Meanwhile Ian and Aline gently made their way along the road to Longtown without mishap2. They saw a small body of troopers once; but the troopers took no notice of them. In the desultory3 border warfare4 people went about their business practically unconcerned. Life had to go on and, if they waited till there was no fighting, to all intents and purposes they might, in those districts, wait for ever.
“What are we going to do when we reach Scotland?” Aline asked, when at the last it appeared that immediate5 danger was passing. “Old Moll does not seem to have been right this time,” she added.
“We cannot say yet, birdeen, there are many perils6 and difficulties ahead, perhaps greater than we have yet passed. I wish I could shake off the feeling of that woman. It is not that I believe any of her prophecies. Of course they are all nonsense, but she is the very incarnation of the spirit of evil, a continual oppressive reminder8 of its presence in the world. There is no doubt, too, that she has a snakelike inexplicable9 influence over people and puts evil suggestion into their330 minds, just as some other people have exactly the opposite power. To talk with Moll rouses one’s worst nature; to talk with some rouses one’s best.” He looked at Aline and thought how wonderful her power was. What was this power, mysteriously possessed10 by some natures, that almost by their very presence they could change men’s lives;—Aline and Moll might themselves be the warring spirits of good and evil.
“My only object for the moment,” he said aloud, “was to rescue you from your desperate danger. I thought that then we might have time to think out something. There are difficulties indeed; the country is in a very unsettled condition, partly the troubles with England, partly the religious troubles and the difficulty with the regent, Mary of Guise11, and France. But our first trouble is,—that I have no money and people with no money always find it hard to live,” and he smiled a rueful smile.
“Neither have I,” said Aline, “at least not to live on. I have two gold pieces with me.”
“Well, you are richer than I am,” he said playfully. “It will help us somewhat, while I find something to set us going. I left a note, too, with Wilfred for Walter Margrove, in case he should come within the next few days, asking him to send Wilfred to Canonbie with a little money at once for our present needs.”
“Wilfred,” said Aline, “is that Will Ackroyd?”
“Yes,” said Ian, “I have a story to tell you about how I met him, but we must leave it for the present. I am very perplexed12 about this matter of making a livelihood13.” He paused a moment and then continued;—
“I might find work as a carpenter, or perhaps there331 will be more call for a smith in these turbulent times. But I cannot think what to do with you. Even if I found some people with whom you could live and worked to keep you, there would be all kinds of questions as to where you came from and all about you?”
“Then why not let me work with you as carpenter’s boy, like Will does for Matthew Musgrave?”
“What! and spoil your beautiful hands. By the way, though,” he added, “what have you been doing to get them in such a shocking condition? I have noticed it all along but my mind has been so full of schemes and plans for our escape, that I have not been able to talk about it.”
Aline told him the story and continued;—“Anyway, carpentry could not be as bad as that.”
Ian was shocked and looked at her thankfully. “I trust we have broken the evil spell,” he said. “But, princess, you are a lady and such very hard work is beyond that to which you have been used.”
“Yes, I hope I am a lady and just because I am a lady it does not matter what I am used to do. I can turn my hand to anything; I do not mind. It is only common people who are afraid of demeaning themselves. I have often noticed”—and then she suddenly stopped:—was not Ian himself one of these “common people,” and was it not unmannerly anyway for a real lady to talk like that?
“Noticed what?” asked Ian.
“Oh, just noticed that it is so,” and by way of changing the subject she went on,—“but there is one thing I should mind;—I should mind having to cut my hair short.”
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Ian sighed: “Yes, you must not do that, little one, we must think of some other plan.”
“But I have quite made up my mind and I am going to cut it,” she said in her most queenly manner. She said it so firmly and cheerfully that even Ian did not realise the struggle that was going on in the little heart.
“Well, princess, if it must be so, it must; but you need not cut it above the shoulders. Many pages wear it down to the shoulders.”
“Pages, yes, but not carpenters’ boys.” At the same time Ian’s words gave her a gleam of comfort. That was not quite so terrible. It would have a good start as soon as she could let it grow again. “Do you think a carpenter’s boy could wear it down to his shoulders?” she asked wistfully.
“Certainly,” said Ian; “it might be a little peculiar14, but if we could afford to dress you a little more like a page though you were a carpenter’s boy, I doubt even if any one would notice.”
They had reached Longtown by this time, but Ian decided15 not to stop if they could get safely over the border. They rode on, therefore, until they met a small patrol near Canonbie but were allowed after a few explanations to pass.
