The Abbot Read online

  Chapter the Seventh.

  When I hae a saxpence under my thumb, Then I get credit in ilka town; But when I am puir they bid me gae by-- Oh, poverty parts good company! OLD SONG.

  While the departure of the page afforded subject for the conversationwhich we have detailed in our last chapter, the late favourite was faradvanced on his solitary journey, without well knowing what was itsobject, or what was likely to be its end. He had rowed the skiff inwhich he left the castle, to the side of the lake most distant from thevillage, with the desire of escaping from the notice of the inhabitants.His pride whispered, that he would be in his discarded state, only thesubject of their wonder and compassion; and his generosity told him,that any mark of sympathy which his situation should excite, might beunfavourably reported at the castle. A trifling incident convinced himhe had little to fear for his friends on the latter score. He was met bya young man some years older than himself, who had on former occasionsbeen but too happy to be permitted to share in his sports in thesubordinate character of his assistant. Ralph Fisher approached to greethim, with all the alacrity of an humble friend.

  "What, Master Roland, abroad on this side, and without either hawk orhound?"

  "Hawk or hound," said Roland, "I will never perhaps hollo to again. Ihave been dismissed--that is, I have left the castle."

  Ralph was surprised. "What! you are to pass into the Knight's service,and take the black jack and the lance?"

  "Indeed," replied Roland Graeme, "I am not--I am now leaving the serviceof Avenel for ever."

  "And whither are you going, then?" said the young peasant.

  "Nay, that is a question which it craves time to answer--I have thatmatter to determine yet," replied the disgraced favourite.

  "Nay, nay," said Ralph, "I warrant you it is the same to you which wayyou go--my Lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining intothe pouches of your doublet."

  "Sordid slave!" said Roland Graeme, "dost thou think I would haveaccepted a boon from one who was giving me over a prey to detractionand to ruin, at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddlingserving-woman? The bread that I had bought with such an alms would havechoked me at the first mouthful."

  Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of wonder notunmixed with contempt. "Well," he said, at length, "no occasion forpassion--each man knows his own stomach best--but, were I on a blackmoor at this time of day, not knowing whither I was going, I shouldbe glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, come by them as Icould.--But perhaps you will go with me to my father's--that is, for anight, for to-morrow we expect my uncle Menelaus and all his folk; but,as I said, for one night----"

  The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to one night only,and that tendered most unwillingly, offended the pride of the discardedfavourite.

  "I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have done many a nighton less occasion," said Roland Graeme, "than in the smoky garret of yourfather, that smells of peat smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander'splaid."

  "You may choose, my master, if you are so nice," replied Ralph Fisher;"you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if youjourney long in the fashion you propose. You might have said God-a-mercyfor your proffer, though--it is not every one that will put themselvesin the way of ill-will by harbouring a discarded serving-man."

  "Ralph," said Roland Graeme, "I would pray you to remember that I haveswitched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you havetasted."

  Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full strength,and conscious of the most complete personal superiority, laughedcontemptuously at the threats of the slight-made stripling.

  "It may be the same wand," he said, "but not the same hand; and that isas good rhyme as if it were in a ballad. Look you, my Lady's pagethat was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of you, but ofyour betters, that kept mine down--and I wot not what hinders me fromclearing old scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was yourLady's livery-coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood, MasterRoland."

  In the midst of his rage, Roland Graeme was just wise enough to see,that by continuing this altercation, he would subject himself to veryrude treatment from the boor, who was so much older and stronger thanhimself; and while his antagonist, with a sort of jeering laugh ofdefiance, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness ofhis own degraded condition, and burst into a passion of tears, which hein vain endeavoured to conceal with both his hands.

  Even the rough churl was moved with the distress of his quondamcompanion.

  "Nay, Master Roland," he said, "I did but as 'twere jest with thee--Iwould not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance sake. Butever look to a man's inches ere you talk of switching--why, thine arm,man, is but like a spindle compared to mine.--But hark, I hear old AdamWoodcock hollowing to his hawk--Come along, man, we will have a merryafternoon, and go jollily to my father's in spite of the peat-smoke andusquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some honest way of winningyour bread, though it's hard to come by in these broken times."

  The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands fromhis face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable tone ofcomfort.

  "Why, man, when you were my Lady's minion, men held you proud, and somethought you a Papist, and I wot not what; and so, now that you have noone to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and wait onthe minister's examinations, and put these things out of folk's head;and if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the stream;and if a gentleman, or a gentleman's gentleman, give you a rough word,or a light blow, you must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, orthe like, as I have done by you.--But hark to Woodcock's whistle again.Come, and I will teach you all the trick on't as we go on."

  "I thank you," said Roland Graeme, endeavouring to assume an air ofindifference and of superiority; "but I have another path before me, andwere it otherwise, I could not tread in yours."

