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THE ABBOT.
BEING THE SEQUEL TO THE MONASTERY.
By Sir Walter Scott
[Illustration: ROLAND GRAEME AND CATHERINE SETON BEFORE QUEEN MARY.]
INTRODUCTION--(1831.)
From what is said in the Introduction to the Monastery, it must
necessarily be inferred, that the Author considered that romance as
something very like a failure. It is true, the booksellers did not
complain of the sale, because, unless on very felicitous occasions,
or on those which are equally the reverse, literary popularity is not
gained or lost by a single publication. Leisure must be allowed for the
tide both to flow and ebb. But I was conscious that, in my situation,
not to advance was in some Degree to recede, and being naturally
unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay in myself, I was
at least desirous to know of a certainty, whether the degree of
discountenance which I had incurred, was now owing to an ill-managed
story, or an ill-chosen subject.
I was never, I confess, one of those who are willing to suppose the
brains of an author to be a kind of milk, which will not stand above
a single creaming, and who are eternally harping to young authors to
husband their efforts, and to be chary of their reputation, lest it grow
hackneyed in the eyes of men. Perhaps I was, and have always been, the
more indifferent to the degree of estimation in which I might be held
as an author, because I did not put so high a value as many others upon
what is termed literary reputation in the abstract, or at least upon the
species of popularity which had fallen to my share; for though it
were worse than affectation to deny that my vanity was satisfied at my
success in the department in which chance had in some measure enlisted
me, I was, nevertheless, far from thinking that the novelist or
romance-writer stands high in the ranks of literature. But I spare the
reader farther egotism on this subject, as I have expressed my opinion
very fully in the Introductory Epistle to the Fortunes of Nigel, first
edition; and, although it be composed in an imaginary character, it is
as sincere and candid as if it had been written “without my gown and
band.”
In a word, when I considered myself as having been unsuccessful in the
Monastery, I was tempted to try whether I could not restore, even at
the risk of totally losing, my so-called reputation, by a new hazard--I
looked round my library, and could not but observe, that, from the time
of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular authors had been the
most prolific. Even the aristarch Johnson allowed that the quality
of readiness and profusion had a merit in itself, independent of the
intrinsic value of the composition. Talking of Churchill, I believe,
who had little merit in his prejudiced eyes, he allowed him that of
fertility, with some such qualification as this, “A Crab-apple can bear
but crabs after all; but there is a great difference in favour of that
which bears a large quantity of fruit, however indifferent, and that
which produces only a few.”
Looking more attentively at the patriarchs of literature, whose earner
was as long as it was brilliant, I thought I perceived that in the
busy and prolonged course of exertion, there were no doubt occasional
failures, but that still those who were favourites of their age
triumphed over these miscarriages. By the new efforts which they
made, their errors were obliterated, they became identified with the
literature of their country, and after having long received law from the
critics, came in some degree to impose it. And when such a writer was at
length called from the scene, his death first made the public sensible
what a large share he had occupied in their attention. I recollected a
passage in Grimm's Correspondence, that while the unexhausted Voltaire
sent forth tract after tract to the very close of a long life, the first
impression made by each as it appeared, was, that it was inferior to
its predecessors; an opinion adopted from the general idea that the
Patriarch of Ferney must at last find the point from which he was to
decline. But the opinion of the public finally ranked in succession
the last of Voltaire's Essays on the same footing with those which had
formerly charmed the French nation. The inference from this and similar
facts seemed to me to be, that new works were often judged of by the
public, not so much from their own intrinsic merit, as from extrinsic
ideas which readers had previously formed with regard to them, and over
which a writer might hope to triumph by patience and by exertion. There
is risk in the attempt;
“If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim.”
But this is a chance incident to every literary attempt, and by which
men of a sanguine temper are little moved.
I may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of most men in travelling.
If we have found any stage particularly tedious, or in an especial
degree interesting, particularly short, or much longer than we expected,
our imaginations are so apt to exaggerate the original impression, that,
on repeating the journey, we usually find that we have considerably
over-rated the predominating quality, and the road appears to be duller
or more pleasant, shorter or more tedious, than what we expected, and,
consequently, than what is actually the case. It requires a third or
fourth journey to enable us to form an accurate judgment of its beauty,
its length, or its other attributes.
In the same manner, the public, judging of a new work, which it receives
perhaps with little expectation, if surprised into applause, becomes
very often ecstatic, gives a great deal more approbation than is due,
and elevates the child of its immediate favour to a rank which, as it
affects the author, it is equally difficult to keep, and painful to
lose. If, on this occasion, the author trembles at the height to which
he is raised, and becomes afraid of the shadow of his own renown, he may
indeed retire from the lottery with the prize which he has drawn, but,
in future ages, his honour will be only in proportion to his labours.
