In reply to his demand, the voice again sung;--

“Men of good are bold as sackless,[Footnote: Sackless--Innocent.]

Men of rude are wild and reckless,

Lie thou still

In the nook of the hill.

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.”

While the Sub-Prior listened, with his head turned in the direction from

which the sounds seemed to come, he felt as if something rushed against

him; and ere he could discover the cause, he was pushed from his saddle

with gentle but irresistible force. Before he reached the ground his

senses were gone, and he lay long in a state of insensibility; for

the sunset had not ceased to gild the top of the distant hill when he

fell,--and when he again became conscious of existence, the pale moon

was gleaming on the landscape. He awakened in a state of terror, from

which, for a few minutes, he found it difficult to shake himself free.

At length he sate upon the grass, and became sensible, by repeated

exertion, that the only personal injury which he had sustained was the

numbness arising from extreme cold. The motion of something near him

made the blood again run to his heart, and by a sudden effort he started

up, and, looking around, saw to his relief that the noise was occasioned

by the footsteps of his own mule. The peaceable animal had remained

quietly beside her master during his trance, browsing on the grass which

grew plentifully in that sequestered nook.

With some exertion he collected himself, remounted the animal, and

meditating upon his wild adventure, descended the glen till its junction

with the broader valley through which the Tweed winds. The drawbridge

was readily dropped at his first summons; and so much had he won upon

the heart of the churlish warden, that Peter appeared himself with a

lantern to show the Sub-Prior his way over the perilous pass.

“By my sooth, sir,” he said, holding the light up to Father Eustace's

face, “you look sorely travelled and deadly pale--but a little matter

serves to weary out you men of the cell. I now who speak to you--I have

ridden--before I was perched up here on this pillar betwixt wind and

water--it may be thirty Scots miles before I broke my fast, and have had

the red of a bramble rose in my cheek all the while--But will you taste

some food, or a cup of distilled waters?”

“I may not,” said Father Eustace, “being under a vow; but I thank you

for your kindness, and pray you to give what I may not accept to the

next poor pilgrim who comes hither pale and fainting, for so it shall be

the better both with him here, and with you hereafter.”

“By my faith, and I will do so,” said Peter Bridge-Ward, “even for thy

sake--It is strange now, how this Sub-Prior gets round one's heart more

than the rest of these cowled gentry, that think of nothing but quaffing

and stuffing!--Wife, I say--wife, we will give a cup of distilled waters

and a crust of bread unto the next pilgrim that comes over; and ye may

keep for [Footnote: An old-fashioned name for an earthen jar for

holding spirits.] the purpose the grunds of the last greybeard, and the

ill-baked bannock which the bairns couldna eat.”

While Peter issued these charitable, and, at the same time, prudent

injunctions, the Sub-Prior, whose mild interference had awakened the

Bridge-Ward to such an act of unwonted generosity, was pacing onward

to the Monastery. In the way, he had to commune with and subdue his own

rebellious heart, an enemy, he was sensible, more formidable than any

which the external powers of Satan could place in his way.

Father Eustace had indeed strong temptation to suppress the

extraordinary incident which had befallen him, which he was the more

reluctant to confess, because he had passed so severe a judgment upon

Father Philip, who, as he was not unwilling to allow, had, on his return

from Glendearg, encountered obstacles somewhat similar to his own. Of

this the Sub-Prior was the more convinced, when, feeling in his bosom

for the Book which he had brought off from the Tower of Glendearg, he

found it was amissing, which he could only account for by supposing it

had been stolen from him during his trance.

“If I confess this strange visitation,” thought the Sub-Prior, “I become

the ridicule of all my brethren--I whom the Primate sent hither to be a

watch, as it were, and a check upon their follies. I give the Abbot an

advantage over me which I shall never again recover, and Heaven only

knows how he may abuse it, in his foolish simplicity, to the dishonour

and loss of Holy Kirk.--But then, if I make not true confession of

my shame, with what face can I again presume to admonish or restrain

others?--Avow, proud heart,” continued he, addressing himself, “that the

weal of Holy Church interests thee less in this matter than thine own

humiliation--Yes, Heaven has punished thee even in that point in which

thou didst deem thyself most strong, in thy spiritual pride and thy

carnal wisdom. Thou hast laughed at and derided the inexperience of thy

brethren--stoop thyself in turn to their derision--tell what they

may not believe--affirm that which they will ascribe to idle fear, or

perhaps to idle falsehood--sustain the disgrace of a silly visionary,

or a wilful deceiver.--Be it so, I will do my duty, and make ample

confession to my Superior. If the discharge of this duty destroys my

usefulness in this house, God and Our Lady will send me where I can

better serve them.”

There was no little merit in the resolution thus piously and generously

formed by Father Eustace. To men of any rank the esteem of their order

is naturally most dear; but in the monastic establishment, cut off, as

the brethren are, from other objects of ambition, as well as from all

exterior friendship and relationship, the place which they hold in the

opinion of each other is all in all.

But the consciousness how much he should rejoice the Abbot and most of

the other monks of Saint Mary's, who were impatient of the unauthorized,

yet irresistible control, which he was wont to exercise in the affairs

of the convent, by a confession which would put him in a ludicrous, or

perhaps even in a criminal point of view, could not weigh with Father

Eustace in comparison with the task which his belief enjoined.

As, strong in his feelings of duty, he approached the exterior gate

of the Monastery, he was surprised to see torches gleaming, and men

assembled around it, some on horseback, some on foot, while several of

the monks, distinguished through the night by their white scapularies,

were making themselves busy among the crowd. The Sub-Prior was received

with a unanimous shout of joy, which at once made him sensible that he

had himself been the object of their anxiety.

“There he is! there he is! God be thanked--there he is, hale and

fear!” exclaimed the vassals; while the monks exclaimed, “_Te Deum

laudamus_--the blood of thy servants is precious in thy sight!”

“What is the matter, children? what is the matter, my brethren?” said

Father Eustace, dismounting at the gate.

“Nay, brother, if thou know'st not, we will not tell thee till thou art

in the refectory,” answered the monks; “suffice it that the Lord Abbot

had ordered these, our zealous and faithful vassals, instantly to set

forth to guard thee from imminent peril--Ye may ungirth your horses,

children, and dismiss; and to-morrow, each who was at this rendezvous

may send to the convent kitchen for a quarter of a yard of roast beef,

and a black-jack full of double ale.” [Footnote: It was one of the few

reminiscences of Old Parr, or Henry Jenkins, I forget which, that, at

some convent in the veteran's neighbourhood, the community, before the

dissolution, used to dole out roast-beef in the measure of feet and

yards.]

The vassals dispersed with joyful acclamation, and the monks, with equal

jubilee, conducted the Sub-Prior into the refectory.

Chapter the Tenth.

Here we stand--

Woundless and well, may Heaven's high name be bless'd for't!

As erst, ere treason couch'd a lance against us.

Decker.

No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refectory by his rejoicing

companions, than the first person on whom he fixed his eye proved to be

Christie of the Clinthill. He was seated in the chimney-corner, fettered

and guarded, his features drawn into that air of sulky and turbid

resolution with which those hardened in guilt are accustomed to view the

approach of punishment. But as the Sub-Prior drew near to him, his face

assumed a more wild and startled expression, while he exclaimed--“The

devil! the devil himself, brings the dead back upon the living.”

“Nay,” said a monk to him, “say rather that Our Lady foils the attempts

of the wicked on her faithful servants--our dear brother lives and

moves.”

“Lives and moves!” said the ruffian, rising and shuffling towards the

Sub-Prior as well as his chains would permit; “nay, then, I will never

trust ashen shaft and steel point more--It is even so,” he added, as he

gazed on the Sub-Prior with astonishment; “neither wem nor wound--not as

much as a rent in his frock!”

“And whence should my wound have come?” said Father Eustace.

“From the good lance that never failed me before,” replied Christie of

the Clinthill.

“Heaven absolve thee for thy purpose!” said the Sub-Prior; “wouldst thou

have slain a servant of the altar?”

“To choose!” answered Christie; “the Fifemen say, an the whole pack of

ye were slain, there were more lost at Flodden.”

“Villain! art thou heretic as well as murderer?”

“Not I, by Saint Giles,” replied the rider; “I listened blithely enough

to the Laird of Monance, when he told me ye were all cheats and knaves;

but when he would have had me go hear one Wiseheart, a gospeller as they

call him, he might as well have persuaded the wild colt that had flung

one rider to kneel down and help another into the saddle.”

“There is some goodness about him yet,” said the Sacristan to the Abbot,

who at that moment entered--“He refused to hear a heretic preacher.”

“The better for him in the next world,” answered the Abbot. “Prepare for

death, my son,--we deliver thee over to the secular arm of our bailie,

for execution on the Gallow-hill by peep of light.”

“Amen!” said the ruffian; “'tis the end I must have come by sooner or

later--and what care I whether I feed the crows at Saint Mary's or at

Carlisle?”

“Let me implore your reverend patience for an instant,” said the

Sub-Prior; “until I shall inquire--”

“What!” exclaimed the Abbot, observing him for the first time--“Our dear

brother restored to us when his life was unhoped for!--nay, kneel not

to a sinner like me--stand up--thou hast my blessing. When this villain

came to the gate, accused by his own evil conscience, and crying out

he had murdered thee, I thought that the pillar of our main aisle had

fallen--no more shall a life so precious be exposed to such risks as

occur in this border country; no longer shall one beloved and rescued

of Heaven hold so low a station in the church as that of a poor

Sub-Prior--I will write by express to the Primate for thy speedy removal

and advancement.”

“Nay, but let me understand,” said the Sub-Prior; “did this soldier say

he had slain me?”

“That he had transfixed you,” answered the Abbot, “in full career with

his lance--but it seems he had taken an indifferent aim. But no sooner

didst thou fall to the ground mortally gored, as he deemed, with his

weapon, than our blessed Patroness appeared to him, as he averred--”

“I averred no such thing,” said the prisoner; “I said a woman in white

interrupted me, as I was about to examine the priest's cassock, for they

are usually well lined--she had a bulrush in her hand, with one touch

of which she struck me from my horse, as I might strike down a child of

four years old with an iron mace--and then, like a singing fiend as she

was, she sung to me.

