CHAPTER XVI A DESPERATE TASK

WHEN Ian reached Carlisle he secured himself a room at the old hostelry near the Cathedral, sent a message into Scotland that he had arrived, and then spent some days in general enquiries as to the possibility of getting work. In this he was not very successful, but was more so in the case of Wilfred Johnstone, whom on the fourth day of his arrival he met at the Market Cross.

Ian was sitting watching the people, when the boy came up. He had a stick over his shoulder with a small bundle containing his belongings.

“How long have you been in Carlisle?” asked Ian.

“I have only just arrived,” said the boy.

“Come along then; we must see what we can do for you. I suppose there is no likelihood of Farmer Harrington coming to look for you.”

“I do not know,” said the boy, “and I do not know whether he could compel me to come back, but he might. I am an orphan and all my folk are dead. I lived with my Aunt Louisa Johnstone until she died this winter; she had no children of her own.”

“Then she was really only your Uncle’s wife.”

“No, she was my mother’s sister. My name is not really Johnstone, but I was always called that because I lived with her.”

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“What was your father’s name then?”

“It was Ackroyd.”

“So your real name is Wilfred Ackroyd?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can call you Will Ackroyd or Willie Ackroyd, and if Farmer Harrington comes asking for Wilfred Johnstone, he won’t find him.”

“You are right, Master.”

“Come along then, Will. I have found a carpenter called Matthew Musgrave who is actually in need of a lad, so I think we can settle that difficulty.”

Matthew Musgrave was a good hearted fellow, who took kindly to the boy and the arrangement was concluded. The result was that he also began to take an interest in the stranger who had introduced him, with the final issue that James Mitchell, as we must now call Ian, who was remarkably clever with his hands, used to go round to help Matthew when he was extra busy; and gradually Matthew found him so useful that he gave him more or less regular employment.

He had decided to keep to the name of James Mitchell, which was the name he had used on the Continent when he fled from England not long after Mary’s accession. Even his friends in France did not know his real name. If ever he should return to his own country he would resume it; meanwhile James Mitchell did well enough. Moreover his recent captors knew him by his real name and it might be some slight safeguard. He smiled as he remembered how he had instinctively given the children his own name. It had seemed the natural thing to do.

After about a week Erskyne arrived and he was accompanied202 by Mortoun himself, who hoped to obtain further personal information by word of mouth, beyond that contained in the documents.

“I hear you have had some sore delays, James Mitchell,” he said.

“Yes, my Lord, I was imprisoned for some time in York and wounded and sick and in hiding for over two months.”

“You are a Scot I understand.”

“I am, my Lord.”

“And of the reformed faith?”

“That is so.”

“We shall need the services of all good Scots if there is any fighting to be done. Can we rely upon you?”

“By my troth, you may, my Lord; I shall be found here.”

Ian then put the shoes on the table and they ripped them open. The contents were practically uninjured and they talked till late into the night.

As they retired to rest, Erskyne remarked;—“Master Knox has found a good servant in you, James Mitchell. I am glad to have met an honest man with an honest heart, ay and an honest face,” he added. “Good night.”

The next morning they left early and Ian felt that an epoch in his life had closed. He also, not unnaturally thought that, having reached Carlisle in safety and found employment, his adventures were for the time at an end, but instead of that they were only just beginning.

Although Wilfred had obtained his wish, he was obviously restless and unhappy. On several occasions Ian203 had tried to get at the reason, but the boy was uncommunicative. At last he admitted that it was because he had left something behind at Master Harrington’s near Kirkoswald.

“I think I shall go over and get it,” he said.

“But that would hardly be safe,” Ian objected; “Master Harrington might not let you have it or let you go again.”

“It is not in a house,” said Wilfred; “it is hidden in a tree. I could find it easily in the dark.”

“How did you come to forget it?” asked Ian.

“I did not exactly forget it; but I had to slip away in a hurry and did not dare to go back; besides I thought I might have to return to Kirkoswald in any case and perhaps it was as safe there as anywhere. I knew it would be possible to go and fetch it and I must go now.”

“I cannot but think you are very unwise, Will.”

“But you do not know what it means to me,” said the boy.