If, on the contrary, he rushes again into the lists, he is sure to be
judged with severity proportioned to the former favour of the public. If
he be daunted by a bad reception on this second occasion, he may again
become a stranger to the arena. If, on the contrary, he can keep his
ground, and stand the shuttlecock's fate, of being struck up and down,
he will probably, at length, hold with some certainty the level in
public opinion which he may be found to deserve; and he may perhaps
boast of arresting the general attention, in the same manner as the
Bachelor Samson Carrasco, of fixing the weathercock La Giralda of
Seville for weeks, months, or years, that is, for as long as the wind
shall uniformly blow from one quarter. To this degree of popularity the
author had the hardihood to aspire, while, in order to attain it, he
assumed the daring resolution to keep himself in the view of the public
by frequent appearances before them.
It must be added, that the author's incognito gave him greater courage
to renew his attempts to please the public, and an advantage similar to
that which Jack the Giant-killer received from his coat of darkness.
In sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, he had used the
well-known practice recommended by Bassanio:--
“In my school days, when I had lost one shaft,
I shot another of the self-same flight,
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth.”
And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of the lesser Ajax,
were discharged more readily that the archer was as inaccessible
to criticism, personally speaking, as the Grecian archer under his
brother's sevenfold shield.
Should the reader desire to know upon what principles the Abbot was
expected to amend the fortune of the Monastery, I have first to request
his attention to the Introductory Epistle addressed to the imaginary
Captain Clutterbuck; a mode by which, like his predecessors in this walk
of fiction, the real author makes one of his _dramatis personae_ the
means of communicating his own sentiments to the public, somewhat more
artificially than by a direct address to the readers. A pleasing French
writer of fairy tales, Monsieur Pajon, author of the History of Prince
Soly, has set a diverting example of the same machinery, where he
introduces the presiding Genius of the land of Romance conversing with
one of the personages of the tale.
In this Introductory Epistle, the author communicates, in confidence, to
Captain Clutterbuck, his sense that the White Lady had not met the taste
of the times, and his reason for withdrawing her from the scene. The
author did not deem it equally necessary to be candid respecting another
alteration. The Monastery was designed, at first, to have contained some
supernatural agency, arising out of the fact, that Melrose had been the
place of deposit of the great Robert Bruce's heart. The writer shrunk,
however, from filling up, in this particular, the sketch as it was
originally traced; nor did he venture to resume, in continuation, the
subject which he had left unattempted in the original work. Thus, the
incident of the discovery of the heart, which occupies the greater
part of the Introduction to the Monastery, is a mystery unnecessarily
introduced, and which remains at last very imperfectly explained. In
this particular, I was happy to shroud myself by the example of the
author of “Caleb Williams,” who never condescends to inform us of the
actual contents of that Iron Chest which makes such a figure in his
interesting work, and gives the name to Mr. Colman's drama.
The public had some claim to inquire into this matter, but it seemed
indifferent policy in the author to give the explanation. For, whatever
praise may be due to the ingenuity which brings to a general combination
all the loose threads of a narrative, like the knitter at the finishing
of her stocking, I am greatly deceived if in many cases a superior
advantage is not attained, by the air of reality which the deficiency
of explanation attaches to a work written on a different system. In life
itself, many things befall every mortal, of which the individual never
knows the real cause or origin; and were we to point out the most marked
distinction between a real and a fictitious narrative, we would say,
that the former in reference to the remote causes of the events it
relates, is obscure, doubtful, and mysterious; whereas, in the latter
case, it is a part of the author's duty to afford satisfactory details
upon the causes of the separate events he has recorded, and, in a word,
to account for every thing. The reader, like Mungo in the Padlock, will
not be satisfied with hearing what he is not made fully to comprehend.
I omitted, therefore, in the Introduction to the Abbot, any attempt to
explain the previous story, or to apologize for unintelligibility.
Neither would it have been prudent to have endeavoured to proclaim,
in the Introduction to the Abbot, the real spring, by which I hoped
it might attract a greater degree of interest than its immediate
predecessor. A taking title, or the announcement of a popular subject,
is a recipe for success much in favour with booksellers, but which
authors will not always find efficacious. The cause is worth a moment's
examination.
There occur in every country some peculiar historical characters, which
are, like a spell or charm, sovereign to excite curiosity and attract
attention, since every one in the slightest degree interested in the
land which they belong to, has heard much of them, and longs to hear
more. A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred or Elizabeth in England,
or of Wallace or Bruce in Scotland, is sure by the very announcement
to excite public curiosity to a considerable degree, and ensure the
publisher's being relieved of the greater part of an impression,
even before the contents of the work are known. This is of the last
importance to the bookseller, who is at once, to use a technical phrase,
“brought home,” all his outlay being repaid. But it is a different case
with the author, since it cannot be denied that we are apt to feel least
satisfied with the works of which we have been induced, by titles and
laudatory advertisements, to entertain exaggerated expectations.
The intention of the work has been anticipated, and misconceived or
misrepresented, and although the difficulty of executing the work again
reminds us of Hotspur's task of “o'er-walking a current roaring loud,”
yet the adventurer must look for more ridicule if he fails, than
applause if he executes, his undertaking.
Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors pause ere they adopt
a theme which, exciting general interest and curiosity, is often
the preparative for disappointment, yet it would be an injudicious
regulation which should deter the poet or painter from attempting to
introduce historical portraits, merely from the difficulty of executing
the task in a satisfactory manner. Something must be trusted to the
generous impulse, which often thrusts an artist upon feats of which he
knows the difficulty, while he trusts courage and exertion may afford
the means of surmounting it.
It is especially when he is sensible of losing ground with the public,
that an author may be justified in using with address, such selection of
subject or title as is most likely to procure a rehearing. It was with
these feelings of hope and apprehension, that I venture to awaken, in
a work of fiction, the memory of Queen Mary, so interesting by her
wit, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the mystery which still does, and
probably always will, overhang her history. In doing so, I was aware
that failure would be a conclusive disaster, so that my task was
something like that of an enchanter who raises a spirit over whom he
is uncertain of possessing an effectual control; and I naturally paid
attention to such principles of composition, as I conceived were best
suited to the historical novel.
Enough has been already said to explain the purpose of composing the
Abbot. The historical references are, as usual, explained in the notes.
That which relates to Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, is a
more minute account of that romantic adventure, than is to be found in
the histories of the period.
ABBOTSFORD,
1_st January_, 1831.
INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE.
FROM THE AUTHOR OF “WAVERLEY,” TO CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, LATE OF HIS
MAJESTY'S ---- REGIMENT OF INFANTRY.
DEAR CAPTAIN:
I am sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you disapprove of
the numerous retrenchments and alterations which I have been under the
necessity of making on the Manuscript of your friend, the Benedictine,
and I willingly make you the medium of apology to many, who have
honoured me more than I deserve.
I admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, and leave gaps in the
story, which, in your original manuscript, would have run well-nigh to
a fourth volume, as my printer assures me. I am sensible, besides, that,
in consequence of the liberty of curtailment you have allowed me, some
parts of the story have been huddled up without the necessary details.
But, after all, it is better that the travellers should have to step
over a ditch, than to wade through a morass--that the reader should have
to suppose what may easily be inferred, than be obliged to creep through
pages of dull explanation. I have struck out, for example, the whole
machinery of the White Lady, and the poetry by which it is so ably
supported, in the original manuscript. But you must allow that
the public taste gives little encouragement to those legendary
superstitions, which formed alternately the delight and the terror of
our predecessors. In like manner, much is omitted illustrative of
the impulse of enthusiasm in favour of the ancient religion in Mother
Magdalen and the Abbot. But we do not feel deep sympathy at this period
with what was once the most powerful and animating principle in
Europe, with the exception of that of the Reformation, by which it was
successfully opposed.
You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have rendered the title
no longer applicable to the subject, and that some other would have been
more suitable to the Work, in its present state, than that of THE ABBOT,
who made so much greater figure in the original, and for whom your
friend, the Benedictine, seems to have inspired you with a sympathetic
respect. I must plead guilty to this accusation, observing, at the same
time, in manner of extenuation, that though the objection might have
been easily removed, by giving a new title to the Work, yet, in doing
so, I should have destroyed the necessary cohesion between the present
history, and its predecessor THE MONASTERY, which I was unwilling to do,
as the period, and several of the personages, were the same.
After all, my good friend, it is of little consequence what the work
is called, or on what interest it turns, provided it catches the public
attention; for the quality of the wine (could we but insure it) may,
according to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of little
consequence.
I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent with prudence
to establish your Tilbury, and approve of the colour, and of your
boy's livery, (subdued green and pink.)--As you talk of completing
your descriptive poem on the “Ruins of Kennaquhair, with notes by an
Antiquary,” I hope you have procured a steady horse.--I remain, with
compliments to all friends, dear Captain, very much
Yours, &c. &c. &c.
THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.
THE ABBOT.
Chapter the First.
_Domum mansit--lanam fecit._
Ancient Roman Epitaph.
She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele.
GAWAIN DOUGLAS.
The time which passes over our heads so imperceptibly, makes the
same gradual change in habits, manners, and character, as in personal
appearance. At the revolution of every five years we find ourselves
another, and yet the same--there is a change of views, and no less of
the light in which we regard them; a change of motives as well as
of actions. Nearly twice that space had glided away over the head of
Halbert Glendinning and his lady, betwixt the period of our former
narrative, in which they played a distinguished part, and the date at
which our present tale commences.
Two circumstances only had imbittered their union, which was otherwise
as happy as mutual affection could render it. The first of these was
indeed the common calamity of Scotland, being the distracted state of
that unhappy country, where every man's sword was directed against his
neighbour's bosom. Glendinning had proved what Murray expected of him,
a steady friend, strong in battle, and wise in counsel, adhering to him,
from motives of gratitude, in situations where by his own unbiassed will
he would either have stood neuter, or have joined the opposite party.