'Thank the holly-bush

That nods on thy brow;

Or with this slender rush

I had strangled thee now.'

I gathered myself up with fear and difficulty, threw myself on my horse,

and came hither like a fool to get myself hanged for a rogue.”

“Thou seest, honoured brother,” said the Abbot to the Sub-Prior, “in

what favour thou art with our blessed Patroness, that she herself

becomes the guardian of thy paths--Not since the days of our blessed

founder hath she shown such grace to any one. All unworthy were we to

hold spiritual superiority over thee, and we pray thee to prepare for

thy speedy removal to Aberbrothwick.”

“Alas! my lord and father,” said the Sub-Prior, “your words pierce my

very soul. Under the seal of confession will I presently tell thee why

I conceive myself rather the baffled sport of a spirit of another sort,

than the protected favourite of the heavenly powers. But first let me

ask this unhappy man a question or two.”

“Do as ye list,” replied the Abbot--“but you shall not convince me that

it is fitting you remain in this inferior office in the convent of Saint

Mary.”

“I would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, “for what purpose

he nourished the thought of putting to death one who never did him

evil?”

“Ay! but thou didst menace me with evil,” said the ruffian, “and no

one but a fool is menaced twice. Dost thou not remember what you said

touching the Primate and Lord James, and the black pool of Jedwood?

Didst thou think me fool enough to wait till thou hadst betrayed me to

the sack and the fork! There were small wisdom in that, methinks--as

little as in coming hither to tell my own misdeeds--I think the devil

was in me when I took this road--I might have remembered the proverb,

'Never Friar forgot feud.'”

“And it was solely for that--for that only hasty word of mine, uttered

in a moment of impatience, and forgotten ere it was well spoken?” said

Father Eustace.

“Ay! for that, and--for the love of thy gold crucifix,” said Christie of

the Clinthill.

“Gracious Heaven! and could the yellow metal--the glittering earth--so

far overcome every sense of what is thereby represented?--Father Abbot,

I pray, as a dear boon, you will deliver this guilty person to my

mercy.”

“Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, “to your doom, if you will,

not to your mercy--Remember, we are not all equally favoured by our

blessed Lady, nor is it likely that every frock in the Convent will

serve as a coat of proof when a lance is couched against it.”

“For that very reason,” said the Sub-Prior, “I would not that for my

worthless self the community were to fall at feud with Julian of Avenel,

this man's master.”

“Our Lady forbid!” said the Sacristan, “he is a second Julian the

Apostate.”

“With our reverend father the Abbot's permission, then,” said Father

Eustace, “I desire this man be freed from his chains, and suffered to

depart uninjured;--and here, friend,” he added, giving him the golden

crucifix, “is the image for which thou wert willing to stain thy hands

with murder. View it well, and may it inspire thee with other and better

thoughts than those which referred to it as a piece of bullion! Part

with it, nevertheless, if thy necessities require, and get thee one

of such coarse substance that Mammon shall have no share in any of the

reflections to which it gives rise. It was the bequest of a dear friend

to me; but dearer service can it never do than that of winning a soul to

Heaven.”

The Borderer, now freed from his chains, stood gazing alternately on

the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix. “By Saint Giles,” said he,

“I understand ye not!--An ye give me gold for couching my lance at thee,

what would you give me to level it at a heretic?”

“The Church,” said the Sub-Prior, “will try the effect of her spiritual

censures to bring these stray sheep into the fold, ere she employ the

edge of the sword of Saint Peter.”

“Ay, but,” said the ruffian, “they say the Primate recommends a little

strangling and burning in aid of both censure and of sword. But fare ye

weel, I owe you a life, and it may be I will not forget my debt.”

The bailie now came bustling in, dressed in his blue coat and

bandaliers, and attended by two or three halberdiers. “I have been a

thought too late in waiting upon your reverend lordship. I am grown

somewhat fatter since the field of Pinkie, and my leathern coat slips

not on so soon as it was wont; but the dungeon is ready, and though, as

I said, I have been somewhat late--”

Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the officer's nose, to

his great amazement.

“You have been indeed somewhat late, bailie,” said he, “and I am greatly

obligated to your buff-coat, and to the time you took to put it on. If

the secular arm had arrived some quarter of an hour sooner, I had been

out of the reach of spiritual grace; but as it is, I wish you good even,

and a safe riddance out of your garment of durance, in which you have

much the air of a hog in armour.”

Wroth was the bailie at this comparison, and exclaimed in ire--“An it

were not for the presence of the venerable Lord Abbot, thou knave--”

“Nay, an thou wouldst try conclusions,” said Christie of the Clinthill,

“I will meet thee at day-break by Saint Mary's Well.”

“Hardened wretch!” said Father Eustace, “art thou but this instant

delivered from death, and dost thou so soon morse thoughts of

slaughter?”

“I will meet with thee ere it be long, thou knave,” said the bailie,

“and teach thee thine Oremus.”

“I will meet thy cattle in a moonlight night before that day,” said he

of the Clinthill.

“I will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou strong thief,”

answered the secular officer of the Church.

“Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” retorted Christie;

“and if the worms were once feasting on that fat carcass of thine I

might well hope to have thine office, by favour of these reverend men.”

“A cast of their office, and a cast of mine,” answered the bailie; “a

cord and a confessor, that is all thou wilt have from us.”

“Sirs,” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren began to take

more interest than was exactly decorous in this wrangling betwixt

justice and iniquity, “I pray you both to depart--Master Bailie,

retire with your halberdiers, and trouble not the man whom we have

dismissed.--And thou, Christie, or whatever be thy name, take thy

departure, and remember thou owest thy life to the Lord Abbot's

clemency.”

“Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “I judge that I owe it to your

own; but impute it to whom ye list, I owe a life among ye, and there is

an end.” And whistling as he went, he left the apartment, seeming as if

he held the life which he had forfeited not worthy further thanks.

“Obstinate even to brutality!” said Father Eustace; “and yet who knows

but some better ore may lie under so rude an exterior?”

“Save a thief from the gallows,” said the Sacristan--“you know the rest

of the proverb; and admitting, as may Heaven grant, that our lives and

limbs are safe from this outrageous knave, who shall insure our meal and

our malt, our herds and our flocks?”

“Marry, that will I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. “Ah, brethren, you

little know what may be made of a repentant robber. In Abbot Ingilram's

days--ay, and I remember them as it were yesterday--the freebooters were

the best welcome men that came to Saint Mary's. Ay, they paid tithe of

every drove that they brought over from the South, and because they

were something lightly come by, I have known them make the tithe a

seventh--that is, if their confessor knew his business--ay, when we saw

from the tower a score of fat bullocks, or a drove of sheep, coming down

the valley, with two or three stout men-at-arms behind them with their

glittering steel caps, and their black-jacks, and their long lances, the

good Lord Abbot Ingilram was wont to say--he was a merry man--there come

the tithes of the spoilers of the Egyptians! Ay, and I have seen the

famous John the Armstrang--a fair man he was and a goodly, the more

pity that hemp was ever heckled for him--I have seen him come into the

Abbey-church with nine tassels of gold in his bonnet, and every tassel

made of nine English nobles, and he would go from chapel to chapel, and

from image to image, and from altar to altar, on his knees--and leave

here a tassel, and there a noble, till there was as little gold on his

bonnet as on my hood--you will find no such Border thieves now!”

“No, truly, Brother Nicolas,” answered the Abbot; “they are more apt to

take any gold the Church has left, than to bequeath or bestow any--and

for cattle, beshrew me if I think they care whether beeves have fed on

the meadows of Lanercost Abbey or of Saint Mary's!”

“There is no good thing left in them,” said Father Nicolas; “they are

clean naught--Ah, the thieves that I have seen!--such proper men! and as

pitiful as proper, and as pious as pitiful!”

“It skills not talking of it, Brother Nicolas,” said the Abbot; “and I

will now dismiss you, my brethren, holding your meeting upon this our

inquisition concerning the danger of our reverend Sub-Prior, instead of

the attendance on the lauds this evening--Yet let the bells be duly rung

for the edification of the laymen without, and also that the novices may

give due reverence.--And now, benedicite, brethren! The cellarer will

bestow on each a grace-cup and a morsel as ye pass the buttery, for ye

have been turmoiled and anxious, and dangerous it is to fall asleep in

such case with empty stomach.”

“_Gratias agimus quam maximas, Domine reverendissime_,” replied the

brethren, departing in their due order.

But the Sub-Prior remained behind, and falling on his knees before the

Abbot, as he was about to withdraw, craved him to hear under the seal

of confession the adventures of the day. The reverend Lord Abbot yawned,

and would have alleged fatigue; but to Father Eustace, of all men,

he was ashamed to show indifference in his religious duties. The

confession, therefore, proceeded, in which Father Eustace told all the

extraordinary circumstances which had befallen him during the journey.

And being questioned by the Abbot, whether he was not conscious of any

secret sin, through which he might have been subjected for a time to the

delusions of evil spirits, the Sub-Prior admitted, with frank avowal,

that he thought he might have deserved such penance for having judged

with unfraternal rigour of the report of Father Philip the Sacristan.

“Heaven,” said the penitent, “may have been willing to convince me, not

only that he can at pleasure open a communication betwixt us and beings

of a different, and, as we word it, supernatural class, but also to

punish our pride of superior wisdom, or superior courage, or superior

learning.”