Ian respected the child’s secret and asked no further. “Well, I shall be very anxious until you come back; you cannot do it in a day. Where will you sleep? It is getting late in the year.”

“Oh! I shall manage somehow,” said the boy. “I shall start to-morrow forenoon, Wednesday, and shall be back on Thursday soon after noon.”

“Then if you are not back, I shall be very nervous about you and shall come after you.”

“No, do not do that, Master; I shall be all right.”

Ian was not satisfied, but he let the boy set off early the following morning.

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Wilfred trudged away along the road without mishap, resting now and then and taking it easily, as he did not want to arrive before dusk. A little after sunset he arrived at the outskirts of the farm and made his way cautiously to the hollow tree. He looked round carefully, but no one was about. He then crept into the tree and felt in the corner for a pile of stones. In this was concealed a small wooden box. He took out the box and drew from it a packet wrapped in oiled canvas; within this was another with the open edges thickly smeared with tallow.

He took that off also and within was another piece of oiled canvas, but the packet was now small enough to go into his pouch, where he put it without opening it. “It would be too dark to see it,” he said to himself.

“I think I shall sleep here, it is as good as anywhere.” He waited until he was certain that no one was about and came out from the tree to gather leaves with which to make a bed and then he lay down.

Excitement and cold, however, kept him awake for hours and it was not till far on in the night that he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad day, although still early. “I have slept too long,” he thought; “it was a pity I did not fall asleep earlier.” He peeped out and there was nobody in sight, so he softly stole away toward the road.

But he had not gone fifty yards, before the thundering voice of the reeve, his particular enemy, called out,—“Hulloo there, I see you sneaking round, you young thief. But you will not hide from us again, I’ll warrant.”

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The reeve started running and Wilfred took to his heels. The reeve was a powerful athletic fellow, but Wilfred was light and nimble. He dodged under a fence that the reeve had some difficulty in surmounting, and in that way gained a little at the start.

For a time the distance between them did not alter, both were holding themselves in reserve; then it occurred to Wilfred to turn up hill; he might not be so strong, but his wind would be better. The reeve puffed and panted after the boy, who steadily increased his lead. When Wilfred reached the top of the slope he glanced round, the reeve was far behind; then he plunged down the hill where there was a burn at the bottom, and splashed through it with some difficulty, as the water was up to his waist and the bank on the other side was steep.

The reeve gained during the process and, being taller, made light work of the burn and was close behind. Terror lent wings to the boy’s feet but the reeve slowly overhauled him and could almost reach him with his arm. Wilfred could hear his loud breathing just behind him, when the reeve, tripping over a root, not only fell headlong but rolled into a ditch.

Wilfred laughed and fled like the wind; there was a thick wood not a hundred yards away and he would be safe.

His adversary picked himself up and was just in time to see Wilfred approaching the wood. He would easily have escaped, but another man appeared coming out of the wood at the same moment. “Catch him, Joseph,” yelled the reeve, and the exhausted boy fell an easy prey to the newcomer.

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The reeve was considerably hurt by his fall and it greatly increased his anger. “Where have you been, you young rascal,” he roared, “and what have you done with the sheep you stole?”

“I never stole a sheep,” said Wilfred indignantly, “and it is no business of yours where I have been.”

“Oh, isn’t it; we’ll soon see about that. Do you know what happens to boys who steal sheep?” said the reeve vindictively.

Wilfred was silent.

“Come now, what happens to boys who steal sheep?” he went on with malicious glee.

Wilfred was still silent.

“You need not be so proud; come answer my question,” and taking the boy’s arm he twisted it round till the tears stood in his eyes, but he restrained himself from crying out. “What happens to boys who steal sheep?”

“They are hanged,” said Wilfred at last; “but I have not stolen sheep or anything,” he said doggedly.

“You can say what you like, but the sheep disappeared and you disappeared, and here you are sneaking round in the early morning. The case is as good as proved,” and the bullying ruffian kicked the boy brutally.

The two men led him along to the old grange and locked him up in a small room, high up near the roof.

Wilfred knew that the reeve had spoken truly. Young lads with no friends were not of much account, and nothing but a miracle could save him.

