CHAPTER XIV GOOD-BYE

THE days slipped by all too quickly and the children spent every available moment in the secret room. But it was not very safe for them to disappear from sight too often and moreover, other obligations had to be fulfilled. Sometimes they were able to arrange that one should remain with Ian while the other was occupied elsewhere.

On one of these occasions, while Audry was in the secret room, Aline went down to the Arnsides. On the way she met Father Laurence coming up from Middleton. It was an unusual thing for him to come to Holwick and Aline was surprised. “Good day, Father,” she said, as she dropped a curtsey.

“Bless you, my child,” said the old man, looking at her keenly, “talium enim est regnum dei,”[16] he whispered softly to himself. “How profound Our Lord’s sayings were. Yes, it does one good even to look at a child,” and then he noticed that Aline seemed sad and troubled and lacked her usual buoyant vivacity. “Are you not happy, little maiden?” he said gently.

16 For of such is the kingdom of God.

Aline looked at him with an expression of wonder; “No, not exactly,” she said.

“What is it, my child?”

“Oh, many things, Father; the world is difficult.”

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They had drawn near to the side of the road and Aline was leaning against the wall; she plucked the top of a tall ragwort and began pulling off its yellow petals one by one.

The priest put his elbow on the wall and looked down at her. He was very tall indeed, with a rather thin face and deep sad eyes. He at once saw that she did not want to tell him her troubles and he had too much instinctive delicacy to press the child. He laid his disengaged hand kindly on her head, and she looked up at him.

“Strange,” he thought, “I might have had such a child of mine own; but no, it was not to be. Yes, I know what sorrow is: I have indeed made my sacrifice.

“All things work together for good, Aline,” he said aloud, “the forces of good must win in the end, but the powers of darkness are strong and the victory may be long delayed; yet it will come.”

“But the world is cruel, Father,” said Aline.

“Yes, my child, I know, and the world often seems to be victorious; but it is only victorious in the things of the world. The principle of love and the principle of beauty will outlast the world,” and he smiled a sweet smile.

Aline gazed into his face and he seemed to be looking into the things beyond.

“Be of good courage, little maiden, fear not them that have power to hurt the body. The Lord be with you, and may the Mother of God watch over you; farewell.”

He turned as he spoke and Aline saw him cross over to the cottage of Benjamin Darley. She went on to the184 Arnsides and found both mother and son at home.

“Ah, Honey,” said the old woman, “it is good to see your bonnie face, it’s a sight for sair een.”

“Mistress Aline is not looking very well, mother,” said John.

“Nonsense, John,” said Aline, and added brightly,—“I have come to ask you all you can tell me about Newbiggin. I know I can trust you.”

“Dear heart,” said Janet, “you do us honour.” She skilfully lifted the peats with the long tongs and rearranged them on a different part of the hearth and soon there was a bright fire.

“That’s a merry blaze,” said Aline; “it seems to cheer one’s heart.”

For an hour they sat and talked about Newbiggin; and the child, with what she already knew, was able to make a shrewd estimate of the true state of affairs.

After a while the subject not unnaturally turned to “Moll o’ the graves” and Aline was dismayed when she heard that Moll had been talking about seeing a man on the moors, and saying that it would be the beginning of troubles.

“What did she mean by that?” asked Aline.

“She would not explain,” said Janet; “she refused to tell any one anything more. ‘The time is not yet, the time is not yet,’ she kept repeating; ‘when all is ready and I have discovered the workings of the fates, I will tell you more than you wish to know.’”

“People have gossiped about it a great deal,” Janet went on, “but Moll will say nothing further.”

“I trust that her evil desires may be foiled,” said Aline, “but I must not tarry.”

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As she went up the street she again met Father Laurence coming out of Peter’s cottage and he seemed more sorrowful than ever.

“Peace be with you, Aline,” he said. “I have a right melancholic thing here,” holding out a letter. “But it cannot grieve thee beyond what thou already knowest. It is a letter from Durham, long delayed in transit, concerning the death of little Joan. Will you read it or shall I?”

Aline’s eyes filled with tears, “I should like you to read it,” she said.

Father Laurence then read—

    “To Peter Simson in Holwick

    “It beseemeth me to send thee word, although my heart is right heavy within me, of the passing of the small damsel y-cleped[17] Joan, who came from Upper Teesdale. Of this you will have already heard: but my sister was herself sick of an ague at the time and Sir Robert Miller, her confessor, saith that her mind wandered. He writeth this for me. She herself lingered not many days,—God rest her soul,—and, when I came from Skipton, where I dwelled, she was buried.

