in his self-complacent manner, was making known to her his political
speculations. At length her resentment found utterance in words of
great ire and scorn. “What, Master Wingate! have you eaten my mistress's
bread, to say nothing of my master's, so many years, that you could live
to think of her being dispossessed of her own Castle of Avenel, by a
wretched monk, who is not a drop's blood to her in the way of relation?
I, that am but a woman, would try first whether my rock or his cowl was
the better metal. Shame on you, Master Wingate! I If I had not held
you as so old an acquaintance, this should have gone to my Lady's ears
though I had been called pickthank and tale-pyet for my pains, as when I
told of Roland Graeme shooting the wild swan.”
Master Wingate was somewhat dismayed at perceiving, that the details
which he had given of his far-sighted political views had produced on
his hearer rather suspicion of his fidelity, than admiration of his
wisdom, and endeavoured, as hastily as possible, to apologize and to
explain, although internally extremely offended at the unreasonable
view, as he deemed it, which it had pleased Mistress Lilias
Bradbourne to take of his expressions; and mentally convinced that her
disapprobation of his sentiments arose solely out of the consideration,
that though Father Ambrose, supposing him to become the master of the
castle, would certainly require the services of a steward, yet those
of a waiting-woman would, in the supposed circumstances, be altogether
superfluous.
After his explanation had been received as explanations usually are, the
two friends separated; Lilias to attend the silver whistle which called
her to her mistress's chamber, and the sapient major-domo to the duties
of his own department. They parted with less than their usual degree of
reverence and regard; for the steward felt that his worldly wisdom was
rebuked by the more disinterested attachment of the waiting-woman, and
Mistress Lilias Bradbourne was compelled to consider her old friend as
something little better than a time-server.
Chapter the Seventh.
When I hae a saxpence under my thumb,
Then I get credit in ilka town;
But when I am puir they bid me gae by--
Oh, poverty parts good company!
OLD SONG.
While the departure of the page afforded subject for the conversation
which we have detailed in our last chapter, the late favourite was far
advanced on his solitary journey, without well knowing what was its
object, or what was likely to be its end. He had rowed the skiff in
which he left the castle, to the side of the lake most distant from the
village, with the desire of escaping from the notice of the inhabitants.
His pride whispered, that he would be in his discarded state, only the
subject of their wonder and compassion; and his generosity told him,
that any mark of sympathy which his situation should excite, might be
unfavourably reported at the castle. A trifling incident convinced him
he had little to fear for his friends on the latter score. He was met by
a young man some years older than himself, who had on former occasions
been but too happy to be permitted to share in his sports in the
subordinate character of his assistant. Ralph Fisher approached to greet
him, with all the alacrity of an humble friend.
“What, Master Roland, abroad on this side, and without either hawk or
hound?”
“Hawk or hound,” said Roland, “I will never perhaps hollo to again. I
have been dismissed--that is, I have left the castle.”
Ralph was surprised. “What! you are to pass into the Knight's service,
and take the black jack and the lance?”
“Indeed,” replied Roland Graeme, “I am not--I am now leaving the service
of Avenel for ever.”
“And whither are you going, then?” said the young peasant.
“Nay, that is a question which it craves time to answer--I have that
matter to determine yet,” replied the disgraced favourite.
“Nay, nay,” said Ralph, “I warrant you it is the same to you which way
you go--my Lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining into
the pouches of your doublet.”
“Sordid slave!” said Roland Graeme, “dost thou think I would have
accepted a boon from one who was giving me over a prey to detraction
and to ruin, at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddling
serving-woman? The bread that I had bought with such an alms would have
choked me at the first mouthful.”
Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of wonder not
unmixed with contempt. “Well,” he said, at length, “no occasion for
passion--each man knows his own stomach best--but, were I on a black
moor at this time of day, not knowing whither I was going, I should
be glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, come by them as I
could.--But perhaps you will go with me to my father's--that is, for a
night, for to-morrow we expect my uncle Menelaus and all his folk; but,
as I said, for one night----”
The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to one night only,
and that tendered most unwillingly, offended the pride of the discarded
favourite.
“I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have done many a night
on less occasion,” said Roland Graeme, “than in the smoky garret of your
father, that smells of peat smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander's
plaid.”
“You may choose, my master, if you are so nice,” replied Ralph Fisher;
“you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you
journey long in the fashion you propose. You might have said God-a-mercy
for your proffer, though--it is not every one that will put themselves
in the way of ill-will by harbouring a discarded serving-man.”