It is well said that virtue is its own reward; and I question if duty

was ever more completely recompensed, than by the audience which

the reverend Abbot so unwillingly yielded to the confession of the

Sub-Prior. To find the object of his fear shall we say, or of his envy,

or of both, accusing himself of the very error with which he had so

tacitly charged him, was a corroboration of the Abbot's judgment,

a soothing of his pride, and an allaying of his fears. The sense

of triumph, however, rather increased than diminished his natural

good-humour; and so far was Abbot Boniface from being disposed to

tyrannize over his Sub-Prior in consequence of this discovery, that

in his exhortation he hovered somewhat ludicrously betwixt the natural

expression of his own gratified vanity, and his timid reluctance to hurt

the feelings of Father Eustace.

“My brother,” said he, _ex cathedra_, “it cannot have escaped your

judicious observation, that we have often declined our own judgment

in favour of your opinion, even about those matters which most nearly

concerned the community. Nevertheless, grieved would we be, could you

think that we did this, either because we deemed our own opinion less

pregnant, or our wit more shallow, than that of our brethren. For it

was done exclusively to give our younger brethren, such as your much

esteemed self, my dearest brother, that courage which is necessary to a

free deliverance of your opinion,--we ofttimes setting apart our proper

judgment, that our inferiors, and especially our dear brother the

Sub-Prior, may be comforted and encouraged in proposing valiantly his

own thoughts. Which our deference and humility may, in some sort, have

produced in your mind, most reverend brother, that self-opinion of parts

and knowledge, which hath led unfortunately to your over-estimating your

own faculties, and thereby subjecting yourself, as is but too visible,

to the japes and mockeries of evil spirits. For it is assured that

Heaven always holdeth us in the least esteem when we deem of ourselves

most highly, and also, on the other hand, it may be that we have

somewhat departed from what became our high seat in this Abbey, in

suffering ourselves to be too much guided, and even, as it were,

controlled, by the voice of our inferior. Wherefore,” continued the

Lord Abbot, “in both of us such faults shall and must be amended--you

hereafter presuming less upon your gifts and carnal wisdom, and I taking

heed not so easily to relinquish mine own opinion for that of one

lower in place and in office. Nevertheless, we would not that we should

thereby lose the high advantage which we have derived, and may yet

derive, from your wise counsels, which hath been so often recommended to

us by our most reverend Primate. Wherefore, on affairs of high moment,

we will call you to our presence in private, and listen to your opinion,

which, if it shall agree with our own, we will deliver to the Chapter

as emanating directly from ourselves; thus sparing you, dearest brother,

that seeming victory which is so apt to engender spiritual pride, and

avoiding ourselves the temptation of falling into that modest facility

of opinion, whereby our office is lessened and our person (were that of

consequence) rendered less important in the eyes of the community over

which we preside.”

Notwithstanding the high notions which, as a rigid Catholic, Father

Eustace entertained of the sacrament of confession, as his Church calls

it, there was some danger that a sense of the ridiculous might have

stolen on him, when he heard his Superior, with such simple cunning,

lay out a little plan for availing himself of the Sub-Prior's wisdom and

experience, while he should take the whole credit to himself. Yet his

conscience immediately told him he was right.

“I should have thought more,” he reflected, “of the spiritual Superior,

and less of the individual. I should have spread my mantle over the

frailties of my spiritual father, and done what I might to support his

character, and, of course, to extend his utility among the brethren, as

well as with others. The Abbot cannot be humbled, but what the community

must be humbled in his person. Her boast is, that over all her children,

especially over those called to places of distinction, she can diffuse

those gifts which are necessary to render them illustrious.”

Actuated by these sentiments, Father Eustace frankly assented to the

charge which his Superior, even in that moment of authority, had rather

intimated than made, and signified his humble acquiescence in any mode

of communicating his counsel which might be most agreeable to the Lord

Abbot, and might best remove from himself all temptation to glory in

his own wisdom. He then prayed the reverend Father to assign him such

penance as might best suit his offence, intimating, at the same time,

that he had already fasted the whole day.

“And it is that I complain of,” answered the Abbot, instead of giving

him credit for his abstinence; “it is these very penances, fasts, and

vigils, of which we complain; as tending only to generate airs and fumes

of vanity, which, ascending from the stomach into the head, do but puff

us up with vain-glory and self-opinion. It is meet and beseeming

that novices should undergo fasts and vigils; for some part of every

community must fast, and young stomachs may best endure it. Besides, in

them it abates wicked thoughts, and the desire of worldly delights. But,

reverend brother, for those to fast who are dead and mortified to the

world, as I and thou, is work of supererogation, and is but the matter

of spiritual pride. Wherefore, I enjoin thee, most reverend brother, go

to the buttery and drink two cups at least of good wine, eating withal a

comfortable morsel, such as may best suit thy taste and stomach. And

in respect that thine opinion of thy own wisdom hath at times made thee

less conformable to, and companionable with, the weaker and less learned

brethren, I enjoin thee, during the said repast, to choose for thy

companion, our reverend brother Nicolas, and without interruption or

impatience, to listen for a stricken hour to his narration, concerning

those things which befel in the times of our venerable predecessor,

Abbot Ingilram, on whose soul may Heaven have mercy! And for such holy

exercises as may farther advantage your soul, and expiate the faults

whereof you have contritely and humbly avowed yourself guilty, we

will ponder upon that matter, and announce our will unto you the next

morning.”

It was remarkable, that after this memorable evening, the feelings of

the worthy Abbot towards his adviser were much more kindly and friendly

than when he deemed the Sub-Prior the impeccable and infallible person,

in whose garment of virtue and wisdom no flaw was to be discerned. It

seemed as if this avowal of his own imperfections had recommended Father

Eustace to the friendship of the Superior, although at the same time

this increase of benevolence was attended with some circumstances,

which, to a man of the Sub-Prior's natural elevation of mind and temper,

were more grievous than even undergoing the legends of the dull and

verbose Father Nicolas. For instance, the Abbot seldom mentioned him to

the other monks, without designing him our beloved Brother Eustace, poor

man!--and now and then he used to warn the younger brethren against the

snares of vainglory and spiritual pride, which Satan sets for the more

rigidly righteous, with such looks and demonstrations as did all but

expressly designate the Sub-Prior as one who had fallen at one time

under such delusions. Upon these occasions, it required all the votive

obedience of a monk, all the philosophical discipline of the schools,

and all the patience of a Christian, to enable Father Eustace to

endure the pompous and patronizing parade of his honest, but somewhat

thick-headed Superior. He began himself to be desirous of leaving the

Monastery, or at least he manifestly declined to interfere with its

affairs, in that marked and authoritative manner, which he had at first

practised.

* * * * *

Chapter the Eleventh.

You call this education, do you not?

Why 'tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks

Before a shouting drover. The glad van

Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch

A passing morsel from the dewy greensward,

While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,

Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard

That cripples in the rear.

OLD PLAY.

Two or three years glided on, during which the storm of the approaching

alteration in church government became each day louder and more

perilous. Owing to the circumstances which we have intimated in the

end of the last chapter, the Sub-Prior Eustace appeared to have altered

considerably his habits of life. He afforded, on all extraordinary

occasions, to the Abbot, whether privately, or in the assembled Chapter,

the support of his wisdom and experience; but in his ordinary habits he

seemed now to live more for himself, and less for the community, than

had been his former practice.

He often absented himself for whole days from the convent; and as the

adventure of Glendearg dwelt deeply on his memory, he was repeatedly

induced to visit that lonely tower, and to take an interest in the

orphans who had their shelter under its roof. Besides, he felt a deep

anxiety to know whether the volume which he had lost, when so strangely

preserved from the lance of the murderer, had again found its way

back to the Tower of Glendearg. “It was strange,” he thought, “that a

spirit,” for such he could not help judging the being whose voice he had

heard, “should, on the one side, seek the advancement of heresy, and, on

the other, interpose to save the life of a zealous Catholic priest.”

But from no inquiry which he made of the various inhabitants of the

Tower of Glendearg could he learn that the copy of the translated

Scriptures, for which he made such diligent inquiry, had again been seen

by any of them.

In the meanwhile, the good father's occasional visits were of no

small consequence to Edward Glendinning and to Mary Avenel. The former

displayed a power of apprehending and retaining whatever was taught him,

which tilled Father Eustace with admiration. He was at once acute and

industrious, alert and accurate; one of those rare combinations of

talent and industry, which are seldom united.

It was the earnest desire of Father Eustace that the excellent qualities

thus early displayed by Edward should be dedicated to the service of

the Church, to which he thought the youth's own consent might be easily

obtained, as he was of a calm, contemplative, retired habit, and seemed

to consider knowledge as the principal object, and its enlargement as

the greatest pleasure, in life. As to the mother, the Sub-Prior had

little doubt that, trained as she was to view the monks of Saint

Mary's with such profound reverence, she would be but too happy in an

opportunity of enrolling one of her sons in its honoured community. But

the good Father proved to be mistaken in both these particulars.

When he spoke to Elspeth Glendinning of that which a mother best loves

to hear--the proficiency and abilities of her son--she listened with a

delighted ear. But when Father Eustace hinted at the duty of dedicating

to the service of the Church, talents which seemed fitted to defend and

adorn it, the dame endeavoured always to shift the subject; and when

pressed farther, enlarged on her own incapacity, as a lone woman, to

manage the feu; on the advantage which her neighbours of the township

were often taking of her unprotected state, and on the wish she had that

Edward might fill his father's place, remain in the tower, and close her

eyes.

On such occasions the Sub-Prior would answer, that even in a worldly

point of view the welfare of the family would be best consulted by one

of the sons entering into the community of Saint Mary's, as it was not

to be supposed that he would fail to afford his family the important

protection which he could then easily extend towards them. What could

be a more pleasing prospect than to see him high in honour? or what more

sweet than to have the last duties rendered to her by a son, reverend

for his holiness of life and exemplary manners? Besides, he endeavoured

to impress upon the dame, that her eldest son, Halbert, whose bold

temper and headstrong indulgence of a wandering humour, rendered him

incapable of learning, was, for that reason, as well as that he was her

eldest born, fittest to bustle through the affairs of the world, and

manage the little fief.

Elspeth durst not directly dissent from what was proposed, for fear of

giving displeasure, and yet she always had something to say against it.

