CHAPTER XXI TORTURE

THE few days before Audry’s departure ran swiftly by and Aline found herself alone. Mistress Mowbray was determined to make the most of her opportunity and devised all manner of new tasks “to curb her proud spirit,” as she phrased it. What did this child mean by coming to disturb their household, and why should she be so beautiful, a wretched pauper Scot? Of course she must think herself better than other people! “I have no doubt,” said Mistress Mowbray to herself, “that the minx spends half her time when she gets the chance, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she’s pretty, no doubt, with her saintly hypocritical face, the Devil is handsome, they say; and I am sure she is a bad one.” It was no use for people to argue with Mistress Mowbray that Aline cared not the least about her looks, and indeed, strange as it seemed, was apparently unaware of her beauty. Mistress Mowbray only retorted that that was all part of her hypocrisy. “Why should the child have such hands?” she angrily asked herself one day, just after Audry had departed, “as if it wasn’t enough that she should have a face fairer than any one else without having hands that no one could see without comment.”

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So one of Eleanor Mowbray’s devices was to set Aline to clean down some old furniture with lye. Naturally this greatly injured the skin, and as the cold weather set in, she contrived that the child should always be washing something, till in a very short time the little hands were chapped and cut and in a shocking condition round the nails. When they were in this state she was set to clean brass and iron, until it was a continual torture, and yet Aline did not complain.

How she longed for Audry when she went lonely to her bed at night. If only there had been some one in whom to confide it would not have been so terrible; but day after day it was the same thing.

At last the hands became so sore that one morning in handling a pitcher, she let it fall and it was broken to atoms. This was the kind of opportunity for which Mistress Mowbray had been looking, but Aline was such a careful, thoughtful child that the chance had been long in coming. She told Aline that her punishment was that she should be confined to the house for a fortnight and in this way she knew that she would deprive her of her principal pleasure, which was to visit the people in the hamlet, particularly those who were sick.

It was no use, when Aline offered to pay for the pitcher. Mistress Mowbray would not hear of it. So the little girl would sit by the window when she was not actually being made to work and watch the oncoming winter, with the first snow on the high ground and the brown withered grasses blown by the wind. All the purple of the heather had long since gone and the moor looked sere and joyless. “But, oh, for a breath of the261 fresh hill-airs.” Aline gradually began to long wildly and pine for a run in the open breeze.

The longing grew to an uncontrollable desire and at last Aline, the law-abiding innocent child, could bear the injustice no longer. After all, Mistress Mowbray was not her mother and there was no absolute reason why she should obey her. Master Mowbray, she knew, would disapprove of her being kept in, and so at length she decided one afternoon to make her way into the open along the secret passage.

No sooner thought than the thought became a deed, and she found herself swinging the stone and letting herself down into the cool open fresh air of heaven. It seemed at once to make her better; she filled her lungs, she laughed and stepped quickly down the stream, and then broke into a run. Oh, the joy of it after being cooped up for so long. It was so delightful that she was tempted to make her way down to the river and look at the waterfall.

She stood watching it and her mind turned to what she had been doing. Was she right? After all Mistress Mowbray was her guardian and responsible for her, no matter how cruel she might be. Aline was filled with doubt.

“I am afraid I have done wrong,” she said to herself; “the world would all go to confusion if every irresponsible person and child behaved as it pleased toward those who have the management of things. Of course they do not always manage properly, and they make mistakes and do wrong, and so should I if I were in the same place. But somebody has to manage things. Oh, dear, it is very difficult, but I suppose until I am262 old enough and wise enough to manage things better, I must submit to be managed and be learning how not to do things when my time comes. I am afraid I have been very naughty.”

Aline had a developed power of reasoning far beyond the average child of her age but a capacity, however, by no means altogether uncommon, particularly at her time of life.

What was her consternation on turning round to see Thomas Carluke standing on the bank a little lower down and watching her.

He came up and spoke, saying,—“It’s a fine day, Mistress Aline; we do not often get so good a day so late in the year. You will be enjoying the fresh air. I noticed you have not been out much lately.”

Aline winced, as she was feeling a little ashamed of herself,—but she only said, “No, but a day like this is irresistible.”