“Ralph,” said Roland Graeme, “I would pray you to remember that I have
switched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you have
tasted.”
Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full strength,
and conscious of the most complete personal superiority, laughed
contemptuously at the threats of the slight-made stripling.
“It may be the same wand,” he said, “but not the same hand; and that is
as good rhyme as if it were in a ballad. Look you, my Lady's page
that was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of you, but of
your betters, that kept mine down--and I wot not what hinders me from
clearing old scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was your
Lady's livery-coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood, Master
Roland.”
In the midst of his rage, Roland Graeme was just wise enough to see,
that by continuing this altercation, he would subject himself to very
rude treatment from the boor, who was so much older and stronger than
himself; and while his antagonist, with a sort of jeering laugh of
defiance, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness of
his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion of tears, which he
in vain endeavoured to conceal with both his hands.
Even the rough churl was moved with the distress of his quondam
companion.
“Nay, Master Roland,” he said, “I did but as 'twere jest with thee--I
would not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance sake. But
ever look to a man's inches ere you talk of switching--why, thine arm,
man, is but like a spindle compared to mine.--But hark, I hear old Adam
Woodcock hollowing to his hawk--Come along, man, we will have a merry
afternoon, and go jollily to my father's in spite of the peat-smoke and
usquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some honest way of winning
your bread, though it's hard to come by in these broken times.”
The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands from
his face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable tone of
comfort.
“Why, man, when you were my Lady's minion, men held you proud, and some
thought you a Papist, and I wot not what; and so, now that you have no
one to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and wait on
the minister's examinations, and put these things out of folk's head;
and if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the stream;
and if a gentleman, or a gentleman's gentleman, give you a rough word,
or a light blow, you must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, or
the like, as I have done by you.--But hark to Woodcock's whistle again.
Come, and I will teach you all the trick on't as we go on.”
“I thank you,” said Roland Graeme, endeavouring to assume an air of
indifference and of superiority; “but I have another path before me, and
were it otherwise, I could not tread in yours.”
“Very true, Master Roland,” replied the clown; “and every man knows his
own matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you say.
Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld lang syne.--What! not clap
palms ere we part?--well, so be it--a wilful man will have his way, and
so farewell, and the blessing of the morning to you.”
“Good-morrow--good-morrow,” said Roland, hastily; and the clown walked
lightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of an
acquaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no longer
the means to be serviceable to him.
Roland Graeme compelled himself to walk on while they were within sight
of each other that his former intimate might not augur any vacillation
of purpose, or uncertainty of object, from his remaining on the same
spot; but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned, as it were,
and giddy; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and quaking
under his feet like the surface of a bog; and he had once or twice
nearly fallen, though the path he trode was of firm greensward. He kept
resolutely moving forward, in spite of the internal agitation to which
these symptoms belonged, until the distant form of his acquaintance
disappeared behind the slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once;
and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken, he gave way to
the natural expressions of wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept with
unrestrained profusion and unqualified bitterness.
When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had subsided, the
deserted and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usually
follows such discharges of sorrow. The tears continued to chase each
other down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the same
sense of desolation; an afflicting yet milder sentiment was awakened
in his mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the unwearied
kindness which had attached her to him, in spite of many acts of
provoking petulance, now recollected as offences of a deep dye, which
had protected him against the machinations of others, as well as against
the consequences of his own folly, and would have continued to do so,
had not the excess of his presumption compelled her to withdraw her
protection.
“Whatever indignity I have borne,” he said, “has been the just reward of
my own ingratitude. And have I done well to accept the hospitality, the
more than maternal kindness, of my protectress, yet to detain from her
the knowledge of my religion?--but she shall know that a Catholic has
as much gratitude as a Puritan--that I have been thoughtless, but not
wicked--that in my wildest moments I have loved, respected, and honoured
her--and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but was never
ungrateful!”
He turned, as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began hastily
to retread his footsteps towards the castle. But he checked the first
eagerness of his repentant haste, when he reflected on the scorn and
contempt with which the family were likely to see the return of
the fugitive, humbled, as they must necessarily suppose him, into a
supplicant, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to return
to his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still.
“I care not,” he resolutely determined; “let them wink, point, nod,
sneer, speak of the conceit which is humbled, of the pride which has had
a fall--I care not; it is a penance due to my folly, and I will endure
it with patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also should
think me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her pardon
alone, but for a renewal of the advantages which I derived from her
favour--_her_ suspicion of my meanness I cannot--I will not brook.”
