“Peace be with you, Aline,” he said. “I have a right melancholic thing here,” holding out a letter. “But it cannot grieve thee beyond what thou already knowest. It is a letter from Durham, long delayed in transit, concerning the death of little Joan. Will you read it or shall I?”
Aline’s eyes filled with tears, “I should like you to read it,” she said.
Father Laurence then read—
“To Peter Simson in Holwick
“It beseemeth me to send thee word, although my heart is right heavy within me, of the passing of the small damsel y-cleped[17] Joan, who came from Upper Teesdale. Of this you will have already heard: but my sister was herself sick of an ague at the time and Sir Robert Miller, her confessor, saith that her mind wandered. He writeth this for me. She herself lingered not many days,—God rest her soul,—and, when I came from Skipton, where I dwelled, she was buried.
“I only know from a neighbour that the damsel had gained health until latterly and that the end was on a sudden. She spake much of the young lady at the Hall, who had given her great bounty; and in especial would she have the shoon and the belt returned, which were new. But these same I cannot find, and methinks they must have gone to Newcastle with the other orphans who were in my sister’s house, and whom the good dame who came thence to nurse my sister, took home in her charge, and may our Lady requite her kindness.
“An thou wouldst speak to the Mistress Alice or Ellen,—the name escapeth me,—I would give thee much thanks.
“Elizabeth Parry.”
[17] Named.
“But I never gave her any shoes or belt,” said Aline. “Poor little Joan, her mind must have failed her at the last, or Mistress Parry must have been as much in error as she was about my name. She was a dear child,” she continued, “and it is bitter dole[18] to me. I have burned a few candles for her soul, but I have not much means.”
[18] Grief.
“Trouble not thy gentle heart,” said the old priest, “I will myself say mass for the child, and no one shall be at any charge. God keep thee, Aline, as he may.”
When she reached the Hall she went to Ian and Audry and told them what she had learned, and they were much disquieted at the evil speaking of old Moll; but there was nothing that they might do and they could only hope against hope.
Ever since hearing the letter that Father Laurence had read, the sad figure of little Joan had floated before Aline’s eyes, and that night she went to the library and opened the ambry and took out the little packet and gazed at the pathetic contents. “I wonder whether I shall ever be able to find the boy, Wilfred Johnstone,” she said. “But I expect he will have forgotten already, boys never remember long,” and then she recalled a remark of her father’s,—“A boy remembers longer and is more constant than a girl, unless he has won her; but after she is won she is the more faithful.” “I should like to know if that be true,” she thought.