“Well, I am glad you are enjoying it,” said Thomas, with an evil look in his eye, and turned back in the direction of Holwick.

Aline wondered what to do. She felt a strong temptation to go back as fast as possible by way of the secret passage and be in before Thomas could get there. He would, of course, be astonished at seeing her and would probably say something; she could then draw herself up stiffly and say;—“Thomas, you are dreaming, I hope you have not been taking too much liquor,” a thing of which Thomas was notoriously fond. “How can you talk of such obvious impossibilities.” If he were inclined to persist she could suggest that it was her263 wraith;[24] and that would frighten Thomas terribly, as they were all very superstitious.

24 The ghost of a living person.

But she felt it would not be right, however unjust Thomas and Mistress Mowbray were, and however justified she felt in refusing to obey her.

Meanwhile Thomas went on gloating over his discovery, and he found Mistress Mowbray at once.

She took him into the hall and bade him be seated.

So there they sat for a moment looking at each other, the sly undersized man, with his low ill-developed forehead, and the keen looking, cruel, but dignified woman. “What is it, Thomas?” she said.

“I have but newly seen Mistress Aline out by the High Force,” he replied, “and I know that you bade her not to go without doors.”

“Yes,” said Mistress Mowbray. “Is that all?”

“That is all about Mistress Aline,” he answered, always greatly in awe of the lady, “but, an it please you, may I have a little of the new meal?” he added with sudden boldness.

Eleanor Mowbray looked at him. This came of listening to servants’ tales. She paused an instant; it was very undignified to be bargaining with menials, but the man might be useful to her; she bit her lip and then said, “Yes, Thomas, you can have a boll.”

Thomas did not attempt to conceal his delight. He had obtained something that he wanted and he had gratified his spite against Aline, whom he hated as something petty and mean and base will often hate what is lofty and pure and noble.

Mistress Mowbray was glad that she had now a genuine264 case against Aline and was determined that she would act with exceptional severity.

Aline was sick at heart, there was no one in whom she could confide and she was utterly lonely and miserable. She thought of telling Cousin Richard, but she was rather afraid even of him; and then too, although Mistress Mowbray was unjust, she felt that she had no right to take the law into her own hands.

She lay on her bed in a paroxysm of grief,—“Oh, I wish and I wish that I had not done it,” she exclaimed again and again, and it was long before she felt equal to facing Mistress Mowbray once more.

When she came down to rere-supper, Mistress Mowbray was waiting. Master Richard had not arrived. “What do you mean, you dishonest child, by going out? I hate a child I cannot trust,” she said in freezing tones.

“I have not been dishonourable, Mistress Mowbray. I never said that I would not go out. I was disobedient and I am sorry, but if Father was alive, he would not have liked me to be kept in doors; and I do not think Cousin Richard would approve,” she added with some boldness, as she knew it was really unjust and had no one to defend her.

At that moment Master Mowbray entered. “What is this, about ‘Cousin Richard’?” he exclaimed.

Aline was silent and Mistress Mowbray looked confused. After a pause, as he was obviously waiting for an explanation, Aline said,—“An it please you, Cousin Richard, Mistress Mowbray and I do not agree, that is all, it is nothing.”

“I insist on knowing,” said Master Mowbray.

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“I forbade Aline to go out,” said his wife, “and she not only flatly disobeyed me, but she questioneth my authority.”

“Is that so, Aline?” he asked, looking very surprised.

“Yes, cousin, I did disobey and I am sorry.” Aline knew, if she said more that he would take her side, and although she could not pretend that she had any great love for Mistress Mowbray, yet she did not want to get her into trouble with her husband.

Richard Mowbray was silent for some time and then he said, “You have not explained everything.” He glanced at the sad little face opposite to him and noticed that it was looking thinner and a little drawn; the child was not only unhappy, but unwell. Surely, he thought, she has something more to say on her side. His wife looked triumphant.

“You have not explained everything,” he repeated, “have you, little one?” he added tenderly.

It was said so kindly that it was almost more than Aline could bear, but she managed to say, “That is all that I want to say, Cousin Richard.”

Richard Mowbray saw pretty well how the land really lay and said somewhat sternly to his wife, “Eleanor, I heard my name mentioned as I came in, I should like to know why it was used.”

