instilled into a mind and memory of a character peculiarly tenacious.
Child as he was, he was proud of the confidence reposed in his
discretion, and resolved to show that it had not been rashly intrusted
to him. At the same time, his resolution was no more than that of
a child, and must, necessarily, have gradually faded away under the
operation both of precept and example, during his residence at the
Castle of Avenel, but for the exhortations of Father Ambrose, who, in
his lay estate, had been called Edward Glendinning. This zealous
monk had been apprized, by an unsigned letter placed in his hand by
a pilgrim, that a child educated in the Catholic faith was now in the
Castle of Avenel, perilously situated, (so was the scroll expressed,)
as ever the three children who were cast into the fiery furnace of
persecution. The letter threw upon Father Ambrose the fault, should
this solitary lamb, unwillingly left within the demesnes of the prowling
wolf, become his final prey. There needed no farther exhortation to the
monk than the idea that a soul might be endangered, and that a Catholic
might become an apostate; and he made his visits more frequent than
usual to the castle of Avenel, lest, through want of the private
encouragement and instruction which he always found some opportunity of
dispensing, the church should lose a proselyte, and, according to the
Romish creed, the devil acquire a soul.
Still these interviews were rare; and though they encouraged the
solitary boy to keep his secret and hold fast his religion, they were
neither frequent nor long enough to inspire him with any thing beyond
a blind attachment to the observances which the priest recommended. He
adhered to the forms of his religion rather because he felt it would
be dishonourable to change that of his fathers, than from any rational
conviction or sincere belief of its mysterious doctrines. It was a
principal part of the distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him
out from those with whom he lived, and gave him an additional, though an
internal and concealed reason, for contemning those of the household who
showed an undisguised dislike of him, and for hardening himself against
the instructions of the chaplain, Henry Warden.
“The fanatic preacher,” he thought within himself, during some one
of the chaplain's frequent discourses against the Church of Rome, “he
little knows whose ears are receiving his profane doctrine, and with
what contempt and abhorrence they hear his blasphemies against the holy
religion by which kings have been crowned, and for which martyrs have
died!”
But in such proud feelings of defiance of heresy, as it was termed, and
of its professors, which associated the Catholic religion with a
sense of generous independence, and that of the Protestants with the
subjugation of his mind and temper to the direction of Mr. Warden, began
and ended the faith of Roland Graeme, who, independently of the pride of
singularity, sought not to understand, and had no one to expound to
him, the peculiarities of the tenets which he professed. His regret,
therefore, at missing the rosary which had been conveyed to him through
the hands of Father Ambrose, was rather the shame of a soldier who has
dropped his cockade, or badge of service, than that of a zealous votary
who had forgotten a visible symbol of his religion.
His thoughts on the subject, however, were mortifying, and the more
so from apprehension that his negligence must reach the ears of
his relative. He felt it could be no one but her who had secretly
transmitted these beads to Father Ambrose for his use, and that his
carelessness was but an indifferent requital of her kindness.
“Nor will she omit to ask me about them,” said he to himself; “for hers
is a zeal which age cannot quell; and if she has not quitted her wont,
my answer will not fail to incense her.”
While he thus communed with himself, Magdalen Graeme entered the
apartment. “The blessing of the morning on your youthful head, my son,”
she said, with a solemnity of expression which thrilled the youth to the
heart, so sad and earnest did the benediction flow from her lips, in a
tone where devotion was blended with affection. “And thou hast started
thus early from thy couch to catch the first breath of the dawn? But it
is not well, my Roland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst; the time is not
far behind when the waking eye must be thy portion, as well as mine.”
She uttered these words with an affectionate and anxious tone, which
showed, that devotional as were the habitual exercises of her mind, the
thoughts of her nursling yet bound her to earth with the cords of human
affection and passion.
But she abode not long in a mood which she probably regarded as a
momentary dereliction of her imaginary high calling--“Come,” she said,
“youth, up and be doing--It is time that we leave this place.”
“And whither do we go?” said the young man; “or what is the object of
our journey?”
The matron stepped back, and gazed on him with surprise, not unmingled
with displeasure.
“To what purpose such a question?” she said; “is it not enough that I
lead the way? Hast thou lived with heretics till thou hast learned to
instal the vanity of thine own private judgment in place of due honour
and obedience?”