He sat there for hours, as it were dazed and stunned, and then toward evening he opened his pouch and took207 out the little packet and unfastened it. It contained half a groat and a long lock of hair. “Oh, Joan,” he said, “I wonder what will become of you when I am gone. I wonder if any one will ever tell you what happened to me. Master Mitchell was quite right. I should not have come back. No, even for your sake it was better not to come. For now I have lost everything, everything. And there was I going to become a carpenter and lay by a plenty of money and come and marry you when I was big. They say a boy can’t love,” he said bitterly; “they know nothing about it;—I do not suppose they know what love is. If only I were dying for you, Joan, I should be quite happy, but to die for what I have not done...!”

He threw himself on the floor and sobbed and sobbed until from the sheer physical exhaustion of the paroxysms of grief he fell asleep.

Meanwhile Ian was anxiously awaiting his return. The strange feeling that had possessed him ever since the day that Aline had talked about it in the secret room and that lately had been somewhat less intense, came back stronger than ever. He could not explain it, he could not reason about it, he only knew that something terrible was in the air and that it did not only affect Wilfred or himself. So strong was the feeling that he did not wait till the next morning. He merely lay down for a few hours and set off soon after midnight, so as to reach Kirkoswald at dawn. It was one of the last places where he wished to be seen, but he seemed to be drawn by fate.

He had grown a beard while at Holwick and he further disguised himself before starting by pulling out208 half his eyebrows, which were thick and bushy, and likewise the hair above his forehead for the space of half an inch.

“No one would be able to recognise me, who did not actually know me,” he said. “I certainly do not answer to any description of myself that can have been sent around.”

He went to the different hostels and gossiped with every one. He could not ask questions at all direct, as that would have raised suspicion. He began to despair, but at last his patience was rewarded. By good luck his informant was a young farm hand who had been friendly with Wilfred and whose sympathies were strongly on his side. Like every one else, so he told Ian, he was certain that Wilfred had committed the theft and equally certain that he would be hanged; but in a guarded way he let it be seen that he strongly disapproved of such extremities.

“Yes,” he said, “they will never take him out of that little top-room except to his trial and death.” Ian longed to ask where the top-room was but felt it would be too risky. When the young fellow rose to leave the hostel, Ian strolled out. “I may as well stretch my legs,” he said.

He had turned the conversation to other subjects, but, as he had hoped, they passed the grange and he looked up and remarked casually, “I suppose that’s where the boy is of whom you spoke.”

“Yes,” said his companion, “in the second window.”

“From the left or the right?” he managed to say unconcernedly; “it’s strange what scenes may be going on behind a wall and no one know.”

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“From the left,” said his companion, “the one with the dripstone half off.”

“Poor boy!” Ian said; “how foolish to risk one’s life, though, for a sheep; but other people’s doings are always inexplicable. Where did you say you lived yourself?” he went on.

“A quarter of a mile down the path.”

“Where the oaks are? Those are good trees; there must be some timber worth having.”

Ian did not return to the subject of Wilfred and he parted from the youth as they neared his cottage. He strolled back to the grange. It seemed a fairly hopeless case, ladders would be impossible without an accomplice; moreover there was a moat that ran around two sides of the house and the window was over the moat. Could he try and save the boy by his own evidence? No, that was useless. It might be of little avail in any case, and, as he himself was a suspected fugitive it would more probably destroy any slender chance that there might be.

He did not dare to linger, but he cautiously inspected the situation and saw a desperate chance. Away on the far side was a tall elm tree whose branches came very near the battlement; the tree itself was unclimbable but another tree whose branches actually touched the first one seemed to offer an opportunity. It was that or nothing.

A very long rope was clearly necessary and how to get that without exciting suspicion was indeed a problem. Ian secured a room in the principal hostel and looked round the stable yard, gossiping with the ostlers. When no one was there he found a short length of stout210 rope, but it was not enough. At last he bethought him of his bed and, on examining it, he found that the rope carried across and across under the mattrass was nearly new. This would mean that he would have to come back to the hostel, but as he had purposely obtained a room on the ground floor so as to be able to slip out easily, that presented little difficulty.

