them; and in every casual motion, discovered, or thought he discovered,
something which reminded him still more strongly of Catherine Seyton.
It occurred to him more than once, indeed, that he might be deceiving
himself by exaggerating some casual likeness into absolute identity.
But then the meeting at the hostelrie of Saint Michael's returned to his
mind, and it seemed in the highest degree improbable, that, under
such various circumstances, mere imagination should twice have found
opportunity to play him the selfsame trick. This time, however, he
determined to have his doubts resolved, and for this purpose he sate
during the rest of the play like a greyhound in the slip, ready to
spring upon the hare the instant that she was started. The damsel, whom
he watched attentively lest she should escape in the crowd when the
spectacle was closed, sate as if perfectly unconscious that she was
observed. But the worthy Doctor marked the direction of his eyes, and
magnanimously suppressed his own inclination to become the Theseus
to this Hippolyta, in deference to the rights of hospitality, which
enjoined him to forbear interference with the pleasurable pursuits
of his young friend. He passed one or two formal gibes upon the fixed
attention which the page paid to the unknown, and upon his own jealousy;
adding, however, that if both were to be presented to the patient at
once, he had little doubt she would think the younger man the sounder
prescription. “I fear me,” he added, “we shall have no news of the knave
Auchtermuchty for some time, since the vermin whom I sent after him seem
to have proved corbie-messengers. So you have an hour or two on your
hands, Master Page; and as the minstrels are beginning to strike up, now
the play is ended, why, an you incline for a dance, yonder is the green,
and there sits your partner--I trust you will hold me perfect in my
diagnostics, since I see with half an eye what disease you are sick of,
and have administered a pleasing remedy.
“_Discernit sapiens res_ (as Chambers hath it) _quas
confundit asellus_.”
The page hardly heard the end of the learned adage, or the charge
which the Chamberlain gave him to be within reach, in case of the wains
arriving suddenly, and sooner than expected--so eager he was at once
to shake himself free of his learned associate, and to satisfy his
curiosity regarding the unknown damsel. Yet in the haste with which he
made towards her he found time to reflect, that, in order to secure an
opportunity of conversing with her in private, he must not alarm her
at first accosting her. He therefore composed his manner and gait,
and advancing with becoming self-confidence before three or four
country-fellows who were intent on the same design, but knew not so well
how to put their request into shape, he acquainted her that he, as the
deputy of the venerable Chamberlain, requested the honour of her hand as
a partner.
“The venerable Chamberlain,” said the damsel frankly, reaching the page
her hand, “does very well to exercise this part of his privilege by
deputy; and I suppose the laws of the revels leave me no choice but to
accept of his faithful delegate.”
“Provided, fair damsel,” said the page, “his choice of a delegate is not
altogether distasteful to you.”
“Of that, fair sir,” replied the maiden, “I will tell you more when we
have danced the first measure.”
Catherine Seyton had admirable skill in gestic lore, and was sometimes
called on to dance for the amusement of her royal mistress. Roland
Graeme had often been a spectator of her skill, and sometimes, at
the Queen's command, Catherine's partner on such occasions. He was,
therefore, perfectly acquainted with Catherine's mode of dancing; and
observed that his present partner, in grace, in agility, in quickness
of ear, and precision of execution, exactly resembled her, save that the
Scottish jig, which he now danced with her, required a more violent
and rapid motion, and more rustic agility, than the stately pavens,
lavoltas, and courantoes, which he had seen her execute in the chamber
of Queen Mary. The active duties of the dance left him little time for
reflection, and none for conversation; but when their _pas de deux_
was finished, amidst the acclamations of the villagers, who had seldom
witnessed such an exhibition, he took an opportunity, when they yielded
up the green to another couple, to use the privilege of a partner and
enter into conversation with the mysterious maiden, whom he still held
by the hand.
“Fair partner, may I not crave the name of her who has graced me thus
far?”
“You may,” said the maiden; “but it is a question whether I shall answer
you.”
“And why?” asked Roland.
“Because nobody gives anything for nothing--and you can tell me nothing
in return which I care to hear.”
“Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in exchange for yours?”
returned Roland.
“No!” answered the maiden, “for you know little of either.”
“How?” said the page, somewhat angrily.
“Wrath you not for the matter,” said the damsel; “I will show you in an
instant that I know more of you than you do of yourself.”
“Indeed,” answered Graeme; “for whom then do you take me?”