Mistress Mowbray had thought her triumph complete and was so taken aback that there was not time to think of anything to say, so she could only blurt out the truth.

Richard Mowbray stood up, as his manner was when roused, and walked up and down the hall with a heavy measured tread; he was a huge, powerful man, and although266 kind hearted, was very strict and most people, including his wife, were afraid of him.

“The child is right,” he said, “I do not approve. I cannot think what is the matter with you and why you do not treat her more justly. Aline,” he said, “I do not think you ought to have gone out without my permission, but you can go out when you like. In future, however, always ask me before you disobey Mistress Mowbray.”

“Yes, Cousin Richard,” said Aline, “it was wrong of me.”

Mistress Mowbray breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Richard Mowbray’s last few words undid all that he had done before. She knew that Aline was far too proud ever to appeal to her husband and, in a qualified way, he had even supported her authority.

So things grew worse for Aline instead of better. Mistress Mowbray had even descended to telling Thomas to keep an eye on the child and he followed her about whenever he could, and made her life hateful.

She was occasionally able to get up to her room and down the secret passage into the open, away from Thomas, but gradually even this grew dangerous, as Mistress Mowbray would keep her at work all the time, and, if she slipped away upstairs, would send some one after her to fetch her down. Twice the messenger had gone up very soon after Aline and had found the room empty; and Aline’s explanation that she had gone out of doors was received with incredulity. Aline was also frightened of meeting old Moll at the other end and always peered round nervously as she emerged from the cave-room.

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If they should follow her closely and suspect the secret passage then she would lose her one retreat which somehow she felt might be of help in an emergency. The secret room too was her one solace, the only thing of interest left to her.

Although she knew she was watched, she did not know to what extent and would carry her Greek Testament about with her and pull it out and read it when she had an opportunity. After all, neither Mistress Mowbray nor Thomas could read, so she did not think there was much danger.

Thomas, however, had noticed her take the book out of her dress and had observed its silver clasps.

His own intelligence would probably not have been sufficient to enable him to hurt the child, but he was a friend of the priest who served the chantry in Holwick. He was a low born fellow given to loose living and very fond of liquor, which Thomas would occasionally manage to steal for him from the Hall. He was one of the very few who did not like Aline. He felt her purity and charm was a reproach to him, and once, when she had met him in a condition somewhat the worse for drink, she had very gently spoken to him in a reproving tone, though she did not actually presume to reprove him. But he never forgot it. He liked enjoining heavy penances for the gentle sweet-natured child; while Aline, for her part, tended to avoid the confessional, when she could, not for the penances, but because she disliked the man and felt little or no spiritual value from communication with him.

He had once or twice had slight suspicions about her orthodoxy, although he had paid no attention to it; but268 one day, when he and Thomas were talking over a measure of stolen ale, the conversation turned upon Aline.

“I hate her pious face,” he said.

“So do I,” assented Thomas. “It was a pity that Andrew did not finish his job.”

“These wretched folk think more of her than they do of me,” said the priest. “When they are sick, it is always little St. Aline they want and not the good Father,—‘Little St. Aline,’ ha, ha, ha!” he laughed viciously. “The devil take her.”

“Ay, that may he; it angereth me to see them blessing her and carrying on as they do; what right has she to act so grandly with her herbs and comforts from the Hall and her good talk? Who is she, I should like to know? Mistress Mowbray saith she is but a dependent.”

“Good talk, indeed,” said the priest. “It’s just blasphemy. What is she to be talking about,—a girl too,—a wretched female.”

“Yes, a lot of evil bringers all of them, eh, Father, from Mother Eve onwards?” and Thomas’ wicked face gave an ugly leer. “Ah, they are a deceitful lot, and there she is breaking Mistress Mowbray’s crockery and running out when she is forbidden and you will see her sitting with her book as if she did not know what wrong was.”

“What book?” said the priest. “Can she read?”

“A fine confessor you must be,” said Thomas, “if you have not found out that the skelpie can read. They say she can read like the Lady Jane Grey.”

“The Lady Jane Grey, a pestilent heretic! Mother Church is well quit of her; a pestilent heretic, I say!269 Ay, and Mother Church would be well quit of this brat with her sanctimonious ways.”