“The time,” thought Roland Graeme within himself, “is already come, when
I must establish my freedom, or be a willing thrall for ever--I feel
that I must speedily look to it.”
She instantly fulfilled his foreboding, by recurring to the theme by
which her thoughts seemed most constantly engrossed, although, when she
pleased, no one could so perfectly disguise her religion.
“Thy beads, my son--hast thou told thy beads?”
Roland Graeme coloured high; he felt the storm was approaching, but
scorned to avert it by a falsehood.
“I have forgotten my rosary,” he said, “at the Castle of Avenel.”
“Forgotten thy rosary!” she exclaimed; “false both to religion and to
natural duty, hast thou lost what was sent so far, and at such risk, a
token of the truest affection, that should have been, every bead of it,
as dear to thee as thine eyeballs?”
“I am grieved it should have so chanced, mother,” replied the youth,
“and much did I value the token, as coming from you. For what remains,
I trust to win gold enough, when I push my way in the world; and till
then, beads of black oak, or a rosary of nuts, must serve the turn.”
“Hear him!” said his grandmother; “young as he is, he hath learned
already the lessons of the devil's school! The rosary, consecrated by
the Holy Father himself, and sanctified by his blessing, is but a few
knobs of gold, whose value may be replaced by the wages of his
profane labour, and whose virtue may be supplied by a string of
hazel-nuts!--This is heresy--So Henry Warden, the wolf who ravages the
flock of the Shepherd, hath taught thee to speak and to think.”
“Mother,” said Roland Graeme, “I am no heretic; I believe and I pray
according to the rules of our church--This misfortune I regret, but I
cannot amend it.”
“Thou canst repent it, though,” replied his spiritual directress,
“repent it in dust and ashes, atone for it by fasting, prayer, and
penance, instead of looking on me with a countenance as light as if thou
hadst lost but a button from thy cap.”
“Mother,” said Roland, “be appeased; I will remember my fault in the
next confession which I have space and opportunity to make, and will
do whatever the priest may require of me in atonement. For the heaviest
fault I can do no more.--But, mother,” he added, after a moment's pause,
“let me not incur your farther displeasure, if I ask whither our journey
is bound, and what is its object. I am no longer a child, but a man, and
at my own disposal, with down upon my chin, and a sword by my side--I
will go to the end of the world with you to do your pleasure; but I owe
it to myself to inquire the purpose and direction of our travels.”
“You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy?” replied his relative,
passion rapidly supplying the colour which age had long chased from her
features,--“to yourself you owe nothing--you can owe nothing--to me
you owe every thing--your life when an infant--your support while a
child--the means of instruction, and the hopes of honour--and, sooner
than thou shouldst abandon the noble cause to which I have devoted thee,
would I see thee lie a corpse at my feet!”
Roland was alarmed at the vehement agitation with which she spoke,
and which threatened to overpower her aged frame; and he hastened to
reply,--“I forget nothing of what I owe to you, my dearest mother--show
me how my blood can testify my gratitude, and you shall judge if I spare
it. But blindfold obedience has in it as little merit as reason.”
“Saints and angels!” replied Magdalen, “and do I hear these words from
the child of my hopes, the nursling by whose bed I have kneeled, and for
whose weal I have wearied every saint in heaven with prayers? Roland,
by obedience only canst thou show thy affection and thy gratitude. What
avails it that you might perchance adopt the course I propose to thee,
were it to be fully explained? Thou wouldst not then follow my command,
but thine own judgment; thou wouldst not do the will of Heaven,
communicated through thy best friend, to whom thou owest thine all; but
thou wouldst observe the blinded dictates of thine own imperfect reason.
Hear me, Roland! a lot calls thee--solicits thee--demands thee--the
proudest to which man can be destined, and it uses the voice of thine
earliest, thy best, thine only friend--Wilt thou resist it? Then go
thy way--leave me here--my hopes on earth are gone and withered--I will
kneel me down before yonder profaned altar, and when the raging heretics
return, they shall dye it with the blood of a martyr.”