Hence, when danger was near--and it was seldom far distant--Sir Halbert
Glendinning, for he now bore the rank of knighthood, was perpetually
summoned to attend his patron on distant expeditions, or on perilous
enterprises, or to assist him with his counsel in the doubtful intrigues
of a half-barbarous court. He was thus frequently, and for a long space,
absent from his castle and from his lady; and to this ground of regret
we must add, that their union had not been blessed with children, to
occupy the attention of the Lady of Avenel, while she was thus deprived
of her husband's domestic society.
On such occasions she lived almost entirely secluded from the world,
within the walls of her paternal mansion. Visiting amongst neighbors
was a matter entirely out of the question, unless on occasions of solemn
festival, and then it was chiefly confined to near kindred. Of these the
Lady of Avenel had none who survived, and the dames of the neighbouring
barons affected to regard her less as the heiress of the house of Avenel
than as the wife of a peasant, the son of a church-vassal, raised up to
mushroom eminence by the capricious favour of Murray.
The pride of ancestry, which rankled in the bosom of the ancient gentry,
was more openly expressed by their ladies, and was, moreover, imbittered
not a little by the political feuds of the time, for most of the
Southern chiefs were friends to the authority of the Queen, and very
jealous of the power of Murray. The Castle of Avenel was, therefore, on
all these accounts, as melancholy and solitary a residence for its lady
as could well be imagined. Still it had the essential recommendation of
great security. The reader is already aware that the fortress was built
upon an islet on a small lake, and was only accessible by a causeway,
intersected by a double ditch, defended by two draw-bridges, so that
without artillery, it might in those days be considered as impregnable.
It was only necessary, therefore, to secure against surprise, and
the service of six able men within the castle was sufficient for that
purpose. If more serious danger threatened, an ample garrison was
supplied by the male inhabitants of a little hamlet, which, under the
auspices of Halbert Glendinning, had arisen on a small piece of level
ground, betwixt the lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to the spot
where the causeway joined the mainland. The Lord of Avenel had found
it an easy matter to procure inhabitants, as he was not only a kind and
beneficent overlord, but well qualified, both by his experience in arms,
his high character for wisdom and integrity, and his favour with the
powerful Earl of Murray, to protect and defend those who dwelt under his
banner. In leaving his castle for any length of time, he had, therefore,
the consolation to reflect, that this village afforded, on the slightest
notice, a band of thirty stout men, which was more than sufficient for
its defence; while the families of the villagers, as was usual on such
occasions, fled to the recesses of the mountains, drove their cattle
to the same places of shelter, and left the enemy to work their will on
their miserable cottages.
One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, at the Castle of
Avenel. This was Henry Warden, who now felt himself less able for the
stormy task imposed on the reforming clergy; and having by his zeal
given personal offence to many of the leading nobles and chiefs, did not
consider himself as perfectly safe, unless when within the walls of the
strong mansion of some assured friend. He ceased not, however, to serve
his cause as eagerly with his pen, as he had formerly done with his
tongue, and had engaged in a furious and acrimonious contest, concerning
the sacrifice of the mass, as it was termed, with the Abbot Eustatius,
formerly the Sub-Prior of Kennaquhair. Answers, replies, duplies,
triplies, quadruplies, followed thick upon each other, and displayed, as
is not unusual in controversy, fully as much zeal as Christian charity.
The disputation very soon became as celebrated as that of John Knox
and the Abbot of Crosraguel, raged nearly as fiercely, and, for aught I
know, the publications to which it gave rise may be as precious in the
eyes of bibliographers. [Footnote: The tracts which appeared in the
Disputation between the Scottish Reformer and Quentin Kennedy, Abbot
of Crosraguel, are among the scarcest in Scottish Bibliography. See
M'Crie's _Life of Knox_, p. 258.] But the engrossing nature of his
occupation rendered the theologian not the most interesting companion
for a solitary female; and his grave, stern, and absorbed deportment,
which seldom showed any interest, except in that which concerned his
religious profession, made his presence rather add to than diminish the
gloom which hung over the Castle of Avenel. To superintend the tasks of
numerous female domestics, was the principal part of the Lady's daily
employment; her spindle and distaff, her Bible, and a solitary walk upon
the battlements of the castle, or upon the causeway, or occasionally,
but more seldom, upon the banks of the little lake, consumed the rest
of the day. But so great was the insecurity of the period, that when
she ventured to extend her walk beyond the hamlet, the warder on the
watch-tower was directed to keep a sharp look-out in every direction,
and four or five men held themselves in readiness to mount and sally
forth from the castle on the slightest appearance of alarm.
