have found amusement in comparing the different kinds of fanaticisms
which these two females exhibited. The Abbess, timid, narrowminded, and
discontented, clung to ancient usages and pretensions which were ended
by the Reformation; and was in adversity, as she had been in prosperity,
scrupulous, weak-spirited, and bigoted. While the fiery and more lofty
spirit of her companion suggested a wider field of effort, and would
not be limited by ordinary rules in the extraordinary schemes which
were suggested by her bold and irregular imagination. But Roland Graeme,
instead of tracing these peculiarities of character in the two old
damps, only waited with great anxiety for the return of Catherine,
expecting probably that the proposal of the fraternal embrace would be
renewed, as his grandmother seemed disposed to carry matters with a high
hand.
His expectations, or hopes, if we may call them so, were, however,
disappointed; for, when Catherine re-entered on the summons of the
Abbess, and placed on the table an earthen pitcher of water, and
four wooden platters, with cups of the same materials, the Dame of
Heathergill, satisfied with the arbitrary mode in which she had borne
down the opposition of the Abbess, pursued her victory no farther--a
moderation for which her grandson, in his heart, returned her but
slender thanks.
In the meanwhile, Catherine continued to place upon the table the
slender preparations for the meal of a recluse, which consisted almost
entirely of colewort, boiled and served up in a wooden platter, having
no better seasoning than a little salt, and no better accompaniment than
some coarse barley-bread, in very moderate quantity. The water-pitcher,
already mentioned, furnished the only beverage. After a Latin
grace, delivered by the Abbess, the guests sat down to their spare
entertainment. The simplicity of the fare appeared to produce no
distaste in the females, who ate of it moderately, but with the usual
appearance of appetite. But Roland Graeme had been used to better
cheer. Sir Halbert Glendinning, who affected even an unusual degree
of nobleness in his housekeeping, maintained it in a style of genial
hospitality, which rivalled that of the Northern Barons of England. He
might think, perhaps, that by doing so, he acted yet more completely
the part for which he was born--that of a great Baron and a leader. Two
bullocks, and six sheep, weekly, were the allowance when the Baron was
at home, and the number was not greatly diminished during his absence. A
boll of malt was weekly brewed into ale, which was used by the household
at discretion. Bread was baked in proportion for the consumption of his
domestics and retainers; and in this scene of plenty had Roland Graeme
now lived for several years. It formed a bad introduction to lukewarm
greens and spring-water; and probably his countenance indicated some
sense of the difference, for the Abbess observed, “It would seem,
my son, that the tables of the heretic Baron, whom you have so long
followed, are more daintily furnished than those of the suffering
daughters of the church; and yet, not upon the most solemn nights of
festival, when the nuns were permitted to eat their portion at mine own
table, did I consider the cates, which were then served up, as half so
delicious as these vegetables and this water, on which I prefer to feed,
rather than do aught which may derogate from the strictness of my vow.
It shall never be said that the mistress of this house made it a house
of feasting, when days of darkness and of affliction were hanging over
the Holy Church, of which I am an unworthy member.”
“Well hast thou said, my sister,” replied Magdalen Graeme; “but now
it is not only time to suffer in the good cause, but to act in it. And
since our pilgrim's meal is finished, let us go apart to prepare for our
journey tomorrow, and to advise on the manner in which these children
shall be employed, and what measures we can adopt to supply their
thoughtlessness and lack of discretion.”
Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer, the heart of Roland Graeme
bounded high at this proposal, which he doubted not would lead to
another _tête-â-tête_ betwixt him and the pretty novice. But he was
mistaken. Catherine, it would seem, had no mind so far to indulge him;
for, moved either by delicacy or caprice, or some of those indescribable
shades betwixt the one and the other, with which women love to tease,
and at the same time to captivate, the ruder sex, she reminded the
Abbess that it was necessary she should retire an hour before vespers;
and, receiving the ready and approving nod of her Superior, she arose
to withdraw. But before leaving the apartment, she made obeisance to the
matrons, bending herself till her hands touched her knees, and then made
a lesser reverence to Roland, which consisted in a slight bend of
the body and gentle depression of the head. This she performed very
demurely; but the party on whom the salutation was conferred, thought he
could discern in her manner an arch and mischievous exultation over his
secret disappointment.--“The devil take the saucy girl,” he thought in
his heart, though the presence of the Abbess should have repressed all
such profane imaginations,--“she is as hard-hearted as the laughing
hyaena that the story-books tell of--she has a mind that I shall not
forget her this night at least.”