“I should not wonder if she be a heretic, too,” said Thomas. “What will Mother Church give me, if I catch her a heretic?” he asked greedily.

“Oh, I cannot say,” said the priest, “but I think I could do the catching myself; but it is not in the least likely that she is a heretic. Where could she come by it?”

“You catch her forsooth! The skelpie is no fool, and she won’t blab to the priest, but she might tell her tales to me. Indeed even if she is not a heretic, why not make her one and get rid of her?”

The priest rubbed his hands and the two heads bent close together.

Thomas agreed to swear that he had heard Aline say all manner of heretical things and this, with the testimony of Father Ambrose himself, they reckoned would be sufficient.

They were nearer the truth than they knew, but truth or no truth that did not trouble them.

Father Ambrose walked down to Middleton to discuss it with his superior, Sir Laurence Mortham,[25] but although he painted the heretic and her villainy in glowing colours and added that he was quite sure that she was a witch too and had sold her soul to the devil in exchange for beauty, he met with no response, even in a superstitious and bigoted age.

25 Those in priests’ orders had the title, “Sir,” in the 16th century.

“I am probably as zealous for Mother Church as you are and far more earnest against heresy,” said the old270 priest, “but I do not agree with your point of view or approve of your spirit. Mother Church must be gentle and kindly and persuasive. There may now and then be a few obdurate cases where, for the benefit of the faithful and perhaps for the heretic himself, a warning example is necessary. It may, if he be obdurate, be well that he should purge his sin; but it must be but rarely and, personally, I am doubtful of its efficacy. God will punish, and, as for the example, it will work both ways. I will go and see the girl myself, an it please you.”

Father Ambrose was afraid that this might defeat his plans; so he pretended to fall in with the old man’s point of view and said, “Well, perhaps, Father, you are right and it is not necessary to take further measures just at present, so I will not trouble you.”

But he had no difficulty in finding others who were more ready to assist him, and finally he got the matter carried to Bishop Bonner himself.

Unhappy as Aline was, she was, of course, quite unconscious of what was in store for her, although something unusual in Thomas’ manner made her suspicious. He was aggressively obsequious and tried to induce her to talk to him, but she would say little.

One day, however, there arrived a tall priest with instructions to make a preliminary enquiry. Master Mowbray happened to be out, so he was taken to the lady of Holwick.

Mistress Mowbray opened her eyes in astonishment when she heard that Aline was accused of heresy. “I knew the jade was of little worth,” she said, “but to think of that!”

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Aline was sent for and the priest plied her with questions. He was very wily and spoke in a kindly way and tried to lead her on. It was soon very clear that she knew a good deal about the Bible that most people did not know. It was equally clear that, comparatively speaking, she attached little importance to the dogmas and authority of the church. But though unorthodox and heretically inclined, it was difficult to make a case against her from anything she said.

The child was so transparently honest that it was impossible to reconcile her position with Thomas’ fabrications. However, this was Father Martin’s first case and he was naturally anxious to prove his zeal for the cause, to his superiors, so he made of it what he could.

Not until he had secured every piece of evidence likely to help him, did he broach the subject of the book, which he thought was probably another of Thomas’ fictions.

“By the way,” said he, “you have a book that you carry about with you. Show it me.”

Aline hesitated.

“Shew it me at once,” he said sternly.

“I will make her shew it,” said Mistress Mowbray, seizing the child roughly.

“You can let her alone, madam,” said the priest. “Child, hand me the book.”

Aline drew it forth and he looked at it. He could not read a word of Greek, and at first looked visibly chagrined; but he turned to the title-page, which was in Latin.

“Can you read this?” he said. Aline bowed assent.

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“It is a most pernicious book. How much have you read?”

“All the first part and most of the rest.”

He wished it had been an English translation, as his case would have been easier. “Have you an English translation?” he asked.

“No,” said Aline, and he could see that she spoke the truth.

“Who gave it you, or how did you get it?” he asked next.

Aline was silent.

“Come,” he said, “did you find it, or was it given you?”

Aline still held her peace.

“I must know this,” he said impatiently, but Aline vouchsafed no reply.