“But, my dearest mother,” said Roland Graeme, whose early recollections
of her violence were formidably renewed by these wild expressions of
reckless passion, “I will not forsake you--I will abide with you--worlds
shall not force me from your side--I will protect--I will defend you--I
will live with you, and die for you!”
“One word, my son, were worth all these--say only, 'I will obey you.'”
“Doubt it not, mother,” replied the youth, “I will, and that with all my
heart; only----”
“Nay, I receive no qualifications of thy promise,” said Magdalen Graeme,
catching at the word, “the obedience which I require is absolute; and
a blessing on thee, thou darling memory of my beloved child, that thou
hast power to make a promise so hard to human pride! Trust me well, that
in the design in which thou dost embark, thou hast for thy partners the
mighty and the valiant, the power of the church, and the pride of the
noble. Succeed or fail, live or die, thy name shall be among those
with whom success or failure is alike glorious, death or life alike
desirable. Forward, then, forward! life is short, and our plan is
laborious--Angels, saints, and the whole blessed host of heaven, have
their eyes even now on this barren and blighted land of Scotland--What
say I? on Scotland? their eye is on _us_, Roland--on the frail woman, on
the inexperienced youth, who, amidst the ruins which sacrilege hath made
in the holy place, devote themselves to God's cause, and that of
their lawful Sovereign. Amen, so be it! The blessed eyes of saints and
martyrs, which see our resolve, shall witness the execution; or their
ears, which hear our vow, shall hear our death-groan, drawn in the
sacred cause!”
While thus speaking, she held Roland Graeme firmly with one hand, while
she pointed upward with the other, to leave him, as it were, no means of
protest against the obtestation to which he was thus made a party.
When she had finished her appeal to Heaven, she left him no leisure for
farther hesitation, or for asking any explanation of her purpose; but
passing with the same ready transition as formerly, to the solicitous
attentions of an anxious parent, overwhelmed him with questions
concerning his residence in the Castle of Avenel, and the qualities and
accomplishments he had acquired.
“It is well,” she said, when she had exhausted her inquiries, “my gay
goss-hawk
[Footnote: The comparison is taken from some beautiful verses in an old
ballad, entitled Fause Foodrage, published in the “Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border.” A deposed queen, to preserve her infant son from
the traitors who have slain his father, exchanges him with the female
offspring of a faithful friend, and goes on to direct the education of
the children, and the private signals by which the parents are to hear
news each of her own offspring.
“And you shall learn my gay goss-hawk
Right well to breast a steed;
And so will I your turtle dow,
As well to write and read.
And ye shall learn my gay goss-hawk
To wield both bow and brand;
And so will I your turtle dow,
To lay gowd with her hand.
At kirk or market when we meet,
We'll dare make no avow,
But, 'Dame, how does my gay goss-hawk?'
'Madame, how does my dow?'” ]
hath been well trained, and will soar high; but those who bred him will
have cause to fear as well as to wonder at his flight.--Let us now,” she
said, “to our morning meal, and care not though it be a scanty one. A
few hours' walk will bring us to more friendly quarters.”
They broke their fast accordingly, on such fragments as remained of
their yesterday's provision, and immediately set out on their farther
journey. Magdalen Graeme led the way, with a firm and active step much
beyond her years, and Roland Graeme followed, pensive and anxious, and
far from satisfied with the state of dependence to which he seemed again
to be reduced.
“Am I for ever,” he said to himself, “to be devoured with the desire
of independence and free agency, and yet to be for ever led on, by
circumstances, to follow the will of others?”
Chapter the Tenth.
She dwelt unnoticed and alone,
Beside the springs of Dove:
A maid whom there was none to praise,
And very few to love.
WORDSWORTH.
In the course of their journey the travellers spoke little to each
other. Magdalen Graeme chanted, from time to time, in a low voice, a
part of some one of those beautiful old Latin hymns which belong to the
Catholic service, muttered an Ave or a Credo, and so passed on, lost in
devotional contemplation. The meditations of her grandson were more
bent on mundane matters; and many a time, as a moor-fowl arose from the
heath, and shot along the moor, uttering his bold crow of defiance, he
thought of the jolly Adam Woodcock, and his trusty goss-hawk; or, as
they passed a thicket where the low trees and bushes were intermingled
with tall fern, furze, and broom, so as to form a thick and intricate
cover, his dreams were of a roebuck and a brace of gaze-hounds. But
frequently his mind returned to the benevolent and kind mistress whom he
had left behind him, offended justly, and unreconciled by any effort of
his.