“For the wild falcon,” answered she, “whom a dog brought in his mouth to
a certain castle, when he was but an unfledged eyas--for the hawk
whom men dare not fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on
carrion--whom folk must keep hooded till he has the proper light of his
eyes, and can discover good from evil.”
“Well--be it so,” replied Roland Graeme; “I guess at a part of your
parable, fair mistress mine--and perhaps I know as much of you as you
do of me, and can well dispense with the information which you are so
niggard in giving.”
“Prove that,” said the maiden, “and I will give you credit for more
penetration than I judged you to be gifted withal.”
“It shall be proved instantly,” said Roland Graeme. “The first letter of
your name is S, and the last N.”
“Admirable,” said his partner, “guess on.”
“It pleases you to-day,” continued Roland, “to wear the snood and
kirtle, and perhaps you may be seen to-morrow in hat and feather, hose
and doublet.”
“In the clout! in the clout! you have hit the very white,” said the
damsel, suppressing a great inclination to laugh.
“You can switch men's eyes out of their heads, as well as the heart out
of their bosoms.”
These last words were uttered in a low and tender tone, which, to
Roland's great mortification, and somewhat to his displeasure, was so
far from allaying, that it greatly increased, his partner's disposition
to laughter. She could scarce compose herself while she replied, “If you
had thought my hand so formidable,” extricating it from his hold, “you
would not have grasped it so hard; but I perceive you know me so fully,
that there is no occasion to show you my face.”
“Fair Catherine,” said the page, “he were unworthy ever to have seen
you, far less to have dwelt so long in the same service, and under the
same roof with you, who could mistake your air, your gesture, your step
in walking or in dancing, the turn of your neck, the symmetry of your
form--none could be so dull as not to recognize you by so many proofs;
but for me, I could swear even to that tress of hair that escapes from
under your muffler.”
“And to the face, of course, which that muffler covers,” said the
maiden, removing her veil, and in an instant endeavouring to replace it.
She showed the features of Catherine; but an unusual degree of petulant
impatience inflamed them, when, from some awkwardness in her management
of the muffler, she was unable again to adjust it with that dexterity
which was a principal accomplishment of the coquettes of the time.
“The fiend rive the rag to tatters!” said the damsel, as the veil
fluttered about her shoulders, with an accent so earnest and decided,
that it made the page start. He looked again at the damsel's face, but
the information which his eyes received, was to the same purport as
before. He assisted her to adjust her muffler, and both were for
an instant silent. The damsel spoke first, for Roland Graeme was
overwhelmed with surprise at the contrarieties which Catherine Seyton
seemed to include in her person and character.
“You are surprised,” said the damsel to him, “at what you see and
hear--But the times which make females men, are least of all fitted for
men to become women; yet you yourself are in danger of such a change.”
“I in danger of becoming effeminate!” said the page.
“Yes, you, for all the boldness of your reply,” said the damsel. “When
you should hold fast your religion, because it is assailed on all sides
by rebels, traitors, and heretics, you let it glide out of your breast
like water grasped in the hand. If you are driven from the faith of
your fathers from fear of a traitor, is not that womanish?--If you
are cajoled by the cunning arguments of a trumpeter of heresy, or the
praises of a puritanic old woman, is not that womanish?--If you are
bribed by the hope of spoil and preferment, is not that womanish?--And
when you wonder at my venting a threat or an execration, should you not
wonder at yourself, who, pretending to a gentle name and aspiring
to knighthood, can be at the same time cowardly, silly, and
self-interested!”
“I would that a man would bring such a charge,” said the page; “he
should see, ere his life was a minute older, whether he had cause to
term me coward or no.”
“Beware of such big words,” answered the maiden; “you said but anon that
I sometimes wear hose and doublet.”
“But remain still Catharine Seyton, wear what you list,” said the page,
endeavouring again to possess himself of her hand.
“You indeed are pleased to call me so,” replied the maiden, evading his
intention, “but I have many other names besides.”
“And will you not reply to that,” said the page, “by which you are
distinguished beyond every other maiden in Scotland?”
The damsel, unallured by his praises, still kept aloof, and sung with
gaiety a verse from an old ballad,
“Oh, some do call me Jack, sweet love,
And some do call me Gill;
But when I ride to Holyrood,
My name is Wilful Will.”