It was a dark night and rain was falling slightly; he undid the rope from the bed which was in two lengths and spliced them and the other rope together. As he set out his heart smote him. The risk was immense. If he were caught it was more than likely he would be hanged; if he escaped that, there was a very considerable chance of being recognised as the escaped heretic and then he would be burnt. But, even without being caught, the operation itself was so dangerous that it was as like as not that he would break his neck. Was he justified in risking his life when Aline’s necessities might require him? There certainly seemed no other chance for the boy; he had thought of all the obvious possibilities of saving him, but every case was barred by an insuperable objection less obvious, perhaps, but fatal nevertheless. “Why am I made so that I always see both sides so clearly?” he said. “Other people have no such difficulties in making up their minds.”

It did not occur to Ian that even the difficulty would probably have presented itself to another man in a different way. Ian’s problem was merely when and for whom to risk his life; some of us might hesitate before risking our lives at all. However, after pondering for a while it suddenly occurred to him that Aline would wish it. That settled it; the two problems disappeared;211 there was only one problem and that was to act as carefully as possible. Aline would undoubtedly counsel that much.

He crept along very quietly; it was almost too dark; every twig that cracked, every slight stumble that he made caused his heart to beat violently.

Once he started a dog barking and had to remain motionless for a long time, but the most trying experience was that when he had cautiously stolen very near to the grange, a figure on horseback rode up and passed within a yard of him. He stepped behind a tree and saw the door opened. A flood of light streamed out and before he could get on the further side of the tree again he felt he must be seen.

Once more he waited a long time till all was dark and quiet. He climbed the first tree with less difficulty than he expected, but the branches of the two trees were further apart than he had thought. Finally he had to go up higher and lay the rope over a branch and lower himself, holding the two ends and then, after reaching the other tree, pull the rope over the branch by one end.

The rain and the darkness made discovery less likely; but everything was slippery and the difficulties were greatly increased. Having climbed up higher he started along one branch but after he had reached the furthest safe point he found that he was still a long way from the wall.

Again he tried a second branch, but, although a little nearer, it was an awful gulf in the black night.

A third time he crept slowly along another slippery branch that swayed and bent under his weight. “Suppose212 the whole thing should break, elm trees are notoriously treacherous,” he thought.

The branch was worse than the second and he had to go back to that one. This time he managed to wriggle out a couple of feet further, where the branch gave a sudden turn upward and to the left, parallel to the face of the wall. He could dimly discern the top of the parapet on a slightly lower level, perhaps six feet distant. He tied a heavy knot in the rope and swung it out to hit the stonework, so as to measure the distance. It was perhaps rather under than over seven feet. But a seven foot jump from a wet swaying branch, with a forty foot drop in the pitch darkness was a fearsome task. The thought made him feel quite sick and the nausea made his brain reel. A slight squall of wind blew up and the branch rocked and creaked ominously. He had to hold on with all his strength or he would have fallen.

When he had recovered himself a little, a thought struck him; he would double the rope and loop it round the branch and then tie the ends firmly about him under the arm-pits. The rope was not very strong; but surely, if doubled, there was just a chance of its standing a sudden jerk.

After he had done this, he nerved himself for the last effort, but before standing up, he prayed for Aline passionately, fervently, as though the intensity of his prayer should insure its answer. He then rose and, balancing himself with difficulty, leaped across. He reached the parapet; but it was wet, while the lichens on it made it like glass and he slipped down, down, down, into the void.

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He heard a laugh as of a fiend and saw Aline’s face blanched with pity; there was an awful wrench under his arms and a snap above; one of the thicknesses of rope had broken;—but he was still alive. He climbed hand over hand feverishly, without pausing an instant, up the slimy rope and then held on to the branch, while wave after wave of uncontrollable terror swept over him. His excitement was so violent that he feared he would lose his reason. He used all his will power to bring it under control; but he could not do it. Must he abandon the attempt, could he ever force himself, there, in the horrible yawning blackness to go through with it again? His teeth chattered and, do what he would, his hands shook till he nearly fell again. Then he thought of Aline and saw her swimming the river, while he rested his wounded arm upon her shoulder. “Coward,” he hissed through his teeth, “coward. But oh, Aline, if only it were for you!”