He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional obstinacy
against his more just feeling, urged that he would incur the scorn of
the Lady of Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by following the
course which the first ardour of his repentant feelings had dictated to
him.
“If I had but some plausible pretext,” he thought, “some ostensible
reason for my return, some excuse to allege which might show I came not
as a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go thither--but
as I am, I cannot--my heart would leap from its place and burst.”
As these thoughts swept through his mind, something passed in the air
so near him as to dazzle his eyes, and almost to brush the plume in his
cap. He looked up--it was the favourite falcon of Sir Halbert, which,
flying around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that of a
well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the accustomed
whoop, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist, and began to prune
itself, glancing at the youth from time to time an acute and brilliant
beam of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed it not with
his usual fondness.
“Ah, Diamond!” he said, as if the bird understood him, “thou and I must
be strangers henceforward. Many a gallant stoop have I seen thee make,
and many a brave heron strike down; but that is all gone and over, and
there is no hawking more for me!”
“And why not, Master Roland,” said Adam Woodcock the falconer, who came
at that instant from behind a few alder bushes which had concealed him
from view, “why should there be no more hawking for you? Why, man, what
were our life without our sports?--thou know'st the jolly old song--
“And rather would Allan in dungeon lie,
Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly;
And Allan would rather lie in Sexton's pound,
Than live where he followed not the merry hawk and hound.”
The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in which
he half-sung half-recited his rude ballad, implied honest frankness
and cordiality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its consequences,
embarrassed Roland, and prevented his reply. The falconer saw his
hesitation, and guessed the cause.
“What now,” said he, “Master Roland? do you, who are half an Englishman,
think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger against you,
and you in distress? That were like some of the Scots, (my master's
reverence always excepted,) who can be fair and false, and wait their
time, and keep their mind, as they say, to themselves, and touch pot and
flagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, after all, when
time serves, pay off some old feud with the point of the dagger. Canny
Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an you had hit me
a rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken it from you, than a rough
word from another; for you have a good notion of falconry, though you
stand up for washing the meat for the eyases. So give us your hand, man,
and bear no malice.”
Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity of
honest Adam's address, could not resist its downright frankness.
Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to the
falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp.
“Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock; “I always said you had a kind
heart, though you have a spice of the devil in your disposition, that is
certain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find you, and yon
half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You ever thought
too much of that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he knows nought of
sport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw how it had been
betwixt you, and I sent him out of my company with a wanion--I would
rather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave at my elbow--and
now, Master Roland, tell me what way wing ye?”
“That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with a sigh which he could
not suppress.
“Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off,” said the falconer;
“who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for all this
yet?--Look at Diamond there, 'tis a noble bird, and shows gallantly
with his hood, and bells, and jesses; but there is many a wild falcon
in Norway that would not change properties with him--And that is what
I would say of you. You are no longer my Lady's page, and you will
not clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or show so
gallant--What of all that? if you are not her page, you are your own
man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or whistle. The
worst is the loss of the sport, but who knows what you may come to? They
say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad to
be the Abbot's forester, and now he has hounds and hawks of his own, and
Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the boot.”
“You are right, and say well, Adam,” answered the youth, the blood
mantling in his cheeks, “the falcon will soar higher without his bells
than with them, though the bells be made of silver.”
“That is cheerily spoken,” replied the falconer; “and whither now?”
“I thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair,” answered Roland
Graeme, “to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose.”
“And joy go with you,” said the falconer, “though it is likely you may
find the old monks in some sorrow; they say the commons are threatening
to turn them out of their cells, and make a devil's mass of it in the
old church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long; and troth I
am clear of the same opinion.”
“Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having a friend beside him!”
said the page, manfully.
“Ay, but, my young fearnought,” replied the falconer, “the friend will
scarce be the better of being beside Father Ambrose--he may come by the
redder's lick, and that is ever the worst of the battle.”
“I care not for that,” said the page, “the dread of a lick should not
hold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers by
visiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert's cell,
where the old priest will give me a night's shelter; and I will send to
Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the convent.”
“By Our Lady,” said the falconer, “and that is a likely plan--and now,”
he continued, exchanging his frankness of manner for a sort of awkward
embarrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready means
to bring out--“and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawk's
meat, [Footnote: This same hag, like every thing belonging to falconry,
was esteemed an honourable distinction, and worn often by the nobility
and gentry. One of the Sommervilles of Camnethan was called _Sir John
with the red bag_, because it was his wont to wear his hawking pouch
covered with satin of that colour.] and so forth; but wot you what it is
lined with, Master Roland?”