At the little inn they made enquiry as to the news of the day. This was surprising, but to Ian by no means altogether unexpected. The Protestant feeling had been growing and some of the Protestant leaders had met at the house of James Sym in Edinburgh and signed the first covenant16, called the “Godlie Band.” They were the Earl of Ergyl; Glencarn,—the good Earl;333 Mortoun; Archibald, Lord of Lorne and John Erskyne of Doun.[26]
26 The spelling of the names is taken from a surviving copy of the covenant.
But what was of immediate interest and importance to Ian was that the Earl of Hawick[27] was at that moment raising forces in the border shires, nominally17 to fight on the border, but in reality to be ready to support the Protestant cause against Mary of Guise.
27 This is a fictitious18 title and likewise the border incident, although there were several such affrays in this year.
His headquarters were but a few miles away and Ian wondered whether it was not his duty to throw in his lot with them. His own feelings on the whole were friendly to England and he hated the policy that the regent was pursuing of making Scotland an appendage19 of France, but if English marauders invaded the border he was quite ready as a true Scot to fight against them, although it was the religious cause that he had more deeply at heart.
“Methinks I ought to join them,” he said. “I have seen a good deal of fighting in my day and I might be useful to the cause.”
“I will go with you,” said Aline.
“Nonsense, child, girls do not fight.”
“Joan of Arc fought and why should not I?” she replied.
“Joan of Arc was older than you and could stand a strain that would be quite beyond you, little one, hardy20 as you are.”
“But I should go as your page or attendant. Would334 you fight as a trooper or on foot, because that, of course, would make some difference?”
“That would remain to be seen, but in any case it would be absurd for you to be there. But it has given me a new idea, sweet child. They would be glad of my services; and, as they are protestants, they would be only too pleased to look after you in return.”
“But I want to come with you.”
He looked at her sadly; “It is out of the question,” he said.
“Oh, but please let me.”
“No, birdeen, you might be killed.”
“Well, that would not matter. I have no friends or relatives in the world to care for me; it might be the simplest solution of our difficulties, if I died trying to help a good cause.”
“You must not talk like that, Aline; I cannot bear to think of it.”
“But I have made up my mind. I am coming. You might be wounded and I might be just the one to help you and prevent your dying.” She drew herself up as she spoke21 and Ian knew that further argument was useless.
“In that case we can wait and rest here, in any wise for to-day, the which we both need. I can then go and see the Earl to-morrow and probably we can continue to rest for some days while he is recruiting his forces.”
They retired22 early. Aline had a little room with a glorious outlook. Oh, how beautiful everything was and how good God had been to her. When she was half undressed she sat down and gazed out of the window.335 So this was dear Scotland again, the land of her birth. For the moment the recollection of “Moll o’ the graves” clouded the prospect23, but it passed away. The sombre hills looked kindly24 in the gloaming. She felt hardly able to contain herself for joy.
It was true that she was about to face new dangers; but that did not trouble her in the least. She would be definitely doing her duty, as she conceived it, fighting for a good cause along with many others; she would no longer be a hunted fugitive25 merely trying to preserve her own life.
She knelt down and prayed and felt happier than she had done since her father died, happier even than during the best days in the secret room.
So happy was she that she proceeded to cut off her wonderful hair, just below the level of the shoulders, without the slightest twinge of regret. “I wish I had Audry’s long mirror here,” was the only thought that troubled her.
Even this was unexpectedly gratified, for in the morning she was down first and discovered a long mirror in a black oak frame, one of the treasures of the hostel26.
As she was looking at herself Ian appeared. The sight cost him a pang27. “Oh, child,” he exclaimed, “what have you done?”
“I’ve only made myself into a real boy,” she answered.
Ian bit his lips; he would not have thought that he could have minded so much.
As they were standing28 there the door suddenly opened and a boy came in.
“Hullo, Wilfred! is that you?”
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“Yes, master, I have brought a letter from Walter Margrove.”
Ian took the letter and went over to the window seat on the far side of the room to read it.
“Wilfred,” thought Aline; “Wilfred”; it had a familiar sound before, when Ian used the name on the road:—and he came from Kirkoswald,—there was too a tale to be told as Ian had said,—and Ian himself had been using an assumed name. Could it by any chance be the boy of little Joan’s sad story?
He held out his hand bashfully, and bent29 his head. As Aline took it he said;—“I humbly30 crave31 your pardon, but I believe now I know who you are.”
Aline blushed and then she said quietly, “You have probably guessed rightly. Whom do you think I am?”
