly resemble, once read to me in this very room, when I was a boy.”

“Oh, what did she read?”

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“There was one story, a poem about a father who had lost his little daughter, and saw a vision of her in heaven.”

“Oh, ‘Pearl,’ a lovely musical thing with all the words beginning with the same letters. I do not mean all the words; I do not know how to explain it; you know what I mean.”

“Then there was another one about a green girdle and a lady that kissed a knight.”

“Yes, ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’; it is a pretty tale.”

“But I think what I liked best of all was Sir Thomas Malory.”

“That is what Audry likes best,” said Aline; “she thinks that some of the books that I read are too dry, because they are not stories, but I am not sure that I too do not like ‘The Morte d’Arthur’ best of all.”

“Read me something out of that.”

She turned to the well known scene of the passing of Arthur. Master Mowbray leaned back against the window-jamb and looked across at her in the opposite corner. The late afternoon sun was warm and golden. She was wearing a little white dress, which took on a rich glow in the mellow light. Over her hair and shoulder played the colours from the glass in the upper part of the window. She knew the story practically by heart and her big eyes looking across at him seemed to grow larger and rounder with wonder and mystery as she told the tale.

Under the spell of the soft witching music of her voice he was transported to that enchanted land, and there he saw the dying king and Sir Bedivere failing to throw133 the sword into the water:—“But go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold ... for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead!” Then followed the passage where Sir Bedivere throws in the sword and the mystic barge comes with the three Queens, and as Richard Mowbray looked over at the little face before him he saw in the one face the beauty of them all. So on the wings of a perfect tale perfectly told he forgot the perplexities and anxieties that encompassed him, and himself floated to the Land of Avilion while he gazed and, like Ian Menstrie, was lured by the same charm and began to wonder whether she were not indeed herself from the land of fa?ry. “‘For I will go to the vale of Avilion,’” he repeated to himself, “‘to heal me of my grievous wound.’”

“Yes, this is a healing of the wounds of life,” he added. “I never realised before that beauty had such power. Come, child, it is time we went,” he said aloud and gently lifted her in his arms; “we must see what the others are doing.” So he carried her out on to the terrace that ran in front of the library and down the steps and across the quadrangle to the great Hall. There they found considerable excitement; a packman with five horses had arrived from the south and every one was making purchases who had any money laid by.

“Now that is a fine carpet,” he was saying as he unrolled a piece of Flemish work. “It was made at Ispahan for the Shah of Persia and is the best bit of Persian carpet you will ever see. That would look well in my lady’s boudoir. I would let you have that for five florins.”

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He did not seem very pleased at the master’s entrance at that moment; Richard Mowbray glanced at it and remarked, “But that is Flemish weaving.”

“Did I not say Flemish?” he said. “Oh, it is Flemish right enough; it was made for the Duke of Flanders.”

“And if I had said it was Tuscan I suppose it would have been made for the Duke of Tuscany.”

“Ah, master, you make mock of me; see, here, I have some buckles of chaste design that might take your fancy or these daggers of Spanish make, or what say you to a ring or a necklace for one of the ladies?”

“We have no moneys for gauds and vanities.”

“But beauty will not bide, and when you have the money it may be too late; you would not let it go ungraced. Prithee try these garnets on the Lady of Holwick. They would become her well, or this simple silver chain for the young mistress,” looking at Aline for the first time. “By my troth she is a beautiful child,” he exclaimed involuntarily.

“Ah well then, my friend, good wine needs no bush.”

“Nay, sweets to the sweet, and for fair maids fair things.”

“Truly you are a courtier.”

“Ay, and have been at court, and those of most courtesy have bought most of my wares.”

“Enough, enough, what have you of good household stuff, things that a good housewife must buy though the times be hard. Come, show my lady such things as good linen and good cloth.”

“You bring him to the point,” said Mistress Mowbray; “yes, sirrah, what have you in the way of linen?”

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“I have linen of France and linen of Flanders; I have linen fine and linen coarse.”

He unrolled several samples as he spoke, and Mistress Mowbray selected some linen of Rennes of fine texture, which she said would do to make garments for Audry and herself. “And your supply of clothes that you brought from Scotland is in need of some plenishing,” she said, glancing at Aline. “There will be work for idle hands. Here, this stout dowlas[13] will stand wear well, and be warmer too.”

13 A very coarse sort of canvas used for underclothes by the poorest classes in the sixteenth century.

Aline felt the blood rush to her face, but she said nothing. It was not that she thought much about her clothes; indeed she had the natural simple taste of the high born that eschews finery, yet a certain daintiness and delicacy she did desire and had always had, and it was a bitter disappointment, a disappointment made more cruel by the public shame of it.

Walter Margrove, the packman, looked at her; he had not travelled amongst all sorts and conditions for nothing and he took the situation in at a glance.

“Yes, Mistress Mowbray,” Aline said at length, “I shall have a great deal to do.”

Richard Mowbray had left the hall, but old Elspeth who was standing by said, “I will help you, childie.”

Mistress Mowbray scowled at her, and muttered,—“Well, I hope, Aline, that you will work hard,” then turning to Margrove she asked to look at other wares. Such opportunities did not often occur in a remote place like Holwick and it was very difficult to do one’s purchasing at a distance; so although she only bought things136 of real necessity she laid in a large supply from the packman’s stock.

