“Little fool,” said Mistress Mowbray, “if the door were locked you would be burned anyhow.”
“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.
“I could disappear into the secret room, but I should soon starve—for all the food I could get.