The matrons now retired also, giving the page to understand that he
was on no account to stir from the convent, or to show himself at the
windows, the Abbess assigning as a reason, the readiness with which the
rude heretics caught at every occasion of scandalizing the religious
orders.
“This is worse than the rigour of Mr. Henry Warden, himself,” said the
page, when he was left alone; “for, to do him justice, however strict in
requiring the most rigid attention during the time of his homilies, he
left us to the freedom of our own wills afterwards--ay, and would take
a share in our pastimes, too, if he thought them entirely innocent.
But these old women are utterly wrapt up in gloom, mystery and
self-denial.--Well, then, if I must neither stir out of the gate nor
look out at window, I will at least see what the inside of the house
contains that may help to pass away one's time--peradventure I may light
on that blue-eyed laugher in some corner or other.”
Going, therefore, out of the chamber by the entrance opposite to that
through which the two matrons had departed, (for it may be readily
supposed that he had no desire to intrude on their privacy.) he wandered
from one chamber to another, through the deserted edifice, seeking, with
boyish eagerness, some source of interest and amusement. Here he passed
through a long gallery, opening on either hand into the little cells
of the nuns, all deserted, and deprived of the few trifling articles of
furniture which the rules of the order admitted.
“The birds are flown,” thought the page; “but whether they will find
themselves worse off in the open air than in these damp narrow cages, I
leave my Lady Abbess and my venerable relative to settle betwixt them.
I think the wild young lark whom they have left behind them, would like
best to sing under God's free sky.”
A winding stair, strait and narrow, as if to remind the nuns of their
duties of fast and maceration, led down to a lower suite of apartments,
which occupied the ground story of the house. These rooms were even more
ruinous than those which he had left; for, having encountered the first
fury of the assailants by whom the nunnery had been wasted, the windows
had been dashed in, the doors broken down, and even the partitions
betwixt the apartments, in some places, destroyed. As he thus stalked
from desolation to desolation, and began to think of returning from
so uninteresting a research to the chamber which he had left, he was
surprised to hear the low of a cow very close to him. The sound was so
unexpected at the time and place, that Roland Graeme started as if it
had been the voice of a lion, and laid his hand on his dagger, while at
the same moment the light and lovely form of Catherine Seyton presented
itself at the door of the apartment from which the sound had issued.
“Good even to you, valiant champion!” said she: “since the days of Guy
of Warwick, never was one more worthy to encounter a dun cow.”
“Cow?” said Roland Graeme, “by my faith, I thought it had been the
devil that roared so near me. Who ever heard of a convent containing a
cow-house?”
“Cow and calf may come hither now,” answered Catherine, “for we have no
means to keep out either. But I advise you, kind sir, to return to the
place from whence you came.”
“Not till I see your charge, fair sister,” answered Roland, and made
his way into the apartment, in spite of the half serious half laughing
remonstrances of the girl.
The poor solitary cow, now the only severe recluse within the nunnery,
was quartered in a spacious chamber, which had once been the refectory
of the convent. The roof was graced with groined arches, and the wall
with niches, from which the images had been pulled down. These remnants
of architectural ornaments were strangely contrasted with the rude crib
constructed for the cow in one corner of the apartment, and the stack of
fodder which was piled beside it for her food. [Footnote: This, like
the cell of Saint Cuthbert, is an imaginary scene, but I took one or
two ideas of the desolation of the interior from a story told me by my
father. In his youth--it may be near eighty years since, as he was born
in 1729--he had occasion to visit an old lady who resided in a Border
castle of considerable renown. Only one very limited portion of the
extensive ruins sufficed for the accommodation of the inmates, and my
father amused himself by wandering through the part that was untenanted.