Halbert, she said, was not like any of the neighbour boys--he was taller

by the head, and stronger by the half, than any boy of his years within

the Halidome. But he was fit for no peaceful work that could be devised.

If he liked a book ill, he liked a plough or a pattle worse. He had

scoured his father's old broadsword--suspended it by a belt round his

waist, and seldom stirred without it. He was a sweet boy and a gentle

if spoken fair, but cross him and he was a born devil. “In a word,” she

said, bursting into tears, “deprive me of Edward, good father, and ye

bereave my house of prop and pillar; for my heart tells me that Halbert

will take to his father's gates, and die his father's death.”

When the conversation came to this crisis, the good-humoured monk

was always content to drop the discussion for the time, trusting some

opportunity would occur of removing her prejudices, for such he thought

them, against Edward's proposed destination.

When, leaving the mother, the Sub-Prior addressed himself to the son,

animating his zeal for knowledge, and pointing out how amply it might

be gratified should he agree to take holy orders, he found the same

repugnance which Dame Elspeth had exhibited. Edward pleaded a want of

sufficient vocation to so serious a profession--his reluctance to

leave his mother, and other objections, which the Sub-Prior treated as

evasive.

“I plainly perceive,” he said one day, in answer to them, “that the

devil has his factors as well as Heaven, and that they are equally, or,

alas! the former are perhaps more active, in bespeaking for their master

the first of the market. I trust, young man, that neither idleness, nor

licentious pleasure, nor the love of worldly gain and worldly grandeur,

the chief baits with which the great Fisher of souls conceals his hook,

are the causes of your declining the career to which I would incite you.

But above all I trust--above all I hope--that the vanity of superior

knowledge--a sin with which those who have made proficiency in learning

are most frequently beset--has not led you into the awful hazard of

listening to the dangerous doctrines which are now afloat concerning

religion. Better for you that you were as grossly ignorant as the beasts

which perish, that that the pride of knowledge should induce you to lend

an ear to the voice of heretics.” Edward Glendinning listened to the

rebuke with a downcast look, and failed not, when it was concluded,

earnestly to vindicate himself from the charge of having pushed his

studies into any subjects which the Church inhibited; and so the monk

was left to form vain conjectures respecting the cause of his reluctance

to embrace the monastic state.

It is an old proverb, used by Chaucer, and quoted by Elizabeth, that

“the greatest clerks are not the wisest men;” and it is as true as if

the poet had not rhymed, or the queen reasoned on it. If Father Eustace

had not had his thoughts turned so much to the progress of heresy, and

so little to what was passing in the tower, he might have read, in the

speaking eyes of Mary Avenel, now a girl of fourteen or fifteen, reasons

which might disincline her youthful companion towards the monastic vows.

I have said, that she also was a promising pupil of the good father,

upon whom her innocent and infantine beauty had an effect of which he

was himself, perhaps, unconscious. Her rank and expectations entitled

her to be taught the arts of reading and writing;--and each lesson which

the monk assigned her was conned over in company with Edward, and by

him explained and re-explained, and again illustrated, until she became

perfectly mistress of it.

In the beginning of their studies, Halbert had been their school

companion. But the boldness and impatience of his disposition soon

quarrelled with an occupation in which, without assiduity and unremitted

attention, no progress was to be expected. The Sub-Prior's visits were

at regular intervals, and often weeks would intervene between them, in

which case Halbert was sure to forget all that had been prescribed

for him to learn, and much which he had partly acquired before. His

deficiencies on these occasions gave him pain, but it was not of that

sort which produces amendment.

For a time, like all who are fond of idleness, he endeavoured to detach

the attention of his brother and Mary Avenel from their task, rather

than to learn his own, and such dialogues as the following would ensue:

“Take your bonnet, Edward, and make haste--the Laird of Colmslie is at

the head of the glen with his hounds.”

“I care not, Halbert,” answered the younger brother; “two brace of dogs

may kill a deer without my being there to see them, and I must help Mary

Avenel with her lesson.”

“Ay! you will labour at the monk's lessons till you turn monk yourself,”

answered Halbert.--“Mary, will you go with me, and I will show you the

cushat's nest I told you of?”

“I cannot go with you, Halbert,” answered Mary, “because I must study

this lesson--it will take me long to learn it--I am sorry I am so dull,

for if I could get my task as fast as Edward, I should like to go with

you.”

“Should you indeed?” said Halbert; “then I will wait for you--and, what

is more, I will try to get my lesson also.”

With a smile and a sigh he took up the primer, and began heavily to

con over the task which had been assigned him. As if banished from the

society of the two others, he sat sad and solitary in one of the deep

window-recesses, and after in vain struggling with the difficulties

of his task, and his disinclination to learn it, he found himself

involuntarily engaged in watching the movements of the other two

students, instead of toiling any longer.

The picture which Halbert looked upon was delightful in itself, but

somehow or other it afforded very little pleasure to him. The

beautiful girl, with looks of simple, yet earnest anxiety, was bent

on disentangling those intricacies which obstructed her progress to

knowledge, and looking ever and anon to Edward for assistance, while,

seated close by her side, and watchful to remove every obstacle from her

way, he seemed at once to be proud of the progress which his pupil made,

and of the assistance which he was able to render her. There was a bond

betwixt them, a strong and interesting tie, the desire of obtaining

knowledge, the pride of surmounting difficulties.

Feeling most acutely, yet ignorant of the nature and source of his own

emotions, Halbert could no longer endure to look upon this quiet scene,

but, starting up, dashed his book from him, and exclaimed aloud, “To the

fiend I bequeath all books, and the dreamers that make them!--I would

a score of Southrons would come up the glen, and we should learn how

little all this muttering and scribbling is worth.”

Mary Avenol and his brother started, and looked at Halbert with

surprise, while he went on with great animation, his features swelling,

and the tears starting into his eyes as he spoke.--“Yes, Mary--I wish

a score of Southrons came up the glen this very day; and you should see

one good hand, and one good sword, do more to protect you, than all

the books that were ever opened, and all the pens that ever grew on a

goose's wing.”

Mary looked a little surprised and a little frightened at his vehemence,

but instantly replied affectionately, “You are vexed, Halbert, because

you do not get your lesson so fast as Edward can; and so am I, for I am

as stupid as you--But come, and Edward shall sit betwixt us and teach

us.”

“He shall not teach _me_,” said Halbert, in the same angry mood; “I

never can teach _him_ to do any thing that is honourable and manly, and

he shall not teach _me_ any of his monkish tricks.--I hate the monks,

with their drawling nasal tone like so many frogs, and their long

black petticoats like so many women, and their reverences, and their

lordships, and their lazy vassals that do nothing but peddle in the mire

with plough and harrow from Yule to Michaelmas. I will call none lord,

but him who wears a sword to make his title good; and I will call none

man, but he that can bear himself manlike and masterful.”

“For Heaven's sake, peace, brother!” said Edward; “if such words were

taken up and reported out of the house, they would be our mother's

ruin.”

“Report them yourself, then, and they will be _your_ making, and

nobody's marring save mine own. Say that Halbert Glendinning will never

be vassal to an old man with a cowl and shaven crown, while there are

twenty barons who wear casque and plume that lack bold followers. Let

them grant you these wretched acres, and much meal may they bear you to

make your _brachan_.” He left the room hastily, but instantly returned,

and continued to speak with the same tone of quick and irritated

feeling. “And you need not think so much, neither of you, and especially

you, Edward, need not think so much of your parchment book there, and

your cunning in reading it. By my faith, I will soon learn to read as

well as you; and--for I know a better teacher than your grim old

monk, and a better book than his printed breviary; and since you like

scholarcraft so well, Mary Avenel, you shall see whether Edward or I

have most of it.” He left the apartment, and came not again.

“What can be the matter with him?” said Mary, following Halbert with her

eyes from the window, as with hasty and unequal steps he ran up the

wild glen--“Where can your brother be going, Edward?--what book?--what

teacher does he talk of?”

“It avails not guessing,” said Edward. “Halbert is angry, he knows not

why, and speaks of he knows not what; let us go again to our lessons,

and he will come home when he has tired himself with scrambling among

the crags as usual.”

But Mary's anxiety on account of Halbert seemed more deeply rooted.

She declined prosecuting the task in which they had been so pleasingly

engaged, under the excuse of a headache; nor could Edward prevail upon

her to resume it again that morning.

Meanwhile Halbert, his head unbonneted, his features swelled with

jealous anger, and the tear still in his eye, sped up the wild and upper

extremity of the little valley of Glendearg with the speed of a roebuck,

choosing, as if in desperate defiance of the difficulties of the way,

the wildest and most dangerous paths, and voluntarily exposing himself a

hundred times to dangers which he might have escaped by turning a little

aside from them. It seemed as if he wished his course to be as straight

as that of the arrow to its mark.

He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded _cleuch_, or deep ravine,

which ran down into the valley, and contributed a scanty rivulet to the

supply of the brook with which Glendearg is watered. Up this he sped

with the same precipitate haste which had marked his departure from

the tower, nor did he pause and look around until he had reached the

fountain from which the rivulet had its rise.

Here Halbert stopt short, and cast a gloomy, and almost a frightened

glance around him. A huge rock rose in front, from a cleft of which grew

a wild holly-tree, whose dark green branches rustled over the spring

which arose beneath. The banks on either hand rose so high, and

approached each other so closely, that it was only when the sun was at

its meridian height, and during the summer solstice, that its rays could

reach the bottom of the chasm in which he stood. But it was now summer,

and the hour was noon, so that the unwonted reflection of the sun was

dancing in the pellucid fountain.

“It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to himself; “and now I--I

might soon become wiser than Edward with all his pains! Mary should see

whether he alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and

hang over her as she reads, and point out every word and every letter.