    “I only know from a neighbour that the damsel had gained health until latterly and that the end was on a sudden. She spake much of the young lady at the Hall, who had given her great bounty; and in especial would she have the shoon and the belt returned, which were new. But these same I cannot find, and methinks they must have gone to Newcastle with the other orphans who were in my sister’s house, and whom the good dame who came thence to nurse my sister, took home in her charge, and may our Lady requite her kindness.

    “An thou wouldst speak to the Mistress Alice or Ellen,—the name escapeth me,—I would give thee much thanks.

    “Elizabeth Parry.”

17 Named.

“But I never gave her any shoes or belt,” said Aline. “Poor little Joan, her mind must have failed her at186 the last, or Mistress Parry must have been as much in error as she was about my name. She was a dear child,” she continued, “and it is bitter dole[18] to me. I have burned a few candles for her soul, but I have not much means.”

18 Grief.

“Trouble not thy gentle heart,” said the old priest, “I will myself say mass for the child, and no one shall be at any charge. God keep thee, Aline, as he may.”

When she reached the Hall she went to Ian and Audry and told them what she had learned, and they were much disquieted at the evil speaking of old Moll; but there was nothing that they might do and they could only hope against hope.

Ever since hearing the letter that Father Laurence had read, the sad figure of little Joan had floated before Aline’s eyes, and that night she went to the library and opened the ambry and took out the little packet and gazed at the pathetic contents. “I wonder whether I shall ever be able to find the boy, Wilfred Johnstone,” she said. “But I expect he will have forgotten already, boys never remember long,” and then she recalled a remark of her father’s,—“A boy remembers longer and is more constant than a girl, unless he has won her; but after she is won she is the more faithful.” “I should like to know if that be true,” she thought.

At length the evening came when Ian had to start. It was a fine bright night as the three made their way down the secret passage for the last time.

“How strange it has all been,” said Aline, “since we first discovered the secret room and this passage. What a different thing life means to me from what it did187 then!” She was leading the way carrying the wallet containing the food, while Audry carried a staff and a big heavy cloak.

“It has been a wonderful time for me,” said Ian, “and I can never realise to the full the marvellousness of my escape or your great kindness to me. I feel that God must have arranged it all, just because it is so strange. I seem to have every little incident written in undying characters in my mind, and I could recall almost every word of your conversations with me. Even if we never meet again, you will live with me always.”

“Oh, but you will come back and we shall meet again,” Audry interrupted, “you must not talk like that.”

“I hope that I shall,” he said, but the tone of his voice was so sad that no one spoke again till they came to the cave-room.

They lifted the stone and Ian climbed down first and then lifted the two through the opening. As he held Aline in his arms a great wave of feeling nearly overcame him altogether. For the moment he felt as though he could not put her down; it was like voluntarily parting with all that made life precious. He clasped her tightly to him for a moment and then he set her very gently on her feet. It was not too dark to see her face, and as he looked at it he realised that he had never seen it more sad and yet it had never looked more beautiful. The light was not bright enough to see the colour, but he could just discern something of its richness in the gleam of her thick long wavy hair, reaching far down below her waist. They all found it very difficult to speak and the children wished him a safe journey and a happy issue with very trembling voices.

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“Think of me sometimes,” he said, “when I am gone, and pray for me. May God be with you and do more than I can ever ask in my feeble prayers.”

He kissed both the children, and holding Aline’s little face in both his hands he said,—“Oh, if I could only do something for you, little one, I could be happy, no matter what it cost. Somehow I feel that we shall never meet again in spite of what Audry says; still that does not make it impossible for me to do something for you. Remember that I shall always be living in the hope that some such chance may come and that the greatest pleasure you can give me is to let me use myself in your service. But now I must go.” He kissed her once again and then took the cloak, staff and wallet and strode into the darkness; which soon closed round him and hid him from their sight.

After he had gone a hundred yards or so across the moor, he paused; it was almost more than he could bear; so he knelt down and prayed that all good things might come to Aline and, if it were not selfish to ask it, that it might be given to him to suffer on her behalf,—some pain, some sacrifice, some physical or mental anguish, that might directly or indirectly add to her joy or lessen her sorrow. After this he felt strengthened and even elated at the thought of the suffering that he hoped would come. It was not enough to give her happiness, the more it would cost him, the more he would welcome it.

He walked as fast as the light and the nature of the ground would permit, and when the morning dawned he had passed the wild cataract of Caldron Snout and was on the spurs of Knock Fell.