“It is for her, though you do not see how,” said a voice within.

Gradually he grew calmer, so that by a supreme effort he forced himself to tie the broken rope and again stand up. He stooped over to the left, where the branch turned, and holding on with both hands he kicked the branch till he broke the bark a little and roughened it. Then he raised himself upright and putting every ounce of strength and will into the leap, he cleared the space and landed in a crenellation. He fell and hurt himself considerably, but what did that matter?

Untying the rope from himself, he slipped it from the tree and cautiously made his way round the parapet. He had to climb three gables and there were other difficulties,214 but at last he was over Wilfred’s window. He slipped the rope round a merlon[19] and climbed down and knocked at the window.

19 The merlons are the projecting upright portions of a battlement.

The boy, who was sleeping a light nervous sleep, woke at once and luckily had the good sense to make no noise. Clearly any one at the window was a friend; enemies came to the door.

He rose and went to the window and opened it. “Gramercy, Master Mitchell, is that you?”

“Hush, yes,” said Ian, and stepped into the room. He pulled down the rope by one end and, before doing anything else, properly spliced the broken piece lest it should catch.

They then set the bed a trifle nearer to the window and looped the rope round the bed post.

“Can you swim, Willie?” said Ian.

“No, Master.”

“That is very serious,” he said, “as this rope will not stand both of us, and it is so dark that I cannot first lower you till you just reach the water.”

“But I can climb well,” said the boy.

“That is all right then, but remember the rope is very wet.”

Ian tied the two ends together and lowered them slowly, till the rope hung looped at its middle point round the bed post.

“Now, as you cannot swim I must go first. I only hope the rope is long enough. It cannot be more than a few feet short anyway, and worse come to the worst you must take a long breath and drop into the water.215 But before letting go, when your legs are dangling, grip one end of the rope and hold it, cut the rope above and the other end will fly up and we can pull it through. I want to leave no evidence.”

Ian gave him a knife and then climbed out and gently let himself noiselessly down the rope. He found that the ends hung about two and a half feet above the water, just beyond a swimmer’s reach.

Wilfred then followed, full of apprehension. When near the bottom Ian whispered,—“Hold on, but let your feet down into the water.” As the boy’s feet reached the moat, Ian trod water and put his arms up to him. This reassured him; as the child, who could not swim, naturally shrank from the plunge into the black deeps in the specially trying surroundings.

“Cut the rope, hold the knotted end tight and let go,” said Ian. As the boy dropped, he caught him and by going under himself prevented the boy from being completely submerged.

“Give me the rope,” and Ian pulled down a long length so as to swim over. “Hold on to me,” and he swam across.

Just as they reached the bank the short end ran up suddenly, and the whole rope fell with a loud splash.

The two fugitives waited fearfully lest it should raise the alarm, but nothing further broke the silence of the night.

As they walked, dripping, to the hostel, Ian said,—“I wish you were not wet, but who would have thought of this? What shall we do?” They climbed through the window and Wilfred shivered violently, partly with cold and partly with excitement.

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“I shall leave the bed on the floor,” Ian said. “Come, let us get off your clothes.” He stripped the boy, rubbed him down with a dry towel and put him into bed. The friction started a warm glow and he was soon all right. Wilfred asked for his precious packet and while Ian was busy wringing out their clothes he opened it and dried the contents and put it under his pillow.

At four o’clock Ian woke him. “I am so sorry about the wet things, but you must make for Carlisle at once as best you may.”

“Never mind, I am warm again now, and used often to be wet through all day, when I was with the sheep.”

After Wilfred had gone, Ian replaced both ropes and put the bed right. He stayed in Kirkoswald till nearly evening so as not to attract attention, and for the same reason went on to Penrith and returned by the other road to Carlisle the following day.

He overheard a little of the gossip about the boy’s escape. The most popular belief was that he had flown out of the window with the devil. Those who prided themselves on their superior intellects said that some one had obviously opened the door and hidden him in their house, just as they had clearly done at his first disappearance. An orphan boy, however, was not of much value one way or the other, and the thing as a practical question was a nine days’ wonder; although a favourite topic of gossip, relating to things mysterious, for many a long day.