And she loves me better than him--I am sure she does--for she comes of

noble blood, and scorns sloth and cowardice.--And do I myself not stand

here slothful and cowardly as any priest of them all?--Why should I fear

to call upon this form--this shape?--Already have I endured the vision,

and why not again? What can it do to me, who am a man of lith and limb,

and have by my side my father's sword? Does my heart beat--do my hairs

bristle, at the thought of calling up a painted shadow, and how should

I face a band of Southrons in flesh and blood? By the soul of the first

Glendinning, I will make proof of the charm!”

He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right foot, planted

himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his sword, and first looking

around to collect his resolution, he bowed three times deliberately

towards the holly-tree, and as often to the little fountain, repeating

at the same time, with a determined voice, the following rhyme:

“Thrice to the holly brake--

Thrice to the well:--

I bid thee awake,

White Maid of Avenel!

“Noon gleams on the Lake--

Noon glows on the Fell--

Wake thee, O wake,

White Maid of Avenel!”

These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the figure of a female

clothed in white, within three steps of Halbert Glendinning.

“I guess'twas frightful there to see

A lady richly clad as she--

Beautiful exceedingly.” [Footnote: Coleridge's Christabelle.]

* * * * *

Chapter the Twelfth.

There's something in that ancient superstition,

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.

The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles,

Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock

In secret solitude, may well be deem'd

The haunt of something purer, more refined,

And mightier than ourselves.

OLD PLAY.

Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced the mystical rhymes,

than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter, an

appearance, as of a beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two

yards of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural courage, as

well as the strong resolution which he had formed, that the figure which

he had now twice seen should not a third time daunt him. But it would

seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and blood, in

the consciousness that we stand in presence of a being in form like to

ourselves, but so different in faculties and nature, that we can neither

understand its purposes, nor calculate its means of pursuing them.

Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs erecting

themselves on his head---his mouth open--his eyes fixed, and, as the

sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose, his sword pointed

towards the apparition. At length with a voice of ineffable sweetness,

the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this being, sung,

or rather chanted, the following lines:--

“Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?

He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing!

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.

The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground,

The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.”

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way to his

resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a faltering

accent, “In the name of God, what art thou?” The answer was in melody of

a different tone and measure:--

“What I am I must not show--

What I am thou couldst not know--

Something betwixt heaven and hell--

Something that neither stood nor fell--

Something that through thy wit or will

May work thee good--may work thee ill.

Neither substance quite nor shadow,

Haunting lonely moor and meadow,

Dancing; by the haunted spring,

Riding on the whirlwind's wing;

Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,

While o'er our frozen minds they pass,

Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.

Wayward, fickle is our mood,

Hovering betwixt bad and good,

Happier than brief-dated man,

Living twenty times his span;

Far less happy, for we have

Help nor hope beyond the grave!

Man awakes to joy or sorrow;

Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.

This is all that I can show--

This is all that thou mayest know.”

The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an answer; but, as Halbert

hesitated how to frame his speech, the vision seemed gradually to fade,

and became more and more incorporeal. Justly guessing this to be a

symptom of her disappearance, Halbert compelled himself to say,--“Lady,

when I saw you in the glen, and when you brought back the black book of

Mary Avenel, thou didst say I should one day learn to read it.”

The White Lady replied,

“Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell,

To waken me here by the Fairies' Well,

But thou hast loved the heron and hawk,

More than to seek my haunted walk;

And thou hast loved the lance and the sword,

More than good text and holy word;

And thou hast loved the deer to track,

More than the lines and the letters black;

And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood,

And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.”

“I will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert; “I desire to learn;

and thou didst promise me, that when I did so desire, thou wouldst be

my helper; I am no longer afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer

regardless of instruction.” As he uttered these words, the figure of

the White Maiden grew gradually as distinct as it had been at first;

and what had well-nigh faded into an ill-defined and colourless shadow,

again assumed an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although

the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure less distinct

and defined--so at least it seemed to Halbert--than those of an ordinary

inhabitant of earth. “Wilt thou grant my request,” he said, “fair Lady,

and give to my keeping the holy book which Mary of Avenel has so often

wept for?”

The White Lady replied:

“Thy craven fear my truth accused,

Thine idlehood my trust abused;

He that draws to harbour late,

Must sleep without, or burst the gate.

There is a star for thee which burn'd.

Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd;

Valour and constancy alone

Can bring thee back the chance that's flown.”

“If I have been a loiterer, Lady,” answered young Glendinning, “thou

shalt now find me willing to press forward with double speed. Other

thoughts have filled my mind, other thoughts have engaged my heart,

within a brief period--and by Heaven, other occupations shall

henceforward fill up my time. I have lived in this day the space of

years--I came hither a boy--I will return a man--a man, such as may

converse not only with his own kind, but with whatever God permits to be

visible to him. I will learn the contents of that mysterious volume--I

will learn why the Lady of Avenel loved it--why the priests feared,

and would have stolen it--why thou didst twice recover it from their

hands.--What mystery is wrapt in it?--Speak, I conjure thee!” The lady

assumed an air peculiarly sad and solemn, as drooping her head, and

folding her arms on her bosom, she replied:

“Within that awful volume lies

The mystery of mysteries!

Happiest they of human race,

To whom God has granted grace

To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,

To lift the latch, and force the way;

And better had they ne'er been born,

Who read, to doubt, or read to scorn.”

“Give me the volume, Lady,” said young Glendinning. “They call me

idle--they call me dull--in this pursuit my industry shall not fail,

nor, with God's blessing, shall my understanding. Give me the volume.”

The apparition again replied:

“Many a fathom dark and deep

I have laid the book to sleep;

Ethereal fires around it glowing--

Ethereal music ever flowing--

The sacred pledge of Heav'n

All things revere.

Each in his sphere,

Save man for whom 'twas giv'n:

Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy

Things ne'er seen by mortal eye.”

Halbert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to the White Lady.

“Fearest thou to go with me?” she said, as his hand trembled at the soft

and cold touch of her own--

“Fearest thou to go with me?

Still it is free to thee

A peasant to dwell:

Thou mayst drive the dull steer,

And chase the king's deer,

But never more come near

This haunted well.”

“If what thou sayest be true,” said the undaunted boy, “my destinies are

higher than thine own. There shall be neither well nor wood which I dare

not visit. No fear of aught, natural or supernatural, shall bar my path

through my native valley.”

He had scarce uttered the words, when they both descended through the

earth with a rapidity which took away Halbert's breath and every other

sensation, saving that of being hurried on with the utmost velocity. At

length they stopped with a shock so sudden, that the mortal journeyer

through this unknown space must have been thrown down with violence, had

he not been upheld by his supernatural companion.

It was more than a minute, ere, looking around him, he beheld a grotto,

or natural cavern, composed of the most splendid spars and crystals,

which returned in a thousand prismatic hues the light of a brilliant

flame that glowed on an altar of alabaster. This altar, with its fire,

formed the central point of the grotto, which was of a round form,

and very high in the roof, resembling in some respects the dome of a

cathedral. Corresponding to the four points of the compass, there went

off four long galleries, or arcades, constructed of the same brilliant

materials with the dome itself, and the termination of which was lost in

darkness.

No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice to describe, the

glorious radiance which, shot fiercely forth by the flame, was returned

from so many hundred thousand points of reflection, afforded by the

sparry pillars and their numerous angular crystals. The fire itself did

not remain steady and unmoved, but rose and fell, sometimes ascending

in a brilliant pyramid of condensed flame half way up the lofty expanse,

and again fading into a softer and more rosy hue, and hovering, as it

were, on the surface of the altar to collect its strength for another

powerful exertion. There was no visible fuel by which it was fed, nor

did it emit either smoke or vapour of any kind.

What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume so often mentioned

lay not only unconsumed, but untouched in the slightest degree, amid

this intensity of fire, which, while it seemed to be of force sufficient

to melt adamant, had no effect whatever on the sacred book thus

subjected to its utmost influence.

The White Lady, having paused long enough to let young Glendinning take

a complete survey of what was around him, now said in her usual chant,

“Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought;

Touch it, and take it,--'twill dearly be bought!”

Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and desperately desirous of

showing the courage he had boasted, Halbert plunged his hand, without

hesitation, into the flame, trusting to the rapidity of the motion, to

snatch out the volume before the fire could greatly affect him. But he

was much disappointed. The flame instantly caught upon his sleeve, and

though he withdrew his hand immediately, yet his arm was so dreadfully

scorched, that he had well-nigh screamed with pain. He suppressed the

natural expression of anguish, however, and only intimated the agony

which he felt by a contortion and a muttered groan. The White Lady

passed her cold hand over his arm, and, ere she had finished the

following metrical chant, his pain had entirely gone, and no mark of the

scorching was visible:

“Rash thy deed,

Mortal weed

To immortal flames applying;

Rasher trust

Has thing of dust,

On his own weak worth relying:

Strip thee of such fences vain,

Strip, and prove thy luck, again.”

Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning of his conductress,

Halbert bared his arm to the shoulder, throwing down the remains of

his sleeve, which no sooner touched the floor on which he stood than

it collected itself together, shrivelled itself up, and was without

any visible fire reduced to light tinder, which a sudden breath of wind

dispersed into empty space. The White Lady, observing the surprise of

the youth, immediately repeated--

“Mortal warp and mortal woof.

Cannot brook this charmed roof;

All that mortal art hath wrought,

In our cell returns to nought.

The molten gold returns to clay,

The polish'd diamond melts away.

All is alter'd, all is flown,

Nought stands fast but truth alone.

Not for that thy quest give o'er:

Courage! prove thy chance once more.”

Imboldened by her words, Halbert Glendinning made a second effort, and,

plunging his bare arm into the flame, took out the sacred volume without

feeling either heat or inconvenience of any kind. Astonished, and almost

terrified at his own success, he beheld the flame collect itself, and

shoot up into one long and final stream, which seemed as if it would

ascend to the very roof of the cavern, and then, sinking as suddenly,

became totally extinguished. The deepest darkness ensued; but Halbert

had no time to consider his situation, for the White Lady had already

caught his hand, and they ascended to upper air with the same velocity

with which they had sunk into the earth.