In a dining-apartment, having a roof richly adorned with arches and
drops, there was deposited a large stack of hay, to which calves were
helping themselves from opposite sides. As my father was scaling a
dark ruinous turnpike staircase, his greyhound ran up before him, and
probably was the means of saving his life, for the animal fell through
a trap-door, or aperture in the stair, thus warning the owner of the
danger of the ascent. As the dog continued howling from a great depth,
my father got the old butler, who alone knew most of the localities
about the castle, to unlock a sort of stable, in which Kill-buck was
found safe and sound, the place being filled with the same commodity
which littered the stalls of Augeas, and which had rendered the dog's
fall an easy one.]
“By my faith,” said the page, “Crombie is more lordly lodged than any
one here!”
“You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, “and supply by your
filial attentions the offspring she has had the ill luck to lose.”
“I will remain, at least, to help you to prepare her night's lair,
pretty Catherine,” said Roland, seizing upon a pitch-fork.
“By no means,” said Catherine; “for, besides that you know not in the
least how to do her that service, you will bring a chiding my way, and I
get enough of that in the regular course of things.”
“What! for accepting my assistance?” said the page,--“for accepting _my_
assistance, who am to be your confederate in some deep matter of import?
That were altogether unreasonable--and, now I think on it, tell me if
you can, what is this mighty emprise to which I am destined?”
“Robbing a bird's nest, I should suppose,” said Catherine, “considering
the champion whom they have selected.”
“By my faith,” said the youth, “and he that has taken a falcon's nest
in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done something to brag of, my fair
sister.--But that is all over now--a murrain on the nest, and the eyases
and their food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of cramming
these worthless kites that I was sent upon my present travels. Save
that I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my dagger-hilt for
vexation at my own folly. But, as we are to be fellow-travellers--”
“Fellow-labourers! not fellow-travellers!” answered the girl; “for to
your comfort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier
than you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that I partly endure
your company at present, because it may be long ere we meet again.”
“By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though,” answered Roland; “I will not
hunt at all unless we are to hunt in couples.”
“I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as we are bid,”
replied the young lady.--“But, hark! I hear my aunt's voice.”
The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a severe glance at her
niece, while Roland had the ready wit to busy himself about the halter
of the cow.
“The young gentleman,” said Catherine, gravely, “is helping me to tie
the cow up faster to her stake, for I find that last night when she put
her head out of window and lowed, she alarmed the whole village;
and--we shall be suspected of sorcery among the heretics, if they do not
discover the cause of the apparition, or lose our cow if they do.”
“Relieve yourself of that fear,” said the Abbess, somewhat ironically;
“the person to whom she is now sold, comes for the animal presently.”
“Good night, then, my poor companion,” said Catherine, patting the
animal's shoulders; “I hope thou hast fallen into kind hands, for my
happiest hours of late have been spent in tending thee--I would I had
been born to no better task!”
“Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench!” said the Abbess; “is that a
speech worthy of the name of Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister of this
house, treading the path of election--and to be spoken before a stranger
youth, too?--Go to my oratory, minion--there read your Hours till I come
thither, when I will read you such a lecture as shall make you prize the
blessings which you possess.”
Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, casting a half sorrowful
half comic glance at Roland Graeme, which seemed to say--“You see to
what your untimely visit has exposed me,” when, suddenly changing her
mind, she came forward to the page, and extended her hand as she bid
him good evening. Their palms had pressed each other ere the astonished
matron could interfere, and Catherine had time to say--“Forgive me,
mother; it is long since we have seen a face that looked with kindness
on us. Since these disorders have broken up our peaceful retreat, all
has been gloom and malignity. I bid this youth kindly farewell, because
he has come hither in kindness, and because the odds are great, that
we may never again meet in this world. I guess better than he, that the
schemes on which you are rushing are too mighty for your management, and
that you are now setting the stone a-rolling, which must surely crush
you in its descent. I bid fare-well,” she added, “to my fellow-victim!”