He looked at her for a moment. How could there possibly be any doubt; there could not be two such beautiful people in the world; and he had heard Walter and Andrew, besides Ian, allude32 to her unparalleled loveliness. “You are Mistress Gillespie,” he said, and bowed awkwardly.
Aline smiled sadly. “Yes,” she said, “I am and I believe I have just discovered who you are. Your name is not really Ackroyd, is it?”
“Yes, Mistress, it is,” he answered.
Aline looked baffled, but he continued,—“However, I have never been known as Ackroyd, as I lived with an Aunt whose name was Johnstone.”
“I thought so,” she replied softly. “Come sit over here, for I have a sorrowful tale for you.”
She took his hand and the boy followed, lost in wonder and admiration33.
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“I used to know poor little Joan,” she said very gently.
“Yes, Mistress, I had guessed as much; we heard in Kirkoswald what had happened,” and the boy’s eyes filled with tears. “I know that you did everything for her that could be done and that she loved you.”
Aline felt relieved, as she was spared the worst part of her task. “She often used to speak of you, Wilfred, and before she went away, she gave me her greatest treasures which you had given her long before; and I was to try and return them to you. But, alas34, I had to flee from armed men at a moment’s notice in peril7 of my life and I have them not. But they are safe and one day I will fulfil my charge.”
She held out her hand. “Oh, I am so sorry for you,” she said, “but my words are too feeble to say what I feel.”
The tears were now running freely down the boy’s face, he took her hand in both his and smothered35 it with kisses. “Oh, Joan, Joan, my little Joan, how can I bear it? How can you really be dead and I alive? Why is the world so cruel? Oh, Joan, if only I could have died for you.”
Aline bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “She told me to give you that,” she said; then, after a pause, she went on;—“I am only a little girl and I do not pretend to understand things, Wilfred. But think, if you had died as you have been wishing, poor little Joan would have been as unhappy as you are now. These things are a mystery and yet somehow I feel that the spirit of light in its own way and its own time must triumph over the spirit of darkness. I have always felt338 that; and now that I have my new faith, I am more sure of it than ever.”
“I do not see how that can be,” said Wilfred, “and yet as you speak I seem to feel better.”
“I do not understand it myself,” said Aline, “but I have been right before.”
Wilfred looked at her. Had this wonderful child with the strange deep dark blue eyes some power that other mortals had not?
“Angus,” said Ian’s voice from the other side of the room, “Walter has sent us some money; he also offers to help us in every way he can, and there are some other items that will interest you about the rumours36 he heard in Carlisle. They seem to think we rode through Carlisle and went to Penrith or Keswick. I have written a short note to Walter, which Wilfred can take back. Did you come in the night, Will?”
“Yes, I got a lift on an empty wagon37 going back to Longtown. There was straw in the bottom and I slept all the way.”
“I am afraid I could not sleep in a wagon,” said Ian. “Come and join us at our meal, Wilfred.”
They had their meal and afterwards sat and talked until it was time for Wilfred to return.
After he had gone, Aline and Ian set off to the camp where the Earl of Hawick lay. When they arrived Ian asked if he might see the Earl, as he wished to offer his services.
The sentry38 looked at him very dubiously39 and then at Aline, after which he seemed a little more satisfied, as she was better dressed. Finally he called the officers of the guard, who subjected them to a similar scrutiny40.
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“I think I can see to your business, my man,” he said.
“Thank you, I have a special message for my lord of Hawick,” said Ian.
Aline started at the tone and looked at Ian: there was a quiet hauteur41 about it that she had never heard before.
The man seemed to notice it too. “Who is it that wishes to see the Earl?” he said.
“Say, Ian Menstrie, son of Alexander Menstrie; that will do.”
Aline felt a little nervous; as she had never met a real Earl and had something of the child’s imagination about the grandeur42 of such personages.
The officer returned very quickly, but the change in his manner seemed almost to make him a different man.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing very low, “the Earl of Hawick is coming at once.”
“I said Ian Menstrie, not Alexander Menstrie,” answered Ian, looking a little annoyed.
“Yes, your Grace,” said the Messenger, “I made it quite clear; the Earl of Hawick understands.”
Aline was very puzzled, they seemed to have strange customs of address in the army, but before she had time to think the Earl appeared. She was a little disappointed. Was that an Earl? He was a fair figure of a man, but was neither as handsome as Ian nor had he, she suddenly thought, as she looked at the two men, the dignity of Ian’s carriage.