“I cannot wait for you,” he went on, his voice rising. “Answer my question this instant.”

“I cannot do it,” she said.

“By the authority of Mother Church, I command you to speak,” he cried angrily.

Aline looked up at him fearlessly, as she sat there opposite to him on the other side of the long narrow table, her beautiful arms stretched over toward him and the delicate fingers moving nervously. The great masses of rich glowing hair flowed in waves over the board, and the perfect oval face with the chin slightly lifted showed the exquisite ivory skin of her throat, subtly changing into the more pearly tones of her face. The sensitive lovely lips with their clear cut form, trembled a little, but she said bravely,—“It would not be right, Father Martin. I am ready to suffer for anything I273 have done myself, but I cannot reveal what is not my secret.”

Father Martin looked at her. “Mother of God and St. Anthony!” he exclaimed. He had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight before him in the fine old hall and he feared he might relent. He cast his eyes down, he would not look at her. Indeed she was a witch, a witch and yet so young! “Do you dare to deny the authority of Mother Church?” he hissed. “You are a heretic and guilty of contumacy. You blaspheme.” Then turning to Mistress Mowbray he continued, “See that she is confined to her room and fed on bread and water till she comes to her senses. Failing that, the rack!”

He rose to his full height and gave her one contemptuous glance, curling his thin lips and drawing down his brows, while the nostrils of his aquiline nose were lifted in scorn. “Good day to you, Mistress Mowbray,” he said, “see to my instructions,” and he departed.

Aline went up to her room as bidden. Eleanor Mowbray followed. She did not lock the door, as, in her heart of hearts, even she trusted Aline as she would trust the laws of nature, much as she hated her. Aline might disobey, but she would never break her word. “Do not pass through that door again, until you are told. Promise me.”

“I would rather you locked it,” said Aline. “The house might catch fire and I could not stay and be burned, even to obey you.”

“Little fool,” said Mistress Mowbray, “if the door were locked you would be burned anyhow.”

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“That would be your doing, though. I should not have to do it myself. I want to keep my own liberty of action.”

Mistress Mowbray slammed the door and went down-stairs. But she did not lock it.

Aline was merely thinking in a vague general way that it would be risky to make any such promise and did not realise how nearly her words might have applied to the actual facts.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, dazed. Surely she had been singled out for misfortune; blow after blow had fallen upon her, and she was only twelve and a half years old. First she had been left motherless, then her father’s small estate had been ruined. Next she was made an orphan. Then she had lost her only friends Ian and Audry and was left to the cruelties of Mistress Mowbray. And now there was this. The little heart almost grew bitter and she was tempted to say;—“I do not mind if they do kill me, everything is so terrible and sad and, O Father dear, your little girl is so very very lonely and unhappy she would like to die and come to you.”

But the thought of her father made her think of life again and some of life’s happy days and of Audry and Ian, and she gave a great sob and a lump came into her throat; but she checked it before the tears came and stood up and drew herself together. “Father would have me brave; Ian would have me brave. Come, this is no time for crying, I must think hard.”

“I might get out on to the moor at night, but I should certainly be caught. Besides I have nowhere to go.

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“I could disappear into the secret room, but I should soon starve—for all the food I could get.

“I might get over to Audry at Appleby, but that would be no use in the end; what should I do next? Still if I could have her back here, she could feed me in the secret room.

“Then again Ian might be able to help—I must get a letter to Audry and a letter to Ian.”

So she sat down and wrote; and it was not until she began to write to others that she fully realised the desperateness of her situation and that, if help did not come, she would certainly be imprisoned and tortured on the rack and probably burnt alive. Aline knew that they thought nothing of hanging children, often for quite trivial offences and had heard of plenty of instances of executions of children under twelve.

When she had finished writing the day was nearly done and she crept very forlornly into bed. Her head ached and her heart ached still more and she fell a-thinking how the letters were to be sent. Even if Walter Margrove should come she would not see him, though it was getting time for his return. She was getting desperate. She pressed her little hands against her forehead and at last the stifled tears broke forth. They were some relief and bye and bye she fell asleep.

The next morning old Elspeth came to her room to bring her bread and water. She was shocked when she saw the condition of the child. The sleep had been broken and feverish and Aline looked wretchedly ill.