This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious feeling, altogether
different from the usual levity of Catherine's manner, and plainly
showed, that beneath the giddiness of extreme youth and total
inexperience, there lurked in her bosom a deeper power of sense and
feeling, than her conduct had hitherto expressed.
The Abbess remained a moment silent after she had left the room. The
proposed rebuke died on her tongue, and she appeared struck with the
deep and foreboding, tone in which her niece had spoken her good-even.
She led the way in silence to the apartment which they had formerly
occupied, and where there was prepared a small refection, as the
Abbess termed it, consisting of milk and barley-bread. Magdalen Graeme,
summoned to take share in this collation, appeared from an adjoining
apartment, but Catherine was seen no more. There was little said during
the hasty meal, and after it was finished, Roland Graeme was dismissed
to the nearest cell, where some preparations had been made for his
repose.
The strange circumstances in which he found himself, had their usual
effect in preventing slumber from hastily descending on him, and he
could distinctly hear, by a low but earnest murmuring in the apartment
which he had left, that the matrons continued in deep consultation to
a late hour. As they separated he heard the Abbess distinctly express
herself thus: “In a word, my sister, I venerate your character and the
authority with which my Superiors have invested you; yet it seems to me,
that, ere entering on this perilous course, we should consult some of
the Fathers of the Church.”
“And how and where are we to find a faithful Bishop or Abbot at whom to
ask counsel? The faithful Eustatius is no more--he is withdrawn from a
world of evil, and from the tyranny of heretics. May Heaven and our
Lady assoilzie him of his sins, and abridge the penance of his mortal
infirmities!--Where shall we find another, with whom to take counsel?”
“Heaven will provide for the Church,” said the Abbess; “and the faithful
fathers who yet are suffered to remain in the house of Kennaquhair, will
proceed to elect an Abbot. They will not suffer the staff to fall down,
or the mitre to be unfilled, for the threats of heresy.”
“That will I learn to-morrow,” said Magdalen Graeme; “yet who now takes
the office of an hour, save to partake with the spoilers in their work
of plunder?--to-morrow will tell us if one of the thousand saints who
are sprung from the House of Saint Mary's continues to look down on it
in its misery.--Farewell, my sister--we meet at Edinburgh.”
“Benedicito!” answered the Abbess, and they parted.
“To Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh we bend our way.” thought Roland
Graeme. “That information have I purchased by a sleepless hour--it suits
well with my purpose. At Kennaquhair I shall see Father Ambrose;--at
Edinburgh I shall find the means of shaping my own course through
this bustling world, without burdening my affectionate relation--at
Edinburgh, too, I shall see again the witching novice, with her blue
eyes and her provoking smile.”--He fell asleep, and it was to dream of
Catherine Seyton.
Chapter the Thirteenth.
What, Dagon up again!--I thought we had hurl'd him
Down on the threshold, never more to rise.
Bring wedge and axe; and, neighbours, lend your hands
And rive the idol into winter fagots!
ATHELSTANE, OR THE CONVERTED DANE.
Roland Graeme slept long and sound, and the sun was high over the
horizon, when the voice of his companion summoned him to resume their
pilgrimage; and when, hastily arranging his dress, he went to attend her
call, the enthusiastic matron stood already at the threshold, prepared
for her journey. There was in all the deportment of this remarkable
woman, a promptitude of execution, and a sternness of perseverance,
founded on the fanaticism which she nursed so deeply, and which seemed
to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feelings of mortality. One only
human affection gleamed through her enthusiastic energies, like the
broken glimpses of the sun through the rising clouds of a storm. It was
her maternal fondness for her grandson--a fondness carried almost to the
verge of dotage, in circumstances where the Catholic religion was not
concerned, but which gave way instantly when it chanced either to thwart
or come in contact with the more settled purpose of her soul, and the
more devoted duty of her life. Her life she would willingly have laid
down to save the earthly object of her affection; but that object itself
she was ready to hazard, and would have been willing to sacrifice,
could the restoration of the Church of Rome have been purchased with his
blood. Her discourse by the way, excepting on the few occasions in which
her extreme love of her grandson found opportunity to display itself in
anxiety for his health and accommodation, turned entirely on the duty
of raising up the fallen honours of the Church, and replacing a Catholic
sovereign on the throne. There were times at which she hinted, though
very obscurely and distantly, that she herself was foredoomed by Heaven
to perform a part in this important task; and that she had more than
mere human warranty for the zeal with which she engaged in it. But on
this subject she expressed herself in such general language, that it was
not easy to decide whether she made any actual pretensions to a direct
and supernatural call, like the celebrated Elizabeth Barton, commonly
called the Nun of Kent; [Footnote: A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid
of Kent, who pretended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles.