“With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, somewhat surprised at the
hesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question apparently so
simple.
“With leather, lad?” said Woodcock; “ay, and with silver to the boot of
that. See here,” he said, showing a secret slit in the lining of his bag
of office--“here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were struck
in bluff old Hal's time, and ten of them are right heartily at your
service; and now the murder is out.”
Roland's first idea was to refuse his assistance; but he recollected the
vows of humility which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred that
this was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolution to the test.
Assuming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with as
much frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing what was
so contrary to his inclinations, that he accepted thankfully of his
kind offer, while, to soothe his own reviving pride, he could not help
adding, “he hoped soon to requite the obligation.”
“That as you list--that as you list, young man,” said the falconer, with
glee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply he had
so generously offered, and then adding, with great cheerfulness,--“Now
you may go through the world; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn,
hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword and buckler, with a
whole pair of shoes, a green jacket, and ten lily-white groats in his
pouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. Farewell, and
God be with you!”
So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks of his companion,
he turned hastily round, and left Roland Graeme to pursue his journey
alone.
Chapter the Eight.
The sacred tapers lights are gone.
Gray moss has clad the altar stone,
The holy image is o'erthrown,
The bell has ceased to toll,
The long ribb'd aisles are burst and shrunk,
The holy shrines to ruin sunk,
Departed is the pious monk,
God's blessing on his soul!
REDIVIVA.
The cell of Saint Cuthbert, as it was called, marked, or was supposed
to mark, one of those resting-places, which that venerable saint was
pleased to assign to his monks, when his convent, being driven from
Lindisfern by the Danes, became a peripatetic society of religionists,
and bearing their patron's body on their shoulders, transported him from
place to place through Scotland and the borders of England, until he was
pleased at length to spare them the pain of carrying him farther, and
to choose his ultimate place of rest in the lordly towers of Durham.
The odour of his sanctity remained behind him at each place where he had
granted the monks a transient respite from their labours; and proud were
those who could assign, as his temporary resting-place, any spot within
their vicinity. There were few cells more celebrated and honoured
than that of Saint Cuthbert, to which Roland Graeme now bent his
way, situated considerably to the north-west of the great Abbey of
Kennaquhair, on which it was dependent. In the neighbourhood were some
of those recommendations which weighed with the experienced priesthood
of Rome, in choosing their sites for places of religion.
There was a well, possessed of some medicinal qualities, which, of
course, claimed the saint for its guardian and patron, and occasionally
produced some advantage to the recluse who inhabited his cell, since
none could reasonably expect to benefit by the fountain who did not
extend their bounty to the saint's chaplain. A few rods of fertile land
afforded the monk his plot of garden ground; an eminence well clothed
with trees rose behind the cell, and sheltered it from, the north and
the east, while the front, opening to the south-west, looked up a wild
but pleasant valley, down which wandered a lively brook, which battled
with every stone that interrupted its passage.
The cell itself was rather plainly than rudely constructed--a low Gothic
building with two small apartments, one of which served the priest for
his dwelling-place, the other for his chapel. As there were few of
the secular clergy who durst venture to reside so near the Border, the
assistance of this monk in spiritual affairs had not been useless to the
community, while the Catholic religion retained the ascendancy; as he
could marry, christen, and administer the other sacraments of the Roman
church. Of late, however, as the Protestant doctrines gained ground, he
had found it convenient to live in close retirement, and to avoid, as
much as possible, drawing upon himself observation or animadversion. The
appearance of his habitation, however, when Roland Graeme came before
it in the close of the evening, plainly showed that his caution had been
finally ineffectual.
The page's first movement was to knock at the door, when he observed,
to his surprise, that it was open, not from being left unlatched, but
because, beat off its upper hinge, it was only fastened to the door-post
by the lower, and could therefore no longer perform its functions.
Somewhat alarmed at this, and receiving no answer when he knocked and
called, Roland began to look more at leisure upon the exterior of the
little dwelling before he ventured to enter it. The flowers, which had
been trained with care against the walls, seemed to have been recently
torn down, and trailed their dishonoured garlands on the earth; the
latticed window was broken and dashed in. The garden, which the monk had
maintained by his constant labour in the highest order and beauty, bore
marks of having been lately trod down and destroyed by the hoofs of
animals, and the feet of men.