“O hinnie,” she said, “my hinnie, what have they been doing to you now? Prithee do what they want,276 dearest. I cannot bear to see you shut up here. See, I have brought you a pasty with chicken in it. Old Elspeth will not see you starve, dear heart; and Walter Margrove came yesternight after they put you up here and he hath sent you this little packet. He said if I gave you the linen I could be trusted to give you this. ‘Trusted,’ indeed! I trow so; what aileth the man?”

Aline sat up in bed and stretched out her hand eagerly and as she took the packet she wondered whether she dare send her letters by Elspeth. On the whole she felt it was rather risky to send Ian’s, but Audry’s would not rouse the old dame’s suspicion. Should she chance them both? “Is he downstairs now?” she said.

“No, hinnie,” said Elspeth, “he had to leave very suddenly this morning.”

Aline fell back on the bed but managed to turn her face away and say in a half joking tone;—“Oh, dear, how unlucky! Margrove always makes a pleasant change and I have been so stupid as to miss him.”

“I am so sorry, dearie,” said Elspeth; “I am sure he would have been right fain to see you, he hath a great fancy for you, I know.”

“Well, an they keep me up here till he cometh again, you tell me, Elspeth, there’s a dear, when he is here; and I will write a little note to him. He hath been very kind to me.”

“All right, hinnie,” and Elspeth went down-stairs.

Aline ate the bread and the pasty. She was not hungry but she knew that she was getting ill and she thought that it would help her to keep up her strength, if she ate all that she could. As she ate, she turned the parcel over and over with her left hand. It was a bitter blow277 that Margrove had gone; but here was Ian’s letter and it might mark the turning of the tide. When she had finished she still looked at the packet for a few moments, wondering, hoping, dreaming.

The figure of Ian rose to her mind, sitting as he often did, leaning back with his hands clasped round one knee and the foot raised from the ground.

She had found her knight; would he be able to rescue her? True, he was only a carpenter, but in his many travels and experiences he had acquired so many accomplishments that no one would know that he was not of gentle blood. “Oh! I do wish he were here,” she said; “yes, even if he could not help me I wish I could see him again;—well, this is from him.” So she opened the packet.

The first thing that she saw was a beautiful pair of silk hose of a very rich deep blue. Fastened to these was a label, saying:—“These are from Walter Margrove and myself, mainly from Walter.”

They were an absolutely new thing in Britain, although they had been in use for a short time in Italy, and were so much lovelier than anything she had ever seen before that she could not resist the temptation of trying them on at once. She threw off the bedclothes and stretched out one small rosy foot, straight as a die on the inner side, and altogether perfect with its clearly articulated toes and exquisitely formed nails. Aline was blissfully unaware that there was not another to compare with it in the whole world except its own fellow delicately poised on the firmly built but slender ankle, which she drew up and slipped into the delightful soft silk hose. It fitted to perfection.

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She then put on the other and stood up, holding her little nightrobe high while she looked down to admire them. Aline had not the slightest touch of vanity, but new clothes are new clothes all the world over. She then stepped across to Audry’s cherished and rare possession, a long mirror which had come from Italy. “They really are a glorious blue,” she thought, as the light fell on the soft lustrous material.

She had pleated the middle of the nightrobe into a sort of band round her waist; the front below the neck was unfastened, so that the effect was that of a short tunic. “Why, I look like a boy!” she said to herself; “if it were not for my hair.”

In spite of her slimness there was a muscular development, very refined and beautiful in line, that was distinctly boyish. Her slender hips and exceptionally well modelled forearms, which were bare, completed the illusion.

“Yes, I look like the pages I used to see in Edinburgh”; and then a bright thought struck her;—“If ever I have to try and escape I shall dress up as a boy.” She pinned the nightdress with the broad belt as it was, with the lower hem reaching to the thigh. It fell down at the back somewhat, but that did not show in the mirror. She then hurried down the secret stair and came back with a man’s bonnet that she had there noticed among the things. She had such an immense quantity of hair that it was only by twisting it very tightly indeed that she was able to get it into the bonnet; but she succeeded at last. She was rather tall for her age, although her form was still absolutely that of a child, and an admirable boy she made.