They stood by the fountain in the Corri-nan-shian when they emerged from

the bowels of the earth; but on casting a bewildered glance around him,

the youth was surprised to observe, that the shadows had fallen far

to the east, and that the day was well-nigh spent. He gazed on his

conductress for explanation, but her figure began to fade before his

eyes--her cheeks grew paler, her features less distinct, her form became

shadowy, and blended itself with the mist which was ascending the hollow

ravine. What had late the symmetry of form, and the delicate, yet clear

hues of feminine beauty, now resembled the flitting and pale ghost of

some maiden who has died for love, as it is seen indistinctly and by

moonlight, by her perjured lover.

“Stay, spirit!” said the youth, imboldened by his success in the

subterranean dome, “thy kindness must not leave me, as one encumbered

with a weapon he knows not how to wield. Thou must teach me the art

to read, and to understand this volume; else what avails it me that I

possess it?”

But the figure of the White Lady still waned before his eye, until it

became an outline as pale and indistinct as that of the moon, when the

winter morning is far advanced, and ere she had ended the following

chant, she was entirely invisible:--

“Alas! alas!

Not ours the grace

These holy characters to trace:

Idle forms of painted air,

Not to us is given to share

The boon bestow'd on Adam's race!

With patience bide.

Heaven will provide

The fitting time, the fitting guide.”

The form was already gone, and now the voice itself had melted away in

melancholy cadence, softening, as if the Being who spoke had been slowly

wafted from the spot where she had commenced her melody.

It was at this moment that Halbert felt the extremity of the terror

which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. The very necessity of

exertion had given him spirit to make it, and the presence of the

mysterious Being, while it was a subject of fear in itself, had

nevertheless given him the sense of protection being near to him. It

was when he could reflect with composure on what had passed, that a cold

tremor shot across his limbs, his hair bristled, and he was afraid to

look around lest he should find at his elbow something more frightful

than the first vision. A breeze arising suddenly, realized the beautiful

and wild idea of the most imaginative of our modern bards [Footnote:

Coleridge.]--

It fann'd his cheek, it raised his hair,

Like a meadow pale in spring;

It mingled strangely with his fears,

Yet it fell like a welcoming.

The youth stood silent and astonished for a few minutes. It seemed to

him that the extraordinary Being he had seen, half his terror, half his

protectress, was still hovering on the gale which swept past him, and

that she might again make herself sensible to his organs of sight.

“Speak!” he said, wildly tossing his arms, “speak yet again--be once

more present, lovely vision!--thrice have I now seen thee, yet the

idea of thy invisible presence around or beside me, makes my heart beat

faster than if the earth yawned and gave up a demon.”

But neither sound nor appearance indicated the presence of the White

Lady, and nothing preternatural beyond what he had already witnessed,

was again audible or visible. Halbert, in the meanwhile, by the very

exertion of again inviting the presence of this mysterious Being, had

recovered his natural audacity. He looked around once more, and resumed

his solitary path down the valley into whose recesses he had penetrated.

Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the storm of passion with

which he had bounded over stock and crag, in order to plunge himself

into the Corri-nan-shian, and the sobered mood in which he now returned

homeward, industriously seeking out the most practicable path, not from

a wish to avoid danger, but that he might not by personal toil distract

his attention, deeply fixed on the extraordinary scene which he had

witnessed. In the former case, he had sought by hazard and bodily

exertion to indulge at once the fiery excitation of passion, and to

banish the cause of the excitement from his recollection; while now he

studiously avoided all interruption to his contemplative walk, lest the

difficulty of the way should interfere with, or disturb, his own deep

reflections. Thus slowly pacing forth his course, with the air of a

pilgrim rather than of a deer-hunter, Halbert about the close of the

evening regained his paternal tower.

Chapter the Thirteenth.

The Miller was of manly make,

To meet him was na mows;

There durst na ten come him to take,

Sae noited he their pows.

CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN.

It was after sunset, as we have already stated, when Halbert Glendinning

returned to the abode of his father. The hour of dinner was at noon, and

that of supper about an hour after sunset at this period of the year.

The former had passed without Halbert's appearing; but this was no

uncommon circumstance, for the chase, or any other pastime which

occurred, made Halbert a frequent neglecter of hours; and his mother,

though angry and disappointed when she saw him not at table, was so much

accustomed to his occasional absence, and knew so little how to teach

him more regularity, that a testy observation was almost all the censure

with which such omissions were visited.

On the present occasion, however, the wrath of good Dame Elspeth soared

higher than usual. It was not merely on account of the special tup's

head and trotters, the haggis and the side of mutton, with which her

table was set forth, but also because of the arrival of no less a person

than Hob Miller, as he was universally termed, though the man's name was

Happer.

The object of the Miller's visit to the Tower of Glendearg was like the

purpose of those embassies which potentates send to each other's courts,

partly ostensible, partly politic. In outward show, Hob came to visit

his friends of the Halidome, and share the festivity common among

country folk, after the barn-yard has been filled, and to renew old

intimacies by new conviviality. But in very truth he also came to have

an eye upon the contents of each stack, and to obtain such information

respecting the extent of the crop reaped and gathered in by each feuar,

as might prevent the possibility of _abstracted multures_.

All the world knows that the cultivators of each barony or regality,

temporal or spiritual, in Scotland, are obliged to bring their corn

to be grinded at the mill of the territory, for which they pay a heavy

charge, called the _intown multures_. I could speak to the thirlage

of _invecta et illata_ too, but let that pass. I have said enough

to intimate that I talk not without book. Those of the _Sucken_, or

enthralled ground, were liable in penalties, if, deviating from this

thirlage, (or thraldom,) they carried their grain to another mill. Now

such another mill, erected on the lands of a lay-baron, lay within a

tempting and convenient distance of Glendearg; and the Miller was so

obliging, and his charges so moderate, that it required Hob Miller's

utmost vigilance to prevent evasions of his right of monopoly.

The most effectual means he could devise was this show of good

fellowship and neighbourly friendship,--under colour of which he made

his annual cruise through the barony--numbered every corn-stack, and

computed its contents by the boll, so that he could give a shrewd hint

afterwards whether or not the grist came to the right mill.

Dame Elspeth, like her compeers, was obliged to take these domiciliary

visits in the sense of politeness; but in her case they had not occurred

since her husband's death, probably because the Tower of Glendearg was

distant, and there was but a trifling quantity of arable or _infield_

land attached to it. This year there had been, upon some speculation of

old Martin's, several bolls sown in the exit-field, which, the season

being fine, had ripened remarkably well. Perhaps this circumstance

occasioned the honest Miller's including Glendearg, on this occasion, in

his annual round Dame Glendinning received with pleasure a visit which

she used formerly only to endure with patience; and she had changed her

view of the matter chiefly, if not entirely, because Hob had brought

with him his daughter Mysie, of whose features she could give so slight

an account, but whose dress she had described so accurately to the

Sub-Prior.

Hitherto this girl had been an object of very trifling consideration in

the eyes of the good widow; but the Sub-Prior's particular and somewhat

mysterious inquiries had set her brains to work on the subject of Mysie

of the Mill; and she had here asked a broad question, and there she had

thrown out an innuendo, and there again she had gradually led on to a

conversation on the subject of poor Mysie. And from all inquiries

and investigations she had collected, that Mysie was a dark-eyed,

laughter-loving wench, with cherry-cheeks, and a skin as white as her

father's finest bolted flour, out of which was made the Abbot's own

wastel-bread. For her temper, she sung and laughed from morning to

night; and for her fortune, a material article, besides that which the

Miller might have amassed by means of his proverbial golden thumb, Mysie

was to inherit a good handsome lump of land, with a prospect of the mill

and mill-acres descending to her husband on an easy lease, if a fair

word were spoken in season to the Abbot, and to the Prior, and to the

Sub-Prior, and to the Sacristan, and so forth.

By turning and again turning these advantages over in her own mind,

Elspeth at length came to be of opinion, that the only way to save her

son Halbert from a life of “spur, spear, and snaffle,” as they called

that of the border-riders, from the dint of a cloth-yard shaft, or the

loop of an inch-cord, was, that he should marry and settle, and that

Mysie Happer should be his destined bride.

As if to her wish, Hob Miller arrived on his strong-built mare, bearing

on a pillion behind him the lovely Mysie, with cheeks like a peony-rose,

(if Dame Glendinning had ever seen one,) spirits all afloat with rustic

coquetry, and a profusion of hair as black as ebony. The _beau-ideal_

which Dame Glendinning had been bodying forth in her imagination, became

unexpectedly realized in the buxom form of Mysie Happer, whom, in the

course of half an hour, she settled upon as the maiden who was to fix

the restless and untutored Halbert. True, Mysie, as the dame soon saw,

was like to love dancing round a May-pole as well as managing a domestic

establishment, and Halbert was like to break more heads than he would

grind stacks of corn. But then a miller should always be of manly

make, and has been described so since the days of Chaucer and James I.

[Footnote: The verse we have chosen for a motto, is from a poem imputed

to James I. of Scotland. As for the Miller who figures among the

Canterbury pilgrims, besides his sword and buckler, he boasted other

attributes, all of which, but especially the last, show that he relied

more on the strength of the outside than that of the inside of his

skull.