On these occasions the surrounding tenants were allowed to come up to the hall and Walter Margrove, when Mistress Mowbray had departed, started to put his things together to take them into the courtyard. The children stayed behind to watch him for a few moments and as he was leaving the Hall he pressed a small packet into Aline’s hand and said in a whisper, “Do not say anything; it is a pleasure, just a small remembrance.”

The packet contained the small silver necklace that he had been showing before. It was not of great intrinsic value, but was of singularly chaste design and though exceedingly simple was of much beauty.

Aline was immensely surprised at the unexpected joy, and for the time it quite made up to her for her previous disappointment.

As the packman went into the courtyard a great crowd gathered round him, both chaffering and gossiping. “Who is the beautiful young mistress that has come to Holwick?” he asked.

“Oh, she is a distant cousin of Master Mowbray,” said one, “but you have no idea of the things that have been going on since you were last at Holwick.”

“What things?”

“Why, the child has been nearly killed,” said old Elspeth who had followed the packman out. “Poor wee soul, it makes my old heart bleed to think of it even now.”

Elspeth then recounted the tale of all that had taken place.

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“Then why is Mistress Holwick not more grateful? She seems to have saved her and her good man a pretty penny indeed.”

“The woman is crazed with jealousy or envy or what not,” said another.

“But the child seems a lovable one to my thinking,” said Margrove.

“There has never been a better lassie in Holwick is my way of looking at it.” It was Janet Arnside who was speaking; she had come up to see Elspeth, and take the opportunity of buying a few trifles at the same time. “My boy just owes his life to her; she has been down to us times without number, and I have never seen anything like the way that she gets hold of one’s heart. I cried the whole day long when I heard of her being hurt like that, and it just makes me rage to hear the things that they tell of Mistress Holwick and the child. It would have been the worst thing that ever happened to Holwick if anything really serious had befallen her that night.”

“Ay, ay,” said several voices in chorus.

“And why should not the bairn have fine linen, I should like to know?” she went on.

“It is a downright shame,” said a man’s voice.

“Well, neighbour,” said Janet, “I am not the one to interfere in other folk’s business, but I am not the only one that the child has blessed, not the only one by a long way.”

“No, that you are not, mistress,”—“No, indeed, think of my wife’s sickness,”—“Think of my little lass,”—“Ay, and mine,”—“And my old father,”—said one voice after another.

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“Can we not do something, neighbours?” said Janet. “Why not speak to Master Richard himself?”

“It is an ill thing to meddle between husband and wife,” said Margrove. “By my halidame I have a half mind to speak to the jade myself. She cannot hurt me.”

“No, but she can hurt the child more, when you have gone,” rejoined Elspeth. “Look here, it is not much, but it is something; let us get the linen ourselves, and it will help Master Margrove, honest man, at the same time. I shall be seeing to the making of the clothes and I can make a tale for the child and prevent her speaking to Mistress Mowbray. The Mistress does not pay that much attention to the little lady’s belongings I can tell you. She leaves it all to me, and bless you if she sees any linen garments I shall tell her that they are of those that came from Scotland.”

“Ay, ay, agreed, agreed,” they all shouted. “Give us the very best linen you have, master, and some of your finest lace and we will clothe her like a princess under her kirtle.”

“I’ faith, you are the right sort, but it is no profit I will be making on this business; no, you shall have the things at the price I paid for them and not a groat more, no, not even for carriage and I will give her some pieces of lace myself. See here are some fine pieces of Italian work. This is a beautiful little piece of punto in aria and this is a fine piece of merletti a piombini: But stay; she shall have too a finer piece still, something like the second one; it is Flemish, dentelles au fuseau, from Malines”; he drew it forth as he spoke and fingered it lovingly amid marked expressions of admiration from Elspeth and the other woman.

“It’s nothing to some beans that I shall give her,” interposed139 Silas, the irrepressible farm-reeve. “They are French, you know, from Paris,” imitating Walter’s manner.

“Be quiet”; “stop your nonsense,” they all shouted.

“I am not quite sure,” he went on dreamily and quite unperturbed, “whether I shall thread them on a string to wear on her bosom, or cook them for her to wear inside; but certainly she shall have them for nothing; not a groat will I take. I should scorn to ask the price they cost me.”

Jock, the stableman, stepped forward and struck out playfully at Silas. “He always carries on like that,” he said; but Silas dodged aside and put out his leg so that Jock stumbled and collapsed in confusion into Walter’s arms.

“A judgment on the stableman for insulting the reeve,” said Silas, marching off with mock solemnity.

As he reached the gate he turned back. “No offence, Walter; put me down for ten florins for our bonnie little mistress. I’ll bring it anon.”

The others gasped at the largeness of the sum as the good-natured face of the reeve disappeared through the archway.

Soon after, the crowd thinned away and Walter was packing up his things, when Aline happened to come to the hall door. He saw her and went quickly to her and before she could thank him for his present of the necklace he said, “If at any time there is anything that you would like me to do out in the wide world, a message for instance, remember that I am always ready to help you.”

“I do not think that there is anything just now,” she said.

“Then God be with you,”—and he was gone.