There was a fire in the hall, as the summer was getting on and the evenings were chilly up in the moorland district. In less time than it takes to say, a bed had been made up by the fire and warmed with a warming pan, and old Elspeth had tenderly undressed the child and put her in the bed, while some one else had brought some warm milk. Elspeth was bending over her and lightly rubbing the damp hair, half crooning to herself, “My bairnie, my bonnie bairnie, wake up, my sweetest, wake up once more.” Suddenly Aline opened her eyes and looked round for a moment, and then closed them again. She gave no more sign that night and it was an anxious time; but hope was strong. Hardly any one went to bed but Mistress Mowbray. Even the servants for the most part wandered about, coming every now and then to ask if there was any news. The child was a favourite with nearly all of them, as much on account of her gentle thoughtful ways as on account of her extreme almost supernatural beauty. Then there was that strange mysterious power that seemed to hold practically every one with whom she came into contact. There were, of course, one or two who felt her very presence was a sort of standing reproach and who disliked her accordingly, but such was the extraordinary sweetness of her disposition that some, even in this class, found themselves coaxed to a certain extent out of their worse into their better selves against their will.
In the morning it was apparent that immediate danger was passed, which caused Mistress Mowbray to exclaim,—“Drat the bairn for frightening us all like that without any reason. How stupid of her to fall into the moat.”
As soon as Aline was able to talk she had to explain how it happened. They had gently moved her to another room and Audry and Master Mowbray were seated at the bedside. She had told them of what she had seen and how Andrew had thrown her into the water. “As I fell,” she went on, “I felt my head strike violently against something. I luckily did not become unconscious at once, but was able to scramble through the water to the bank. I remember trying to get into a sort of hole in the wall, and then I remember no more till this morning.”
“But can you swim?” said Master Mowbray in blank astonishment, as it was not considered a little girl’s accomplishment.
“A little bit,” said Aline, not too anxious to draw attention to her powers in this direction; as after the River Tees incident she felt it might be better if they did not know what she was capable of doing.
“I am afraid, sire, that the man is likely to be the same that took your silver cup and other things,” she said, “but I am glad that I have not had my wetting for nothing, and that you will be able to stop any more corn being taken.”
Master Mowbray stooped and kissed her. He did not often kiss the children, not even Audry, as his was not a demonstrative nature. “Poor sweet soul,” he said, “how can I repay you for what you have done?”
“Let us go into the library again,” said Aline at once.
“Of course, of course,” he said hastily; “however, we must do something better than that; but for the present I must see about those scoundrels, Andrew Woolridge and Thomas Carluke.”
When Thomas heard what had happened on his arrival in the morning he cursed the fates, saying to himself, “Why was Andrew such a fool as not to go and get a long rod and feel all around that moat-side. She could never have got out on the inner side. But who would have known that the skelpie could swim?” and he bit his lips in indignation. “I wonder if they will suspect me? No, Andrew is gone. I shall be safe; but curse her, curse her a thousand times.”