“My step would be lighter,” he thought, “and so would my heart, could
I but have returned to see her for one instant, and to say, Lady, the
orphan boy was wild, but not ungrateful!”
Travelling in these divers moods, about the hour of noon they reached
a small straggling village, in which, as usual, were seen one or two
of those predominating towers, or peel houses, which, for reasons of
defence elsewhere detailed, were at that time to be found in every
Border hamlet. A brook flowed beside the village, and watered the valley
in which it stood. There was also a mansion at the end of the village,
and a little way separated from it, much dilapidated, and in very
bad order, but appearing to have been the abode of persons of some
consideration. The situation was agreeable, being an angle formed by the
stream, bearing three or four large sycamore trees, which were in full
leaf, and served to relieve the dark appearance of the mansion, which
was built of a deep red stone. The house itself was a large one, but was
now obviously too big for the inmates; several windows were built
up, especially those which opened from the lower story; others were
blockaded in a less substantial manner. The court before the door, which
had once been defended with a species of low outer-wall, now ruinous,
was paved, but the stones were completely covered with long gray
nettles, thistles, and other weeds, which, shooting up betwixt the
flags, had displaced many of them from their level. Even matters
demanding more peremptory attention had been left neglected, in a manner
which argued sloth or poverty in the extreme. The stream, undermining a
part of the bank near an angle of the ruinous wall, had brought it down,
with a corner turret, the ruins of which lay in the bed of the river.
The current, interrupted by the ruins which it had overthrown, and
turned yet nearer to the site of the tower, had greatly enlarged the
breach it had made, and was in the process of undermining the ground
on which the house itself stood, unless it were speedily protected by
sufficient bulwarks.
All this attracted Roland Graeme's observation, as they approached the
dwelling by a winding path, which gave them, at intervals, a view of it
from different points.
“If we go to yonder house,” he said to his mother, “I trust it is but
for a short visit. It looks as if two rainy days from the north-west
would send the whole into the brook.”
“You see but with the eyes of the body,” said the old woman; “God will
defend his own, though it be forsaken and despised of men. Better to
dwell on the sand, under his law, than fly to the rock of human trust.”
As she thus spoke, they entered the court before the old mansion, and
Roland could observe that the front of it had formerly been considerably
ornamented with carved work, in the same dark-coloured freestone of
which it was built. But all these ornaments had been broken down and
destroyed, and only the shattered vestiges of niches and entablatures
now strewed the place which they had once occupied. The larger
entrance in front was walled up, but a little footpath, which, from its
appearance, seemed to be rarely trodden, led to a small wicket, defended
by a door well clenched with iron-headed nails, at which Magdalen Graeme
knocked three times, pausing betwixt each knock, until she heard an
answering tap from within. At the last knock, the wicket was opened by a
pale thin female, who said, “_Benedicti qui venient in nomine Domini_.”
They entered, and the portress hastily shut behind them the wicket, and
made fast the massive fastenings by which it was secured.
The female led the way through a narrow entrance, into a vestibule of
some extent, paved with stone, and having benches of the same solid
material ranged around. At the upper end was an oriel window, but some
of the intervals formed by the stone shafts and mullions were blocked
up, so that the apartment was very gloomy.
Here they stopped, and the mistress of the mansion, for such she was,
embraced Magdalen Graeme, and greeting her by the title of sister,
kissed her with much solemnity, on either side of the face.
“The blessing of Our Lady be upon you, my sister,” were her next words;
and they left no doubt upon Roland's mind respecting the religion of
their hostess, even if he could have suspected his venerable and
zealous guide of resting elsewhere than in the habitation of an orthodox
Catholic. They spoke together a few words in private, during which
he had leisure to remark more particularly the appearance of his
grandmother's friend.
Her age might be betwixt fifty and sixty; her looks had a mixture of
melancholy and unhappiness that bordered on discontent, and obscured the
remains of beauty which age had still left on her features. Her dress
was of the plainest and most ordinary description, of a dark colour,
and, like Magdalen Graeme's, something approaching to a religious habit.