“Wilful Will” exclaimed the page, impatiently; “say rather Will o' the
Wisp--Jack with the Lantern--for never was such a deceitful or wandering
meteor!”
“If I be such,” replied the maiden, “I ask no fools to follow me--If
they do so, it is at their own pleasure, and must be on their own proper
peril.”
“Nay, but, dearest Catherine,” said Roland Graeme, “be for one instant
serious.”
“If you will call me your dearest Catherine, when I have given you so
many names to choose upon,” replied the damsel, “I would ask you how,
supposing me for two or three hours of my life escaped from yonder
tower, you have the cruelty to ask me to be serious during the only
merry moments I have seen perhaps for months?”
“Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments of deep and true feeling,
which are worth ten thousand years of the liveliest mirth; and such was
that of yesterday, when you so nearly--”
“So nearly what?” demanded the damsel, hastily.
“When you approached your lips so near to the sign you had traced on my
forehead.”
“Mother of Heaven!” exclaimed she, in a yet fiercer tone, and with a
more masculine manner than she had yet exhibited,-“Catherine Seyton
approach her lips to a man's brow, and thou that man!--vassal, thou
liest!”
The page stood astonished; but, conceiving he had alarmed the damsel's
delicacy by alluding to the enthusiasm of a moment, and the manner in
which she had expressed it, he endeavoured to falter forth an apology.
His excuses, though he was unable to give them any regular shape, were
accepted by his companion, who had indeed suppressed her indignation
after its first explosion--“Speak no more on't,” she said. “And now let
us part; our conversation may attract more notice than is convenient for
either of us.”
“Nay, but allow me at least to follow you to some sequestered place.”
“You dare not,” replied the maiden.
“How,” said the youth, “dare not? where is it you dare go, where I dare
not follow?”
“You fear a Will o' the Wisp,” said the damsel; “how would you face a
fiery dragon, with an enchantress mounted on its back?”
“Like Sir Eger, Sir Grime, or Sir Greysteil,” said the page; “but be
there such toys to be seen here?”
“I go to Mother Nicneven's,” answered the maid; “and she is witch enough
to rein the horned devil, with a red silk thread for a bridle, and a
rowan-tree switch for a whip.”
“I will follow you,” said the page.
“Let it be at some distance,” said the maiden.
And wrapping her mantle round her with more success than on her former
attempt, she mingled with the throng, and walked towards the village,
heedfully followed by Roland Graeme at some distance, and under
every precaution which he could use to prevent his purpose from being
observed.
Chapter the Twenty-Eighth.
Yes, it is he whose eyes look'd on thy childhood,
And watch'd with trembling hope thy dawn of youth,
That now, with these same eyeballs dimm'd with age,
And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonour.
OLD PLAY.
At the entrance of the principal, or indeed, so to speak, the only
street in Kinross, the damsel, whose steps were pursued by Roland
Graeme, cast a glance behind her, as if to be certain he had not lost
trace of her and then plunged down a very narrow lane which ran betwixt
two rows of poor and ruinous cottages. She paused for a second at the
door of one of those miserable tenements, again cast her eye up the lane
towards Roland, then lifted the latch, opened the door, and disappeared
from his view.
With whatever haste the page followed her example, the difficulty which
he found in discovering the trick of the latch, which did not work quite
in the usual manner, and in pushing open the door, which did not yield
to his first effort, delayed for a minute or two his entrance into the
cottage. A dark and smoky passage led, as usual, betwixt the exterior
wall of the house, and the _hallan_, or clay wall, which served as a
partition betwixt it and the interior. At the end of this passage,
and through the partition, was a door leading into the _ben_, or inner
chamber of the cottage, and when Roland Graeme's hand was upon the latch
of this door, a female voice pronounced, “_Benedictus qui veniat in
nomine Domini, damnandus qui in nomine inimici._” On entering the
apartment, he perceived the figure which the chamberlain had pointed out
to him as Mother Nicneven, seated beside the lowly hearth. But there was
no other person in the room. Roland Graeme gazed around in surprise at
the disappearance of Catherine Seyton, without paying much regard to the
supposed sorceress, until she attracted and riveted his regard by the
tone in which she asked him--“What seekest thou here?”