Thus stood affairs at the castle, when, after an absence of several
weeks, the Knight of Avenel, which was now the title most frequently
given to Sir Halbert Glendinning, was daily expected to return home. Day
after day, however, passed away, and he returned not. Letters in
those days were rarely written, and the Knight must have resorted to a
secretary to express his intentions in that manner; besides, intercourse
of all kinds was precarious and unsafe, and no man cared to give any
public intimation of the time and direction of a journey, since, if his
route were publicly known, it was always likely he might in that case
meet with more enemies than friends upon the road. The precise day,
therefore, of Sir Halbert's return, was not fixed, but that which his
lady's fond expectation had calculated upon in her own mind had long
since passed, and hope delayed began to make the heart sick.
It was upon the evening of a sultry summer's day, when the sun was
half-sunk behind the distant western mountains of Liddesdale, that the
Lady took her solitary walk on the battlements of a range of buildings,
which formed the front of the castle, where a flat roof of flag-stones
presented a broad and convenient promenade. The level surface of the
lake, undisturbed except by the occasional dipping of a teal-duck, or
coot, was gilded with the beams of the setting luminary, and reflected,
as if in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it lay embossed. The
scene, otherwise so lonely, was occasionally enlivened by the voices of
the children in the village, which, softened by distance, reached the
ear of the Lady, in her solitary walk, or by the distant call of the
herdsman, as he guided his cattle from the glen in which they had
pastured all day, to place them in greater security for the night,
in the immediate vicinity of the village. The deep lowing of the cows
seemed to demand the attendance of the milk-maidens, who, singing
shrilly and merrily, strolled forth, each with her pail on her head,
to attend to the duty of the evening. The Lady of Avenel looked and
listened; the sounds which she heard reminded her of former days, when
her most important employment, as well as her greatest delight, was
to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb Tackett in milking the cows at
Glendearg. The thought was fraught with melancholy.
“Why was I not,” she said, “the peasant girl which in all men's eyes I
seemed to be? Halbert and I had then spent our life peacefully in his
native glen, undisturbed by the phantoms either of fear or of ambition.
His greatest pride had then been to show the fairest herd in the
Halidome; his greatest danger to repel some pilfering snatcher from the
Border; and the utmost distance which would have divided us, would have
been the chase of some outlying deer. But, alas! what avails the blood
which Halbert has shed, and the dangers which he encounters, to support
a name and rank, dear to him because he has it from me, but which we
shall never transmit to our posterity! with me the name of Avenel must
expire.”
She sighed as the reflections arose, and, looking towards the shore of
the lake, her eye was attracted by a group of children of various ages,
assembled to see a little ship, constructed by some village artist,
perform its first voyage on the water. It was launched amid the shouts
of tiny voices and the clapping of little hands, and shot bravely forth
on its voyage with a favouring wind, which promised to carry it to the
other side of the lake. Some of the bigger boys ran round to receive and
secure it on the farther shore, trying their speed against each other
as they sprang like young fawns along the shingly verge of the lake. The
rest, for whom such a journey seemed too arduous, remained watching the
motions of the fairy vessel from the spot where it had been launched.
The sight of their sports pressed on the mind of the childless Lady of
Avenel.
“Why are none of these prattlers mine?” she continued, pursuing the
tenor of her melancholy reflections. “Their parents can scarce find them
the coarsest food--and I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am doomed
never to hear a child call me mother!”
The thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness which resembled envy,
so deeply is the desire of offspring implanted in the female breast. She
pressed her hands together as if she were wringing them in the extremity
of her desolate feeling, as one whom Heaven had written childless. A
large stag-hound of the greyhound species approached at this moment, and
attracted perhaps by the gesture, licked her hands and pressed his large
head against them. He obtained the desired caresses in return, but still
the sad impression remained.
“Wolf,” she said, as if the animal could have understood her complaints,
“thou art a noble and beautiful animal; but, alas! the love and
affection that I long to bestow, is of a quality higher than can fall to
thy share, though I love thee much.”
And, as if she were apologizing to Wolf for withholding from him any
part of her regard, she caressed his proud head and crest, while,
looking in her eyes, he seemed to ask her what she wanted, or what he
could do to show his attachment. At this moment a shriek of distress
was heard on the shore, from the playful group which had been lately so
jovial. The Lady looked, and saw the cause with great agony.
The little ship, the object of the children's delighted attention, had
stuck among some tufts of the plant which bears the water-lily, that
marked a shoal in the lake about an arrow-flight from the shore. A hardy
little boy, who had taken the lead in the race round the margin of the
lake, did not hesitate a moment to strip off his _wylie-coat_, plunge
into the water, and swim towards the object of their common solicitude.
The first movement of the Lady was to call for help; but she observed
that the boy swam strongly and fearlessly, and as she saw that one or
two villagers, who were distant spectators of the incident, seemed to
give themselves no uneasiness on his account, she supposed that he was
accustomed to the exercise, and that there was no danger. But whether,
in swimming, the boy had struck his breast against a sunken rock,
or whether he was suddenly taken with cramp, or whether he had
over-calculated his own strength, it so happened, that when he had
disembarrassed the little plaything from the flags in which it was
entangled, and sent it forward on its course, he had scarce swam a few
yards in his way to the shore, than he raised himself suddenly from the
water, and screamed aloud, clapping his hands at the same time with an
expression of fear and pain.