Strict neatness and cleanliness of person, seemed to intimate, that if
poor, she was not reduced to squalid or heart-broken distress, and that
she was still sufficiently attached to life to retain a taste for its
decencies, if not its elegancies. Her manner, as well as her features
and appearance, argued an original condition and education far above the
meanness of her present appearance. In short, the whole figure was
such as to excite the idea, “That female must have had a history worth
knowing.” While Roland Graeme was making this very reflection, the
whispers of the two females ceased, and the mistress of the mansion,
approaching him, looked on his face and person with much attention, and,
as it seemed, some interest.
“This, then,” she said, addressing his relative, “is the child of thine
unhappy daughter, sister Magdalen; and him, the only shoot from your
ancient tree, you are willing to devote to the Good Cause?”
“Yes, by the rood,” answered Magdalen Graeme, in her usual tone of
resolved determination, “to the good cause I devote him, flesh and fell,
sinew and limb, body and soul.”
“Thou art a happy woman, sister Magdalen,” answered her companion,
“that, lifted so high above human affection and human feeling, thou
canst bind such a victim to the horns of the altar. Had I been called
to make such a sacrifice--to plunge a youth so young and fair into the
plots and bloodthirsty dealings of the time, not the patriarch Abraham,
when he led Isaac up the mountain, would have rendered more melancholy
obedience.”
She then continued to look at Roland with a mournful aspect of
compassion, until the intentness of her gaze occasioned his colour to
rise, and he was about to move out of its influence, when he was stopped
by his grand-mother with one hand, while with the other she divided the
hair upon his forehead, which was now crimson with bashfulness, while
she added, with a mixture of proud affection and firm resolution,--“Ay,
look at him well, my sister, for on a fairer face thine eye never
rested. I too, when I first saw him, after a long separation, felt as
the worldly feel, and was half shaken in my purpose. But no wind can
tear a leaf from the withered tree which has long been stripped of its
foliage, and no mere human casualty can awaken the mortal feelings which
have long slept in the calm of devotion.”
While the old woman thus spoke, her manner gave the lie to her
assertions, for the tears rose to her eyes while she added, “But the
fairer and the more spotless the victim, is it not, my sister, the more
worthy of acceptance?”
She seemed glad to escape from the sensations which agitated her, and
instantly added, “He will escape, my sister--there will be a ram caught
in the thicket, and the hand of our revolted brethren shall not be on
the youthfull Joseph. Heaven can defend its own rights, even by means of
babes and sucklings, of women and beardless boys.”
“Heaven hath left us,” said the other female; “for our sins and our
fathers' the succours of the blessed Saints have abandoned this accursed
land. We may win the crown of Martyrdom, but not that of earthly
triumph. One, too, whose prudence was at this deep crisis so
indispensable, has been called to a better world. The Abbot Eustatius is
no more.”
“May his soul have mercy!” said Magdalen Graeme, “and may Heaven, too,
have mercy upon us, who linger behind in this bloody land! His loss
is indeed a perilous blow to our enterprise; for who remains behind
possessing his far-fetched experience, his self-devoted zeal, his
consummate wisdom, and his undaunted courage! He hath fallen with the
church's standard in his hand, but God will raise up another to lift the
blessed banner. Whom have the Chapter elected in his room?”
“It is rumoured no one of the few remaining brethren dare accept
the office. The heretics have sworn that they will permit no future
election, and will heavily punish any attempt to create a new Abbot of
Saint Mary's. _Conjuraverunt inter se principes, dicentes, Projiciamus
laqueos ejus_.”
“_Quousque, Domine!_”--ejaculated Magdalen; “this, my sister, were
indeed a perilous and fatal breach in our band; but I am firm in my
belief, that another will arise in the place of him so untimely removed.
Where is thy daughter Catharine?”
“In the parlour,” answered the matron, “but”--She looked at Roland
Graeme, and muttered something in the ear of her friend.
“Fear it not,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “it is both lawful and
necessary--fear nothing from him--I would he were as well grounded in
the faith by which alone comes safety, as he is free from thought,
deed, or speech of villany. Therein is the heretics' discipline to be
commended, my sister, that they train up their youth in strong morality,
and choke up every inlet to youthful folly.”