The miller was a stout carl for the nones,

Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones;

That proved well, for wheresoe'r he cam,

At wrestling he wold bear away the ram;

He was short shoulder'd, broad, a thick gnar;

There n'as no door that he n'old heave of bar,

Or break it at a running with his head, &c. ]

Indeed, to be able to outdo and bully the whole _Sucken_, (once more we

use this barbarous phrase,) in all athletic exercises, was one way to

render easy the collection of dues which men would have disputed with a

less formidable champion. Then, as to the deficiencies of the miller's

wife, the dame was of opinion that they might be supplied by the

activity of the miller's mother. “I will keep house for the young folk

myself, for the tower is grown very lonely,” thought Dame Glendinning,

“and to live near the kirk will be mair comfortable in my auld age--and

then Edward may agree with his brother about the feu, more especially as

he is a favourite with the Sub-Prior, and then he may live in the auld

tower like his worthy father before him--and wha kens but Mary Avenel,

high-blood as she is, may e'en draw in her stool to the chimney-nook,

and sit down here for good and a'?--It's true she has no tocher, but the

like of her for beauty and sense ne'er crossed my een; and I have kend

every wench in the Halidome of St. Mary's--ay, and their mothers that

bore them--ay, she is a sweet and a lovely creature as ever tied snood

over brown hair--ay, and then, though her uncle keeps her out of her ain

for the present time, yet it is to be thought the gray-goose shaft will

find a hole in his coat of proof, as, God help us! it has done in many a

better man's--And, moreover, if they should stand on their pedigree and

gentle race, Edward might say to them, that is, to her gentle kith and

kin, 'whilk o' ye was her best friend, when she came down the glen to

Glendearg in a misty evening, on a beast mair like a cuddie than aught

else?'--And if they tax him with churl's blood, Edward might say, that,

forby the old proverb, how

Gentle deed

Makes gentle bleid;

yet, moreover, there comes no churl's blood from Glendinning or Brydone;

for, says Edward--”

The hoarse voice of the Miller at this moment recalled the dame from her

reverie, and compelled her to remember that if she meant to realize her

airy castle, she must begin by laying the foundation in civility to

her guest and his daughter, whom she was at that moment most strangely

neglecting, though her whole plan turned on conciliating their favour

and good opinion, and that, in fact, while arranging matters for

so intimate a union with her company, she was suffering them to sit

unnoticed, and in their riding gear, as if about to resume their

journey. “And so I say, dame,” concluded the Miller, (for she had not

marked the beginning of his speech,) “an ye be so busied with your

housekep, or ought else, why, Mysie and I will trot our way down the

glen again to Johnnie Broxmouth's, who pressed us right kindly to bide

with him.”

Starting at once from her dream of marriages and intermarriages, mills,

mill-lands, and baronies, Dame Elspeth felt for a moment like the

milk-maid in the fable, when she overset the pitcher, on the contents

of which so many golden dreams were founded. But the foundation of Dame

Glendinning's hopes was only tottering, not overthrown, and she hastened

to restore its equilibrium. Instead of attempting to account for her

absence of mind and want of attention to her guests, which she might

have found something difficult, she assumed the offensive, like an able

general when he finds it necessary, by a bold attack, to disguise his

weakness.

A loud exclamation she made, and a passionate complaint she set up

against the unkindness of her old friend, who could for an instant doubt

the heartiness of her welcome to him and to his hopeful daughter; and

then to think of his going back to Johnny Broxmouth's, when the auld

tower stood where it did, and had room in it for a friend or two in the

worst of times--and he too a neighbour that his umquhile gossip Simon,

blessed be his cast, used to think the best friend he had in

the Halidome! And on she went, urging her complaint with so much

seriousness, that she had well-nigh imposed on herself as well as upon

Hob Miller, who had no mind to take any thing in dudgeon; and as it

suited his plans to pass the night at Glendearg, would have been

equally contented to do so even had his reception been less vehemently

hospitable.

To all Elspeth's expostulations on the unkindness of his proposal to

leave her dwelling, he answered composedly, “Nay, dame, what could I

tell? ye might have had other grist to grind, for ye looked as if ye

scarce saw us--or what know I? ye might bear in mind the words Martin

and I had about the last barley ye sawed--for I ken dry multures

[Footnote: Dry multures were a fine, or compensation in money, for not

grinding at the mill of the thirl. It was, and is, accounted a vexatious

exaction.] will sometimes stick in the throat. A man seeks but his awn,

and yet folk shall hold him for both miller and miller's man, that is

millar and knave, [Footnote: The under miller is, in the language of

thirlage, called the knave, which, indeed, signified originally his lad.

(_Knabe_--German,) but by degrees came to be taken in a worse sense. In

the old translation of the Bible, Paul is made to term himself the knave

of our Saviour. The allowance of meal taken by the miller's servant was

called knave-ship.] all the country over.”

“Alas, that you will say so, neighbour Hob,” said Dame Elspeth, “or that

Martin should have had any words with you about the mill-dues! I will

chide him roundly for it, I promise you, on the faith of a true widow.

You know full well that a lone woman is sore put upon by her servants.”

“Nay, dame,” said the miller, unbuckling the broad belt which made

fast his cloak, and served, at the same time, to suspend by his side a

swinging Andrea Ferrara, “bear no grudge at Martin, for I bear none--I

take it on me as a thing of mine office, to maintain my right of

multure, lock, and gowpen. [Note: The multure was the regular exaction

for grinding the meal. The _lock_, signifying a small quantity, and the

_gowpen_, a handful, were additional perquisites demanded by the

miller, and submitted to or resisted by the _Suckener_ as circumstances

permitted. These and other petty dues were called in general the

_Sequels_.] And reason good, for as the old song says,

I live by my mill. God bless her,

She's parent, child, and wife.

The poor old slut, I am beholden to her for my living, and bound to

stand by her, as I say to my mill knaves, in right and in wrong. And so

should every honest fellow stand by his bread-winner.--And so, Mysie,

ye may doff your cloak since our neighbour is so kindly glad to see

us--why, I think, we are as blithe to see her--not one in the Halidome

pays their multures more duly, sequels, arriage, and carriage, and

mill-services, used and wont.”

With that the Miller hung his ample cloak without farther ceremony upon

a huge pair of stag's antlers, which adorned at once the naked walls of

the tower, and served for what we vulgarly call cloak-pins.

In the meantime Dame Elspeth assisted to disembarrass the damsel whom

she destined for her future daughter-in-law, of her hood, mantle, and

the rest of her riding gear, giving her to appear as beseemed the buxom

daughter of the wealthy Miller, gay and goodly, in a white kirtle,

the seams of which were embroidered with green silken lace or fringe,

entwined with some silver thread. An anxious glance did Elspoth cast

upon the good-humoured face, which was now more fully shown to her, and

was only obscured by a quantity of raven black hair, which the maid

of the mill had restrained by a snood of green silk, embroidered with

silver, corresponding to the trimmings of her kirtle. The countenance

itself was exceedingly comely--the eyes black, large, and roguishly

good-humoured--the mouth was small--the lips well formed, though

somewhat full--the teeth were pearly white--and the chin had a very

seducing dimple in it. The form belonging to this joyous face was full

and round, and firm and fair. It might become coarse and masculine

some years hence, which is the common fault of Scottish beauty; but in

Mysie's sixteenth year she had the shape of a Hebe. The anxious Elspeth,

with all her maternal partiality, could not help admitting within

herself, that a better man than Halbert might go farther and fare worse.

She looked a little giddy, and Halbert was not nineteen; still it was

time he should be settled, for to that point the dame always returned;

and here was an excellent opportunity.

The simple cunning of Dame Elspeth now exhausted itself in commendations

of her fair guest, from the snood, as they say, to the single-soled

shoe. Mysie listened and blushed with pleasure for the first five

minutes; but ere ten had elapsed, she began to view the old lady's

compliments rather as subjects of mirth than of vanity, and was much

more disposed to laugh at than to be flattered with them, for Nature had

mingled the good-humour with which she had endowed the damsel with no

small portion of shrewdness. Even Hob himself began to tire of hearing

his daughter's praises, and broke in with, “Ay, ay, she is a clever

quean enough; and, were she five years older, she shall lay a loaded

sack on an _aver_ [Note: _Aver_--properly a horse of labour.] with e'er

a lass in the Halidome. But I have been looking for your two sons, dame.

Men say downby that Halbert's turned a wild springald, and that we may

have word of him from Westmoreland one moonlight night or another.”

“God forbid, my good neighbour; God, in his mercy, forbid!” said Dame

Glendinning, earnestly; for it was touching the very key-note of her

apprehensions, to hint any probability that Halbert might become one of

the marauders so common in the age and country. But, fearful of having

betrayed too much alarm on this subject, she immediately added, “That

though, since the last rout at Pinkiecleuch, she had been all of a

tremble when a gun or a spear was named, or when men spoke of fighting;

yet, thanks to God and our Lady, her sons were like to live and die

honest and peaceful tenants to the Abbey, as their father might have

done, but for that awful hosting which he went forth to with mony a

brave man that never returned.”

“Ye need not tell me of it, dame,” said the Miller, “since I was there

myself, and made two pair of legs (and these were not mine, but my

mare's,) worth one pair of hands. I judged how it would be, when I

saw our host break ranks, with rushing on through that broken ploughed

field, and so as they had made a pricker of me, I e'en pricked off with

myself while the play was good.”

“Ay, ay, neighbour,” said the dame, “ye were aye a wise and a wary man;

if my Simon had had your wit, he might have been here to speak about

it this day; but he was aye cracking of his good blood and his high

kindred, and less would not serve him than to bide the bang to the last,

with the earls, and knights, and squires, that had no wives to greet for

them, or else had wives that cared not how soon they were widows; but

that is not for the like of us. But touching my son Halbert, there is no

fear of him; for if it should be his misfortune to be in the like case,

he has the best pair of heels in Halidome, and could run almost as fast

as your mare herself.”

“Is this he, neighbour?” quoth the Miller.

“No,” replied the mother; “that is my youngest son, Edward, who can read

and write like the Lord Abbot himself, if it were not a sin to say so.”

“Ay,” said the Miller; “and is that the young clerk the Sub-Prior thinks

so much of? they say he will come far ben that lad; wha kens but he may

come to be Sub-Prior himself?--as broken a ship has come to land.”

“To be a Prior, neighbour Miller,” said Edward, “a man must first be a

priest, and for that I judge I have little vocation.”

“He will take to the pleugh-pettle, neighbour,” said the good dame; “and

so will Halbert too, I trust. I wish you saw Halbert.--Edward, where is

your brother?”