The Lady of Avenel, instantly taking the alarm, called hastily to the
attendants to get the boat ready. But this was an affair of some time.
The only boat permitted to be used on the lake, was moored within the
second cut which intersected the canal, and it was several minutes ere
it could be unmoored and got under way. Meantime, the Lady of Avenel,
with agonizing anxiety, saw that the efforts that the poor boy made to
keep himself afloat, were now exchanged for a faint struggling, which
would soon have been over, but for aid equally prompt and unhoped-for.
Wolf, who, like some of that large species of greyhound, was a practised
water-dog, had marked the object of her anxiety, and, quitting his
mistress's side, had sought the nearest point from which he could with
safety plunge into the lake. With the wonderful instinct which these
noble animals have so often displayed in the like circumstances, he
swam straight to the spot where his assistance was so much wanted,
and seizing the child's under-dress in his mouth, he not only kept him
afloat, but towed him towards the causeway. The boat having put off with
a couple of men, met the dog half-way, and relieved him of his burden.
They landed on the causeway, close by the gates of the castle, with
their yet lifeless charge, and were there met by the Lady of Avenel,
attended by one or two of her maidens, eagerly waiting to administer
assistance to the sufferer.
He was borne into the castle, deposited upon a bed, and every mode of
recovery resorted to, which the knowledge of the times, and the skill
of Henry Warden, who professed some medical science, could dictate. For
some time it was all in vain, and the Lady watched, with unspeakable
earnestness, the pallid countenance of the beautiful child. He seemed
about ten years old. His dress was of the meanest sort, but his long
curled hair, and the noble cast of his features, partook not of that
poverty of appearance. The proudest noble in Scotland might have been
yet prouder could he have called that child his heir. While, with
breathless anxiety, the Lady of Avenel gazed on his well-formed and
expressive features, a slight shade of colour returned gradually to the
cheek; suspended animation became restored by degrees, the child sighed
deeply, opened his eyes, which to the human countenance produces the
effect of light upon the natural landscape, stretched his arms towards
the Lady, and muttered the word “Mother,” that epithet, of all others,
which is dearest to the female ear.
“God, madam,” said the preacher, “has restored the child to your wishes;
it must be yours so to bring him up, that he may not one day wish that
he had perished in his innocence.”
“It shall be my charge,” said the Lady; and again throwing her arms
around the boy, she overwhelmed him with kisses and caresses, so much
was she agitated by the terror arising from the danger in which he had
been just placed, and by joy at his unexpected deliverance.
“But you are not my mother,” said the boy, recovering his recollection,
and endeavouring, though faintly, to escape from the caresses of the
Lady of Avenel; “you are not my mother,--alas! I have no mother--only I
have dreamt that I had one.”
“I will read the dream for you, my love,” answered the Lady of Avenel;
“and I will be myself your mother. Surely God has heard my wishes,
and, in his own marvellous manner, hath sent me an object on which my
affections may expand themselves.” She looked towards Warden as she
spoke. The preacher hesitated what he should reply to a burst of
passionate feeling, which, perhaps, seemed to him more enthusiastic than
the occasion demanded. In the meanwhile, the large stag-hound, Wolf,
which, dripping wet as he was, had followed his mistress into the
apartment, and had sat by the bedside, a patient and quiet spectator of
all the means used for resuscitation of the being whom he had preserved,
now became impatient of remaining any longer unnoticed, and began to
whine and fawn upon the Lady with his great rough paws.
“Yes,” she said, “good Wolf, and you shall be remembered also for your
day's work; and I will think the more of you for having preserved the
life of a creature so beautiful.”
But Wolf was not quite satisfied with the share of attention which he
thus attracted; he persisted in whining and pawing upon his mistress,
his caresses rendered still more troublesome by his long shaggy hair
being so much and thoroughly wetted, till she desired one of the
domestics, with whom he was familiar, to call the animal out of the
apartment. Wolf resisted every invitation to this purpose, until his
mistress positively commanded him to be gone, in an angry tone; when,
turning towards the bed on which the body still lay, half awake to
sensation, half drowned in the meanders of fluctuating delirium, he
uttered a deep and savage growl, curled up his nose and lips, showing
his full range of white and sharpened teeth, which might have matched
those of an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sullenly followed the
domestic out of the apartment.
“It is singular,” said the Lady, addressing Warden; “the animal is not
only so good-natured to all, but so particularly fond of children. What
can ail him at the little fellow whose life he has saved?”
“Dogs,” replied the preacher, “are but too like the human race in their
foibles, though their instinct be less erring than the reason of poor
mortal man when relying upon his own unassisted powers. Jealousy, my
good lady, is a passion not unknown to them, and they often evince it,
not only with respect to the preferences which they see given by their
masters to individuals of their own species, but even when their rivals
are children. You have caressed that child much and eagerly, and the dog
considers himself as a discarded favourite.”