Having denounced the doom of speedy death against Henry VIII. for his
marriage with Anne Boleyn, the prophetess was attainted in Parliament,
and executed with her accomplices. Her imposture was for a time so
successful, that even Sir Thomas More was disposed to be a believer.]
or whether she dwelt upon the general duty which was incumbent on
all Catholics of the time, and the pressure of which she felt in an
extraordinary degree.
Yet though Magdalen Graeme gave no direct intimation of her pretensions
to be considered as something beyond the ordinary class of mortals,
the demeanour of one or two persons amongst the travellers whom they
occasionally met, as they entered the more fertile and populous part of
the valley, seemed to indicate their belief in her superior attributes.
It is true, that two clowns, who drove before them a herd of cattle--one
or two village wenches, who seemed bound for some merry-making--a
strolling soldier, in a rusted morion, and a wandering student, as his
threadbare black cloak and his satchel of books proclaimed him--passed
our travellers without observation, or with a look of contempt; and,
moreover, that two or three children, attracted by the appearance of
a dress so nearly resembling that of a pilgrim, joined in hooting and
calling “Out upon the mass-monger!” But one or two, who nourished in
their bosoms respect for the downfallen hierarchy--casting first a
timorous glance around, to see that no one observed them--hastily
crossed themselves--bent their knee to Sister Magdalen, by which
name they saluted her--kissed her hand, or even the hem of her
dalmatique--received with humility the Benedicite with which she repaid
their obeisance; and then starting up, and again looking timidly round
to see that they had been unobserved, hastily resumed their journey.
Even while within sight of persons of the prevailing faith, there were
individuals bold enough, by folding their arms and bending their head,
to give distant and silent intimation that they recognized Sister
Magdalen, and honoured alike her person and her purpose.
She failed not to notice to her grandson these marks of honour and
respect which from time to time she received. “You see,” she said, “my
son, that the enemies have been unable altogether to suppress the good
spirit, or to root out the true seed. Amid heretics and schismatics,
spoilers of the church's lands, and scoffers at saints and sacraments,
there is left a remnant.”
“It is true, my mother,” said Roland Graeme; “but methinks they are of
a quality which can help us but little. See you not all those who wear
steel at their side, and bear marks of better quality, ruffle past us as
they would past the meanest beggars? for those who give us any marks of
sympathy, are the poorest of the poor, and most outcast of the needy,
who have neither bread to share with us, nor swords to defend us, nor
skill to use them if they had. That poor wretch that last kneeled to you
with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaciated by the touch of some
wasting disease within, and the grasp of poverty without--that pale,
shivering, miserable caitiff, how can he aid the great schemes you
meditate?”
“Much, my son,” said the Matron, with more mildness than the page
perhaps expected. “When that pious son of the church returns from the
shrine of Saint Ringan, whither he now travels by my counsel, and by the
aid of good Catholics,--when he returns, healed, of his wasting
malady, high in health, and strong in limb, will not the glory of his
faithfulness, and its miraculous reward, speak louder in the ears of
this besotted people of Scotland, than the din which is weekly made in a
thousand heretical pulpits?”
“Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint's hand is out. It is long since we
have heard of a miracle performed at St. Ringan's.”