“Hunting, I think,” replied Edward; “at least he left us this morning to

join the Laird of Colmslie and his hounds. I have heard them baying in

the glen all day.”

“And if I had heard that music,” said the Miller, “it would have done my

heart good, ay, and may be taken me two or three miles out of my road.

When I was the Miller of Morebattle's knave, I have followed the hounds

from Eckford to the foot of Hounam-law--followed them on foot, Dame

Glendinning, ay, and led the chase when the Laird of Cessford and his

gay riders were all thrown out by the mosses and gills. I brought the

stag on my back to Hounam Cross, when the dogs had pulled him down. I

think I see the old gray knight, as he sate so upright on his strong

war-horse, all white with foam; and 'Miller,' said he to me, 'an thou

wilt turn thy back on the mill, and wend with me, I will make a man of

thee.' But I chose rather to abide by clap and happer, and the better

luck was mine; for the proud Percy caused hang five of the Laird's

henchmen at Alnwick for burning a rickle of houses some gate beyond

Fowberry, and it might have been my luck as well as another man's.”

“Ah, neighbour, neighbour,” said Dame Glendinning, “you were aye wise

and wary; but if you like hunting, I must say Halbert's the lad to

please you. He hath all those fair holiday terms of hawk and hound as

ready in his mouth as Tom with the tod's tail, that is the Lord Abbot's

ranger.”

“Ranges he not homeward at dinner-time, dame,” demanded the Miller; “for

we call noon the dinner-hour at Kennaquhair?”

The widow was forced to admit that, even at this important period of the

day, Halbert was frequently absent; at which the Miller shook his

head, intimating, at the same time, some allusion to the proverb of

MacFarlane's geese, which “liked their play better than their meat.”

[Footnote: A brood of wild-geese, which long frequented one of the

uppermost islands in Loch-Lomond, called Inch-Tavoe, were supposed to

have some mysterious connexion with the ancient family of MacFarlane of

that ilk, and it is said were never seen after the ruin and extinction

of that house. The MacFarlanes had a house and garden upon that same

island of Inch-Tavoe. Here James VI. was, on one occasion, regaled by

the chieftain. His Majesty had been previously much amused by the geese

pursuing each other on the Loch. But, when one which was brought

to table, was found to be tough and ill fed, James observed--“that

MacFarlane's geese liked their play better than their meat,” a proverb

which has been current ever since.]

That the delay of dinner might not increase the Miller's disposition to

prejudge Halbert, Dame Glendinning called hastily on Mary Avenel to take

her task of entertaining Mysie Happer, while she herself rushed to

the kitchen, and, entering at once into the province of Tibb Tacket,

rummaged among trenchers and dishes, snatched pots from the fire, and

placed pans and gridirons on it, accompanying her own feats of personal

activity with such a continued list of injunctions to Tibb, that Tibb at

length lost patience, and said, “Here was as muckle wark about meating

an auld miller, as if they had been to banquet the blood of Bruce.” But

this, as it was supposed to be spoken aside, Dame Glendinning did not

think it convenient to hear.

* * * * *

Chapter the Fourteenth.

Nay, let me have the friends who eat my victuals,

As various as my dishes.--The feast's naught,

Where one huge plate predominates. John Plaintext,

He shall be mighty beef, our English staple;

The worthy Alderman, a butter'd dumpling;

Yon pair of whisker'd Cornets, ruffs and rees:

Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in sippets.

And so the hoard is spread at once and fill'd

On the same principle--Variety.

NEW PLAY.

“And what brave lass is this?” said Hob Miller, as Mary Avenel entered

the apartment to supply the absence of Dame Elspeth Glendinning.

“The young Lady of Avenel, father,” said the Maid of the Mill, dropping

as low a curtsy as her rustic manners enabled her to make. The Miller,

her father, doffed his bonnet, and made his reverence, not altogether so

low perhaps as if the young lady had appeared in the pride of rank and

riches, yet so as to give high birth the due homage which the Scotch for

a length of time scrupulously rendered to it.

Indeed, from having had her mother's example before her for so many

years, and from a native sense of propriety and even of dignity,

Mary Avenel had acquired a demeanour, which marked her title to

consideration, and effectually checked any attempt at familiarity on the

part of those who might be her associates in her present situation, but

could not be well termed her equals. She was by nature mild, pensive,

and contemplative, gentle in disposition, and most placable when

accidentally offended; but still she was of a retired and reserved

habit, and shunned to mix in ordinary sports, even--when the rare

occurrence of a fair or wake gave her an opportunity of mingling

with companions of her own age. If at such scenes she was seen for an

instant, she appeared to behold them with the composed indifference of

one to whom their gaiety was a matter of no interest, and who seemed

only desirous to glide away from the scene as soon as she possibly

could.

Something also had transpired concerning her being born on All-hallow

Eve, and the powers with which that circumstance was supposed to invest

her over the invisible world. And from all-these particulars combined,

the young men and women of the Halidome used to distinguish Mary among

themselves by the name of the Spirit of Avenel, as if the fair but

fragile form, the beautiful but rather colourless cheek, the dark blue

eye, and the shady hair, had belonged rather to the immaterial than

the substantial world. The general tradition of the White Lady, who was

supposed to wait on the fortunes of the family of Avenel, gave a sort of

zest to this piece of rural wit. It gave great offence, however, to

the two sons of Simon Glendinning; and when the expression was in

their presence applied to the young lady, Edward was wont to check the

petulance of those who used it by strength of argument, and Halbert by

strength of arm. In such cases Halbert had this advantage, that although

ho could render no aid to his brother's argument, yet when circumstances

required it, he was sure to have that of Edward, who never indeed

himself commenced a fray, but, on the other hand, did not testify any

reluctance to enter into combat in Halbert's behalf or in his rescue.

But the zealous attachment of the two youths, being themselves, from

the retired situation in which they dwelt, comparative strangers in

the Halidome, did not serve in any degree to alter the feelings of the

inhabitants towards the young lady, who seemed to have dropped amongst

them from another sphere of life. Still, however, she was regarded with

respect, if not with fondness; and the attention of the Sub-Prior to the

family, not to mention the formidable name of Julian Avenel, which every

new incident of those tumultuous times tended to render more famous,

attached to his niece a certain importance. Thus some aspired to her

acquaintance out of pride while the more timid of the feuars were

anxious to inculcate upon their children the necessity of being

respectful to the noble orphan. So that Mary Avenel, little loved

because little known, was regarded with a mysterious awe, partly derived

from fear of her uncle's moss-troopers, and partly from her own retired

and distant habits, enhanced by the superstitious opinions of the time

and country.

It was not without some portion of this awe, that Mysie felt herself

left alone in company with a young person so distant in rank, and so

different in bearing, from herself; for her worthy father had taken

the first opportunity to step out unobserved, in order to mark how the

barnyard was filled, and what prospect it afforded of grist to the mill.

In youth, however, there is a sort of free-masonry, which, without much

conversation, teaches young persons to estimate each other's character,

and places them at ease on the shortest acquaintance. It is only when

taught deceit by the commerce of the world, that we learn to shroud our

character from observation, and to disguise our real sentiments from

those with whom we are placed in communion.

Accordingly, the two young women were soon engaged in such objects of

interest as best became their age. They visited Mary Avenel's pigeons,

which she nursed with the tenderness of a mother; they turned over her

slender stores of finery, which yet contained some articles that excited

the respect of her companion, though Mysie was too good-humoured

to nourish envy. A golden rosary, and some female ornaments marking

superior rank, had been rescued in the moment of their utmost adversity,

more by Tibb Tacket's presence of mind, than by the care of their

owner,--who was at that sad period too much sunk in grief to pay

any attention to such circumstances. They struck Mysie with a deep

impression of veneration; for, excepting what the Lord Abbot and the

convent might possess, she did not believe there was so much real gold

in the world as was exhibited in these few trinkets, and Mary, however

sage and serious, was not above being pleased with the admiration of her

rustic companion.

Nothing, indeed, could exhibit a stronger contrast than the appearance

of the two girls;--the good-humoured laughter-loving countenance of

the Maid of the Mill, who stood gazing with unrepressed astonishment

on whatever was in her inexperienced eye rare and costly, and with an

humble, and at the same time cheerful acquiescence in her inferiority,

asking all the little queries about the use and value of the ornaments,

while Mary Avenel, with her quiet composed dignity and placidity

of manner, produced them one after another for the amusement of her

companion.

As they became gradually more familiar, Mysie of the Mill was just

venturing to ask, why Mary Avenel never appeared at the May-pole, and to

express her wonder when the young lady said she disliked dancing, when

a trampling of horses at the gate of the tower interrupted their

conversation.

Mysie flew to the shot-window in the full ardour of unrestrained female

curiosity. “Saint Mary! sweet lady! here come two well-mounted gallants;

will you step this way to look at them ?”

“No,” said Mary Avenel, “you shall tell me who they are.”

“Well, if you like it better,” said Mysie--“but how shall I know

them?---Stay, I do know one of them, and so do you, lady; he is a blithe

man, somewhat light of hand, they say, but the gallants of these days

think no great harm of that. He is your uncle's henchman, that they call

Christie of the Clinthill; and he has not his old green jerkin and the

rusty blackjack over it, but a scarlet cloak, laid down with silver lace

three inches broad, and a breast-plate you might see to dress your hair

in, as well as in that keeking-glass in the ivory frame that you showed

me even now. Come, dear lady, come to the shot-window and see him.”

“If it be the man you mean, Mysie,” replied the orphan of Avenel, “I

shall see him soon enough, considering either the pleasure or comfort

the sight will give me.”

“Nay, but if you will not come to see gay Christie,” replied the Maid of

the Mill, her face flushed with eager curiosity, “come and tell me who

the gallant is that is with him, the handsomest, the very lovesomest

young man I ever saw with sight.”

“It is my foster-brother, Halbert Glendinning,” said Mary, with,

apparent indifference; for she had been accustomed to call the sons of

Elspeth her foster-brethren, and to live with them as if they had been

brothers in earnest.