ALINE had rather overtaxed her strength and had a slight set-back, so that it was some time before she was strong enough to climb down the stairs and visit Ian again. He was feeling very dejected that day. His collar bone and his ankle had healed; but although in some ways better, he was beginning to feel the want of fresh air and it told not only upon his health but his spirits. He was also desperately anxious to get on to Carlisle where it was arranged that he should hand over the papers to Johnne Erskyne of Doun, but he was by no means fit to travel on his dangerous errand. The worrying, however, made him worse and what he felt he required was some gentle exercise to get up his strength.
Altogether it was with keener pleasure even than usual that he saw Aline come. “Oh, I am so glad to see you,” he said; “Audry has been telling me the dreadful things that have happened, but I want you to tell me something yourself. Sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you can.”
“But I am not an invalid now,” said Aline, “and do not need special comfort. How are you; are you not tired of being shut up here?”
“Yes, indeed, and you too will be wanting some fresh141 air to put you to rights again. Audry says that you did not suffer much pain; is that so? But it must have been a terrible shock; you may well take some time to recover.”
“I am getting on marvellously well,” said Aline, “and I have been thinking that you might be getting out a little bit. You could sit out near the mouth of the cave if one of us kept watch, and after dark it would even be safe to walk a little.”
“Yes, I have been thinking that myself,” he replied. “I have been looking round this room to while away the time and have found some interesting things. I wonder, by the way, what is in that old iron chest there. It does not seem to have any lock, which is most strange.”
“Yes, we must find that out,” said Aline, “but really so many things have happened and there has been so much to do that we have not had time to think about it.”
“Well, amongst other things I have found some rapiers,” he said, “and have been practising thrusts and parries, by way of getting a little exercise, but one cannot do much by oneself. Two men imprisoned in this place might keep themselves in fair condition, although it is rather short of air for such activity; however, that cannot be.”
“Oh, let me see the rapiers,” said Aline. “Ah, here they are,—and helmets and leather jerkins and gloves. I am going to dress up,” she added, laughing.
“There now, what do I look like? You must dress up too; I want to see how they suit you.”
Ian put on a helmet and the other things while Aline executed a graceful little dance round the room. When he had finished she said roguishly, “Do you know anything142 about fencing? I have seen people fence. They stand something like this,” putting her right foot rather too far forward and turning it outward and not bending the knee sufficiently. “Shall I teach you?”
“No, but I might teach you,” said Ian, quite innocently.
“Well, but do you know anything about it?” and Aline smiled mischievously.
“I ought to do; when I was a wanderer in Italy I learned a great deal that is entirely unknown here.”
“Stand on guard then, and show me something.” As he moved, she appeared to copy his attitude. “Engage,” and mechanically from long use he brought down his sword. In a flash she disengaged and cut over. He parried; she made a remise, and was in upon him with a hit over the heart.
Aline burst out laughing while Ian was thunder-struck. She took off her helmet saying, “We must not have any more to-day as I am not well enough, but we shall have some fine times later on. It was rather a shame though, but I could not help it, it was such fun. I was a little afraid that you would be too taken aback to parry at all, and that would have been very dull. I hope you are a good fencer really; there was said to be no one in Scotland who could come anywhere near my father.”
“Oh, that is how you come to know so much about it,” said Ian, sitting down. Even the slight effort had been too much.
“Yes, my father taught me and told me that I was getting on very well, but I have had no practice since I came to Holwick some eight months ago. Things are143 much harder than they used to be. Father used to give me much of his time. You see he had no boys and so he always said that he would like me to know the things that boys know. And yet I do not know that I am altogether fond of them. But I have always loved swimming, and fencing is delightful. Somehow I never cared particularly about riding, but I have come to like it in the last week or two, since I have started again. It takes me away from the Hall and that is a great thing.”
“I always loved riding,” said Ian. “There is nothing like a good horse at a canter and the wind rushing over one’s face.”
“Yes, I do not know why it was. Of course we never had good horses after I was eight years old.”
“Why do you want to get away from the Hall?”
Aline did not speak at first; then she said, “Well, you see it makes a change.”
“Is it Mistress Mowbray that is the real cause? Come, little one, tell me truthfully, doesn’t she treat you well?”
“There is always a great deal to do, cleaning and mending and, when there is nothing else, there is always spinning and carding.”
“Well, I suppose that we must all of us do our share of work.”
Aline could not keep back the tears, which welled into her eyes and made them glisten. “Yes, it is not really the work, I should not mind the work. Indeed I am used to very hard work indeed; because, before the end, I used to have to do almost everything at home.”
“What does she do to you, child? Has she been losing her temper again? Come, tell me.”
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“I do not like to say, but she does all kinds of things.”
“Well, never mind if you do not want to tell me.”
“No, I do not mind telling you; it is that I am not sure how far I should say anything to any one at all. But you will never see her and it does relieve one’s feelings to be able to speak to any one.”