“I seek,” said the page, with much embarrassment; “I seek--”
But his answer was cut short, when the old woman, drawing her huge gray
eyebrows sternly together, with a frown which knitted her brow into a
thousand wrinkles, arose, and erecting herself up to her full natural
size, tore the kerchief from her head, and seizing Roland by the arm,
made two strides across the floor of the apartment to a small window
through which the light fell full on her face, and showed the astonished
youth the countenance of Magdalen Graeme.--“Yes, Roland,” she said,
“thine eyes deceive thee not; they show thee truly the features of her
whom thou hast thyself deceived, whose wine thou hast turned into gall,
her bread of joyfulness into bitter poison, her hope into the blackest
despair--it is she who now demands of thee, what seekest thou here?--She
whose heaviest sin towards Heaven hath been, that she loved thee
even better than the weal of the whole church, and could not without
reluctance surrender thee even in the cause of God--she now asks you,
what seekest thou here?”
While she spoke, she kept her broad black eye riveted on the youth's
face, with the expression with which the eagle regards his prey ere he
tears it to pieces. Roland felt himself at the moment incapable either
of reply or evasion. This extraordinary enthusiast had preserved over
him in some measure the ascendency which she had acquired during his
childhood; and, besides, he knew the violence of her passions and her
impatience of contradiction, and was sensible that almost any reply
which he could make, was likely to throw her into an ecstasy of rage.
He was therefore silent; and Magdalen Graeme proceeded with increasing
enthusiasm in her apostrophe--“Once more, what seek'st thou, false
boy?--seek'st thou the honour thou hast renounced, the faith thou hast
abandoned, the hopes thou hast destroyed?--Or didst thou seek me, the
sole protectress of thy youth, the only parent whom thou hast known,
that thou mayest trample on my gray hairs, even as thou hast already
trampled on the best wishes of my heart?”
“Pardon me, mother,” said Roland Graeme; “but, in truth and reason,
I deserve not your blame. I have been treated amongst you--even by
yourself, my revered parent, as well as by others--as one who lacked the
common attributes of free-will and human reason, or was at least deemed
unfit to exercise them. A land of enchantment have I been led into, and
spells have been cast around me--every one has met me in disguise--every
one has spoken to me in parables--I have been like one who walks in a
weary and bewildering dream; and now you blame me that I have not the
sense, and judgment, and steadiness of a waking, and a disenchanted, and
a reasonable man, who knows what he is doing, and wherefore he does it.
If one must walk with masks and spectres, who waft themselves from place
to place as it were in vision rather than reality, it might shake the
soundest faith and turn the wisest head. I sought, since I must needs
avow my folly, the same Catherine Seyton with whom you made me first
acquainted, and whom I most strangely find in this village of Kinross,
gayest among the revellers, when I had but just left her in the
well-guarded castle of Lochleven, the sad attendant of an imprisoned
Queen-I sought her, and in her place I find you, my mother, more
strangely disguised than even she is.”
“And what hadst thou to do with Catherine Seyton?” said the matron,
sternly; “is this a time or a world to follow maidens, or to dance
around a Maypole? When the trumpet summons every true-hearted Scotsman
around the standard of the true sovereign, shalt thou be found loitering
in a lady's bower?”
“No, by Heaven, nor imprisoned in the rugged walls of an island castle!”
answered Roland Graeme: “I would the blast were to sound even now, for I
fear that nothing less loud will dispel the chimerical visions by which
I am surrounded.”
“Doubt not that it will be winded,” said the matron, “and that so
fearfully loud, that Scotland will never hear the like until the last
and loudest blast of all shall announce to mountain and to valley that
time is no more. Meanwhile, be thou but brave and constant--Serve God
and honour thy sovereign--Abide by thy religion--I cannot--I will
not--I dare not ask thee the truth of the terrible surmises I have heard
touching thy falling away--perfect not that accursed sacrifice--and yet,
even at this late hour, thou mayest be what I have hoped for the son
of my dearest hope--what say I? the son of _my_ hope--thou shalt be the
hope of Scotland, her boast and her honour!--Even thy wildest and most
foolish wishes may perchance be fulfilled--I might blush to mingle
meaner motives with the noble guerdon I hold out to thee--It shames me,
being such as I am, to mention the idle passions of youth, save with
contempt and the purpose of censure. But we must bribe children to
wholesome medicine by the offer of cates, and youth to honourable
achievement with the promise of pleasure. Mark me, therefore, Roland.