“It is a strange instinct,” said the Lady; “and from the gravity with
which you mention it, my reverend friend, I would almost say that you
supposed this singular jealousy of my favourite Wolf, was not only well
founded, but justifiable. But perhaps you speak in jest?”
“I seldom jest,” answered the preacher; “life was not lent to us to
be expended in that idle mirth which resembles the crackling of thorns
under the pot. I would only have you derive, if it so please you,
this lesson from what I have said, that the best of our feelings, when
indulged to excess, may give pain to others. There is but one in which
we may indulge to the utmost limit of vehemence of which our bosom is
capable, secure that excess cannot exist in the greatest intensity to
which it can be excited--I mean the love of our Maker.”
“Surely,” said the Lady of Avenel, “we are commanded by the same
authority to love our neighbour?”
“Ay, madam,” said Warden, “but our love to God is to be unbounded--we
are to love him with our whole heart, our whole soul, and our whole
strength. The love which the precept commands us to bear to our
neighbour, has affixed to it a direct limit and qualification--we are to
love our neighbour as ourself; as it is elsewhere explained by the great
commandment, that we must do unto him as we would that he should do unto
us. Here there is a limit, and a bound, even to the most praiseworthy of
our affections, so far as they are turned upon sublunary and terrestrial
objects. We are to render to our neighbour, whatever be his rank or
degree, that corresponding portion of affection with which we could
rationally expect we should ourselves be regarded by those standing in
the same relation to us. Hence, neither husband nor wife, neither son
nor daughter, neither friend nor relation, are lawfully to be made the
objects of our idolatry. The Lord our God is a jealous God, and will not
endure that we bestow on the creature that extremity of devotion which
He who made us demands as his own share. I say to you, Lady, that even
in the fairest, and purest, and most honourable feelings of our nature,
there is that original taint of sin which ought to make us pause and
hesitate, ere we indulge them to excess.”
“I understand not this, reverend sir,” said the Lady; “nor do I guess
what I can have now said or done, to draw down on me an admonition which
has something a taste of reproof.”
“Lady,” said Warden, “I crave your pardon, if I have urged aught beyond
the limits of my duty. But consider, whether in the sacred promise to be
not only a protectress, but a mother, to this poor child, your purpose
may meet the wishes of the noble knight your husband. The fondness which
you have lavished on the unfortunate, and, I own, most lovely child,
has met something like a reproof in the bearing of your household
dog.--Displease not your noble husband. Men, as well as animals, are
jealous of the affections of those they love.”
“This is too much, reverend sir,” said the Lady of Avenel, greatly
offended. “You have been long our guest, and have received from the
Knight of Avenel and myself that honour and regard which your character
and profession so justly demand. But I am yet to learn that we have at
any time authorized your interference in our family arrangements, or
placed you as a judge of our conduct towards each other. I pray this may
be forborne in future.”
“Lady,” replied the preacher, with the boldness peculiar to the clergy
of his persuasion at that time, “when you weary of my admonitions--when
I see that my services are no longer acceptable to you, and the noble
knight your husband, I shall know that my Master wills me no longer to
abide here; and, praying for a continuance of his best blessings on your
family I will then, were the season the depth of winter, and the hour
midnight, walk out on yonder waste, and travel forth through these wild
mountains, as lonely and unaided, though far more helpless, than when
I first met your husband in the valley of Glendearg. But while I
remain here, I will not see you err from the true path, no, not a
hair's-breadth, without making the old man's voice and remonstrance
heard.”
“Nay, but,” said the Lady, who both loved and respected the good man,
though sometimes a little offended at what she conceived to be an
exuberant degree of zeal, “we will not part this way, my good friend.
Women are quick and hasty in their feelings; but, believe me, my wishes
and my purposes towards this child are such as both my husband and
you will approve of.” The clergyman bowed, and retreated to his own
apartment.
Chapter the Second.
How steadfastly he fix'd his eyes on me--
His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears--
Then stretch'd his little arms, and call'd me mother!
What could I do? I took the bantling home--
I could not tell the imp he had no mother.
COUNT BASIL.
When Warden had left the apartment, the Lady of Avenel gave way to the
feelings of tenderness which the sight of the boy, his sudden danger,
and his recent escape, had inspired; and no longer awed by the
sternness, as she deemed it, of the preacher, heaped with caresses the
lovely and interesting child. He was now, in some measure, recovered
from the consequences of his accident, and received passively, though
not without wonder, the tokens of kindness with which he was thus
loaded. The face of the lady was strange to him, and her dress different
and far more sumptuous than any he remembered. But the boy was naturally
of an undaunted temper; and indeed children are generally acute
physiognomists, and not only pleased by that which is beautiful in
itself, but peculiarly quick in distinguishing and replying to the
attentions of those who really love them. If they see a person in
company, though a perfect stranger, who is by nature fond of children,
the little imps seem to discover it by a sort of free-masonry, while the
awkward attempts of those who make advances to them for the purpose of
recommending themselves to the parents, usually fail in attracting their
reciprocal attention. The little boy, therefore, appeared in some degree
sensible of the lady's caresses, and it was with difficulty she withdrew
herself from his pillow, to afford him leisure for necessary repose.