“I am so glad to see you again, your Grace,” he said, doffing43 his bonnet44 and bowing as the officer had done. “You are the very man we want. I shall never forget340 how well you managed on that miserable45 day at Pinkie Cleugh; and Scotland can never repay you for the rout46 of Lord Wharton on the Western Marches on that cold February day. It was a sorry remnant that he and Grey took back with them, and it marked the turning of the tide. Our country was indeed at a low ebb47 then.
“Of course you will share the command with me. I would willingly serve under you, but these are my fellows and they know me; so I shall just follow your advice. On my honour, you shall have all the glory, when it is over; not that you used to care much for that kind of thing, and you were really only a lad then.”
Aline’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Hawick continued,—“I heard the news of the old man’s death about a week ago. It was somewhat of a shock following so soon after your brother’s; but I said, that will bring Ian Menstrie back to us if anything will. I am sure he will throw in his lot with us.”
Aline gasped48. Who was Ian then, this carpenter-man, as she had thought him? Even in the earlier days she had never supposed that he could be more than a younger son of one of the lesser49 lairds.
Ian seemed overcome and very sad. “Well, my Lord, if you must know,” he said in as calm a voice as he could muster50, “I am here by accident. I have just had a run for my life, with my young page here, Angus Gillespie. I am looking rather a sorry object, but let that pass. I had not heard of my father’s death, or even of my brother’s. It is a terrible shock.”
“Poor fellow,” said Hawick, “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news and you are looking a sad wreck51. You must take as many days’ rest as we can manage.”
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“Before I forget, I want to know if you can let us have a couple of horses; these are not mine and I want to return them to the owner. I also wish to know if you can spare a couple of troopers to take them back to Kirkoswald. They can arrange the matter at Carlisle.”
“Are they English horses?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Fancy returning English horses across the border, when once you have got them here. Well, you always were a strange fellow. Yes, you can have as many troopers as you please, and horses and anything you want.”
Aline was very impatient to have Ian by himself and was glad when he turned to go, after giving a brief account of his imprisonment52 and the outline of his main adventures, avoiding all details.
The Earl accompanied them to the inn and then took his leave, promising53 to send Ian an outfit54 such as more became his station and, at Ian’s special request, everything that under the circumstances could be procured55 befitting a page of gentle birth.
Aline was pleased to find no one in the hostel. Ian was tired and his wounds hurt him, although Aline had attended to them regularly. He sat down by the fire and sighed.
It was a cold day and Aline crouched56 at the hearth57-stone by his feet. She put her hand on his knee and looked up. Ian’s eyes were full of tears. Aline had never seen anything like this; she stood up, stroking his head with her delicate hand and kissed him on the forehead.
He did not speak, but drew her gently to him. The342 child threw both her arms about his neck and seated herself on his knee. “Oh, I wish I could comfort you,” she said.
It was too much for Ian and two great tears actually rolled down his cheek. “My Father,” was all that he said. Then making an effort, he controlled himself and looked at Aline’s beautiful sympathetic little face. A curious feeling passed through him. He had lost his father; and his father had never been kind to him, and he had gained this child, who was devoted58 to him. Was this God’s recompense?
He passed his fingers through her short locks. “What have you done with all the glory you cut off?” he said.
“It is upstairs. I plaited it in four plaits.”
“May I have some?” he asked.
“You may have it all if you like.”
“It was a big sacrifice, child-heart,” he said softly, and kissed her.
“May I ask you something,” she said, “even though it does make you sad: but I would rather learn from your own lips? You know you have not told me who you are. Who are you?”
He paused a moment, while he continued gently stroking her hair. “I am now the Duke of Ochil, little one.”
Aline rose from his knee and crouched down on the hearth again. She gazed up at him wonderingly. In after years as she looked back she understood her feelings; but at the time they were a perplexity even to herself. So far from being pleased that he was a duke, she resented it. It seemed to put a barrier between343 them;—his Grace, the Duke of Ochil, could not be the same as her dear friend Ian.
Ian saw the expression on her face and half-guessed its meaning. “It does not please you, heartsease,” he said.
She looked up quickly and then said simply,—“I do not know. It is strange.”
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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perils
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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reminder
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inexplicable
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possessed
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guise
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perplexed
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livelihood
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peculiar
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decided
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covenant
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nominally
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fictitious
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appendage
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hardy
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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retired
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prospect
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kindly
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fugitive
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hostel
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pang
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standing
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bent
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humbly
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crave
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allude
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admiration
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alas
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smothered
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rumours
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wagon
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sentry
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dubiously
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scrutiny
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hauteur
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grandeur
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doffing
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bonnet
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miserable
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rout
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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48
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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49
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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50
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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51
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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52
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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53
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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54
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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55
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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56
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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58
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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