The love of Catherine Seyton will follow him only who shall achieve the
freedom of her mistress; and believe, it may be one day in thine own
power to be that happy lover. Cast, therefore, away doubt and fear, and
prepare to do what religion calls for, what thy country demands of thee,
what thy duty as a subject and as a servant alike require at your hand;
and be assured, even the idlest or wildest wishes of thy heart will be
most readily attained by following the call of thy duty.”
As she ceased speaking, a double knock was heard against the inner door.
The matron hastily adjusting her muffler, and resuming her chair by the
hearth, demanded who was there.
“_Salve in nomine sancto_,” was answered from without.
“_Salvete et vos_,” answered Magdalen Graeme.
And a man entered in the ordinary dress of a nobleman's retainer,
wearing at his girdle a sword and buckler--“I sought you,” said he, “my
mother, and him whom I see with you.” Then addressing himself to Roland
Graeme, he said to him, “Hast thou not a packet from George Douglas?”
“I have,” said the page, suddenly recollecting that which had been
committed to his charge in the morning, “but I may not deliver it to any
one without some token that they have a right to ask it.”
“You say well,” replied the serving-man, and whispered into his ear,
“The packet which I ask is the report to his father--will this token
suffice?”
“It will,” replied the page, and taking the packet from his bosom, gave
it to the man.
“I will return presently,” said the serving-man, and left the cottage.
Roland had now sufficiently recovered his surprise to accost his
relative in turn, and request to know the reason why he found her in
so precarious a disguise, and a place so dangerous--“You cannot be
ignorant,” he said, “of the hatred that the Lady of Lochleven bears to
those of your--that is of our religion--your present disguise lays you
open to suspicion of a different kind, but inferring no less hazard;
and whether as a Catholic, or as a sorceress, or as a friend to the
unfortunate Queen, you are in equal danger, if apprehended within the
bounds of the Douglas; and in the chamberlain who administers their
authority, you have, for his own reasons, an enemy, and a bitter one.”
“I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling with triumph; “I know
that, vain of his school-craft, and carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views
with jealousy and hatred the blessings which the saints have conferred
on my prayers, and on the holy relics, before the touch, nay, before the
bare presence of which, disease and death have so often been known to
retreat.--I know he would rend and tear me; but there is a chain and
a muzzle on the ban dog that shall restrain his fury, and the Master's
servant shall not be offended by him until the Master's work is wrought.
When that hour comes, let the shadows of the evening descend on me in
thunder and in tempest; the time shall be welcome that relieves my eyes
from seeing guilt, and my ears from listening to blasphemy. Do thou but
be constant--play thy part as I have played and will play mine, and my
release shall be like that of a blessed martyr whose ascent to heaven
angels hail with psalm and song, while earth pursues him with hiss and
with execration.”
As she concluded, the serving-man again entered the cottage, and said,
“All is well! the time holds for to-morrow night.”
“What time? what holds?” exclaimed Roland Graeme; “I trust I have given
the Douglas's packet to no wrong--”
“Content yourself, young man,” answered the serving-man; “thou hast my
word and token.”
“I know not if the token be right,” said the page; “and I care not much
for the word of a stranger.”
“What,” said the matron, “although thou mayest have given a packet
delivered to thy charge by one of the Queen's rebels into the hand of
a loyal subject--there were no great mistake in that, thou hot-brained
boy!”
“By Saint Andrew, there were foul mistake, though,” answered the page;
“it is the very spirit of my duty, in this first stage of chivalry,
to be faithful to my trust; and had the devil given me a message to
discharge, I would not (so I had plighted my faith to the contrary)
betray his counsel to an angel of light.”
“Now, by the love I once bore thee,” said the matron, “I could slay thee
with mine own hand, when I hear thee talk of a dearer faith being due to
rebels and heretics, than thou owest to thy church and thy prince!”
“Be patient, my good sister,” said the serving-man; “I will give him
such reasons as shall counterbalance the scruples which beset
him---the spirit is honourable, though now it may be mistimed and
misplaced.--Follow me, young man.”
“Ere I go to call this stranger to a reckoning,” said the page to the
matron, “is there nothing I can do for your comfort and safety?”
“Nothing,” she replied, “nothing, save what will lead more to thine own
honour;--the saints who have protected me thus far, will lend me succour
as I need it. Tread the path of glory that is before thee, and only
think of me as the creature on earth who will be most delighted to hear
of thy fame.--Follow the stranger--he hath tidings for you that you
little expect.”