“To whom belongs our little rescued varlet?” was the first question
which the Lady of Avenel put to her handmaiden Lilias, when they had
retired to the hall.
“To an old woman in the hamlet,” said Lilias, “who is even now come so
far as the porter's lodge to inquire concerning his safety. Is it your
pleasure that she be admitted?”
“Is it my pleasure?” said the Lady of Avenel, echoing the question with
a strong accent of displeasure and surprise; “can you make any doubt
of it? What woman but must pity the agony of the mother, whose heart is
throbbing for the safety of a child so lovely!”
“Nay, but, madam,” said Lilias, “this woman is too old to be the mother
of the child; I rather think she must be his grandmother, or some more
distant relation.”
“Be she who she will, Lilias,” replied the Lady, “she must have an
aching heart while the safety of a creature so lovely is uncertain.
Go instantly and bring her hither. Besides, I would willingly learn
something concerning his birth.”
Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards returned, ushering in a
tall female very poorly dressed, yet with more pretension to decency
and cleanliness than was usually combined with such coarse garments. The
Lady of Avenel knew her figure the instant she presented herself. It was
the fashion of the family, that upon every Sabbath, and on two evenings
in the week besides, Henry Warden preached or lectured in the chapel at
the castle. The extension of the Protestant faith was, upon principle,
as well as in good policy, a primary object with the Knight of Avenel.
The inhabitants of the village were therefore invited to attend upon the
instructions of Henry Warden, and many of them were speedily won to
the doctrine which their master and protector approved. These sermons,
homilies, and lectures, had made a great impression on the mind of the
Abbot Eustace, or Eustatius, and were a sufficient spur to the severity
and sharpness of his controversy with his old fellow-collegiate;
and, ere Queen Mary was dethroned, and while the Catholics still had
considerable authority in the Border provinces, he more than once
threatened to levy his vassals, and assail and level with the earth
that stronghold of heresy the Castle of Avenel. But notwithstanding the
Abbot's impotent resentment, and notwithstanding also the disinclination
of the country to favour the new religion, Henry Warden proceeded
without remission in his labours, and made weekly converts from the
faith of Rome to that of the reformed church. Amongst those who gave
most earnest and constant attendance on his ministry, was the aged
woman, whose form, tall, and otherwise too remarkable to be forgotten,
the Lady had of late observed frequently as being conspicuous among the
little audience. She had indeed more than once desired to know who
that stately-looking woman was, whose appearance was so much above the
poverty of her vestments. But the reply had always been, that she was an
Englishwoman, who was tarrying for a season at the hamlet, and that
no one knew more concerning her. She now asked her after her name and
birth.
“Magdalen Graeme is my name,” said the woman; “I come of the Graemes of
Heathergill, in Nicol Forest, [Footnote: A district of Cumberland, lying
close to the Scottish border.] a people of ancient blood.”
“And what make you,” continued the Lady, “so far distant from your
home?”
“I have no home,” said Magdalen Graeme, “it was burnt by your
Border-riders--my husband and my son were slain--there is not a drop's
blood left in the veins of any one which is of kin to mine.”
“That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and in this unsettled
land,” said the Lady; “the English hands have been as deeply dyed in our
blood as ever those of Scotsmen have been in yours.”
“You have right to say it, Lady,” answered Magdalen Graeme; “for men
tell of a time when this castle was not strong enough to save your
father's life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place of
refuge. And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own home,
and with mine own people?”
“It was indeed an idle question,” answered the Lady, “where misery so
often makes wanderers; but wherefore take refuge in a hostile country?”
“My neighbours were Popish and mass-mongers,” said the old woman; “it
has pleased Heaven to give me a clearer sight of the gospel, and I have
tarried here to enjoy the ministry of that worthy man Henry Warden, who,
to the praise and comfort of many, teacheth the Evangel in truth and in
sincerity.”
“Are you poor?” again demanded the Lady of Avenel.
“You hear me ask alms of no one,” answered the Englishwoman.
Here there was a pause. The manner of the woman was, if not
disrespectful, at least much less than gracious; and she appeared to
give no encouragement to farther communication. The Lady of Avenel
renewed the conversation on a different topic.
“You have heard of the danger in which your boy has been placed?”
“I have, Lady, and how by an especial providence he was rescued from
death. May Heaven make him thankful, and me!”
“What relation do you bear to him?”
“I am his grandmother, lady, if it so please you; the only relation he
hath left upon earth to take charge of him.”
“The burden of his maintenance must necessarily be grievous to you in
your deserted situation?” pursued the Lady.