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Aline laughed aloud; it was the first time that she had laughed for a weary while.

“Now let me read the letter,” she said. She took off the stockings and folded them neatly up, put them away and opened the letter.

    “To my dear little Aline,

    “Walter Margrove hath kindly promised to bear this letter. It is with deep regret that I will tell thee how that my plans have not prospered. As thou knowest, I have been working with one, Matthew Musgrave, a carpenter, hoping to lay by money that eventually I might betake me to the road like our friend Walter. But Matthew hath been sick of an ague these many weeks past and I find that he hath little or nothing saved. I have done what I might but my small means are exhausted, and we are even in debt for the purchase of wood. The boy, Will Ackroyd, hath also been somewhat of an anxiety to me, so that I am much cast down in spirit and indeed as Matthew will tell thee am somewhat ailing in body. This I regret the more as thy face liveth ever before me and I have thought that it might at any moment be needful for me to come unto thine assistance, whereas I even fear that I am not in any wise able. I trust that Mistress Mowbray is not treating thee ill and that thou and that dear child, thy cousin, are enjoying all happiness.

    “My hard times will doubtless pass and better will come. I think of thee day and night and pray for thee without ceasing; and sweet child, remember that whatever the difficulties, I would fight through everything to come to thine aid if need should arise.

    “To-morrow I hope to be able to send thee some small token from Walter’s pack. Meanwhile I say,—May the peace of the Lord Jesus be with thee and all the love of this poor mortal heart is thine; as Homer saith; ‘for that thou, lady, hast given me my life.’

    “My blessing and love be also to thy cousin Audry, for right kindly did she minister to me.

    “Farewell, bright angel of my dreams.

    “Ian Menstrie.

    “An so be that thou writest, it is better to put upon the cover the name of James Mitchell whereby I am known here.”

Ian had been very seriously ill himself from trying280 to undertake more than was possible. His unceasing care and tender watchfulness had saved Musgrave’s life, but it was nearly at the cost of his own and he was but a shadow of his former self.

Aline’s sympathetic little heart read more between the lines than Ian had intended her to see and the letter seemed the last drop in her cup of sorrow.

It was too much and this time she fainted right away. When she came to, she found that she was lying on the floor and old Elspeth was bending over her and sprinkling water on her face. The old woman was nearly beside herself with grief. “O my bonnie bonnie child, what shall poor Elspeth do? They will kill you, heart of mine, if they go on in this way. See you are cold as a stone and nothing on you but this thin rag and that unfastened too.” She lifted the child back into bed and rushed down-stairs to the kitchen, where she found some hot broth ready for the table and came back with a bowl of it.

On the way she met Mistress Mowbray.

“What are you doing, Elspeth?” the lady almost shrieked.

“Mistress Aline was in a dead faint on the floor of her room and stone cold and like enough to die. Such goings on as there have been in this house lately I have never seen in all my days. First the child is nearly murdered by that ne’er do weel Andrew and now the whole house seems bent on doing the same. In my young days old Mistress Mowbray would not have countenanced such doings and the priests, gramercy, knew better than to meddle in other folk’s houses.”

Elspeth who had known three generations of Mowbrays281 was a privileged person, but this was more than even she had ever before ventured to say.

“How dare you speak like that?” said Mistress Mowbray.

“Marry, you would not have the child’s death at your door, would you, whatever the priest may bid? That at least was not of his ordering.”

Mistress Mowbray glared at her, but said, “Well, take the broth; how was I to know the child had fainted? Yet i’ faith she shall not have all of that,” and she took the bowl and carried it down and poured half of it back. When Elspeth reached the child she was so overcome that she could only sit on the bed and moan. Aline put her arm out and took the old woman’s hand and stroked it and said,—“Elspeth, do not take it so to heart. I am all right and, look you, the broth is excellent. See, I shall be quite well again in a moment. A little faint is nothing. Tell me how deep the snow is on the road to Middleton and how the sheep are getting on in this cold and whether there be any news from Appleby.”

So she gradually coaxed Elspeth away from the subject of her own troubles and even made her smile by telling her about the blue hose and how she had tried them on, and how pleased with them she was; but she kept the little plan of dressing up like a boy to herself.