“Then come and sit by me and tell me all about it.”
Aline came and sat by him on the old settee. “You see it is not exactly because she hits me that I mind, although I have never been hit by any one before; but she is always doing little petty things that in some ways are harder to bear than being knocked about;—for instance, when we sit down to breakfast there are always two pitchers of milk, which we have with our porridge. They are neither of them quite full, and she takes one of them and pours out some for herself and Cousin Richard, then she looks into it to see what is left and generally pours most of it into the other pitcher. After that she hands the full one to Audry and the one with only a little drop in the bottom to me.”
“Does Audry know?”
“Of course not,—dear Audry,—I am sure if it would benefit Audry I would go without milk altogether. I would not have her know for worlds; she would quarrel with her mother over it.”
“What else does she do?” Ian asked.
Aline then told the story of the packman. She did not yet know what had been done by Elspeth and the others about the linen, but she pulled up the necklace which she was wearing under her dress and shewed it to Ian. “Now is that not pretty? I have always wanted a necklace and father had promised only a little while145 before he died that as soon as he could afford it he would get me one; so I try to think of it as if it was father’s present.”
The tears again gathered in the beautiful eyes and this time one rolled over on to her cheek. She brushed it away hastily; but Ian drew her gently towards him and kissed her for the first time. “Sweet little maiden,” he said, “I hope that God will be good to you after what you have been through in your young life.”
“I do not like the priest here,” she continued; “of course I like Father Laurence, but Middleton is too far away and when I went to confession the other day I said something to Father Ambrose about father, but he was not a bit kind and sympathetic like our dear old priest at home. I always keep a candle burning for father; that is what I mainly spend my money on, and I wanted him to tell me how long he thought it would be before my father’s soul would get to heaven; do you think it will be very long, and will my candles help him? Somehow I do not see why God should make any difference because of our candles; suppose my father had had no little girl to burn candles; or suppose that I had had no money, that would have been worse still.”
“These things are very difficult, sweet child, but I am sure that the love of your little heart that happens to show itself in buying the candles must meet with its own reward, whether candles themselves are necessary or not. But I am afraid that I cannot be of much use to you, little one, because I am no longer of the old faith.”
“Tell me something about that then. Father said that he would tell me when I got older.”
“I do not want to unsettle you,” Ian said; “but of one146 thing I feel sure,—that God would never deal harshly with a child that believed what it had been taught. When we get older it is different, just as it is in the other responsibilities of life. That is largely why we are put here in this world,—to learn to think for ourselves and take up responsibilities: things are not made too easy for us, or we should not have the high honour that God has given us of largely building our own characters,—of making ourselves.”
Aline sat quiet and thoughtful for some time. “Master Menstrie,” she said at length, “I am not so very young now and I think that I should like to begin to know something about these things.”
“You have not read the Bible, I suppose,” said Ian.
“No, it is wicked to read the Bible.”
“Why?”
“The priests say so.”
“But how do you know that they are right? After all, what is the Bible? It is the word of God, and although even the Bible was written by human beings, it is largely the words of our Lord himself and the writings of people who actually knew him or lived in that very time.”
Ian talked to her for some time, and then Aline said that she would like to read the Bible.
“There is no reason why you should not,” he said, “but you must remember that you are undertaking a great responsibility, and that though it may bring great joy and comfort, it will be the beginning of sorrow too, and you are very young,” he added, looking at her wistfully. “I have a little English translation of the New Testament,” he went on after a pause, “which I can147 lend you, but Audry was telling me the other day that you could read Greek.”
“Oh, only easy Greek,” said Aline. “I have read some of Aesop and that is quite easy, but father and I used to read Homer together and that was delightful although more difficult.”
“Did you read much? What did you like best?”
“Oh, yes, I read a great deal; at least it was really father reading, at any rate at first. I did not do much more than follow, but I got so used to it at last that I could read it without great difficulty. There was so much that I liked that I could not say what I liked best, but there was little that was more delightful than the story of Nausikaa. I shall never forget her parting with Odysseus.
“Father told me that the Lady Jane Grey read and enjoyed Plato and Demosthenes, when she was about the age I am now, besides knowing French and Italian thoroughly. I have read a little Plato and have tried Demosthenes, but I did not care about him so much.”
“I love Plato,” said Ian. “After the Bible there is nothing so helpful in the world. You seem to have done very well, little maid; but can you read Latin?”
“That is amusing,” she said, “because I was going to ask you if you could read Latin. Now I shall want to know if you can read Greek or if you read in Latin translations. Oh, yes,” she went on, “I can read Latin quite easily. I dare say there is some Latin that I cannot read, but anything at all ordinary I can manage. Yet I do not like Latin as well as Greek, and the things that are written in Latin are not half as interesting.”
“I quite agree with you. I learned Latin as a boy,148 but when I was in Venice working on some great iron hinges, my employer, who was a great scholar, took an interest in m............