  "Very true, Master Roland," replied the clown; "and every man knows hisown matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you say.Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld lang syne.--What! not clappalms ere we part?--well, so be it--a wilful man will have his way, andso farewell, and the blessing of the morning to you."

  "Good-morrow--good-morrow," said Roland, hastily; and the clown walkedlightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of anacquaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no longerthe means to be serviceable to him.

  Roland Graeme compelled himself to walk on while they were within sightof each other that his former intimate might not augur any vacillationof purpose, or uncertainty of object, from his remaining on the samespot; but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned, as it were,and giddy; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and quakingunder his feet like the surface of a bog; and he had once or twicenearly fallen, though the path he trode was of firm greensward. He keptresolutely moving forward, in spite of the internal agitation to whichthese symptoms belonged, until the distant form of his acquaintancedisappeared behind the slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once;and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken, he gave way tothe natural expressions of wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept withunrestrained profusion and unqualified bitterness.

  When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had subsided, thedeserted and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usuallyfollows such discharges of sorrow. The tears continued to chase eachother down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the samesense of desolation; an afflicting yet milder sentiment was awakenedin his mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the unweariedkindness which had attached her to him, in spite of many acts ofprovoking petulance, now recollected as offences of a deep dye, whichhad protected him against the machinations of others, as well as againstthe consequences of his own folly, and would have continued to do so,ha
d not the excess of his presumption compelled her to withdraw herprotection.

  "Whatever indignity I have borne," he said, "has been the just reward ofmy own ingratitude. And have I done well to accept the hospitality, themore than maternal kindness, of my protectress, yet to detain from herthe knowledge of my religion?--but she shall know that a Catholic hasas much gratitude as a Puritan--that I have been thoughtless, but notwicked--that in my wildest moments I have loved, respected, and honouredher--and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but was neverungrateful!"

  He turned, as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began hastilyto retread his footsteps towards the castle. But he checked the firsteagerness of his repentant haste, when he reflected on the scorn andcontempt with which the family were likely to see the return ofthe fugitive, humbled, as they must necessarily suppose him, into asupplicant, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to returnto his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still.

  "I care not," he resolutely determined; "let them wink, point, nod,sneer, speak of the conceit which is humbled, of the pride which has hada fall--I care not; it is a penance due to my folly, and I will endureit with patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also shouldthink me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her pardonalone, but for a renewal of the advantages which I derived from herfavour--_her_ suspicion of my meanness I cannot--I will not brook."

  He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional obstinacyagainst his more just feeling, urged that he would incur the scorn ofthe Lady of Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by following thecourse which the first ardour of his repentant feelings had dictated tohim.

  "If I had but some plausible pretext," he thought, "some ostensiblereason for my return, some excuse to allege which might show I came notas a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go thither--butas I am, I cannot--my heart would leap from its place and burst."

  As these thoughts swept through his mind, something passed in the airso near him as to dazzle his eyes, and almost to brush the plume in hiscap. He looked up--it was the favourite falcon of Sir Halbert, which,flying around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that of awell-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the accustomedwhoop, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist, and began to pruneitself, glancing at the youth from time to time an acute and brilliantbeam of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed it not withhis usual fondness.

  "Ah, Diamond!" he said, as if the bird understood him, "thou and I mustbe strangers henceforward. Many a gallant stoop have I seen thee make,and many a brave heron strike down; but that is all gone and over, andthere is no hawking more for me!"

  "And why not, Master Roland," said Adam Woodcock the falconer, who cameat that instant from behind a few alder bushes which had concealed himfrom view, "why should there be no more hawking for you? Why, man, whatwere our life without our sports?--thou know'st the jolly old song--

  "And rather would Allan in dungeon lie, Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly; And Allan would rather lie in Sexton's pound, Than live where he followed not the merry hawk and hound."

  The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in whichhe half-sung half-recited his rude ballad, implied honest franknessand cordiality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its consequences,embarrassed Roland, and prevented his reply. The falconer saw hishesitation, and guessed the cause.

  "What now," said he, "Master Roland? do you, who are half an Englishman,think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger against you,and you in distress? That were like some of the Scots, (my master'sreverence always excepted,) who can be fair and false, and wait theirtime, and keep their mind, as they say, to themselves, and touch pot andflagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, after all, whentime serves, pay off some old feud with the point of the dagger. CannyYorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an you had hit mea rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken it from you, than a roughword from another; for you have a good notion of falconry, though youstand up for washing the meat for the eyases. So give us your hand, man,and bear no malice."

  Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity ofhonest Adam's address, could not resist its downright frankness.Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to thefalconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp.

  "Why, this is hearty now," said Woodcock; "I always said you had a kindheart, though you have a spice of the devil in your disposition, that iscertain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find you, and yonhalf-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You ever thoughttoo much of that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he knows nought ofsport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw how it had beenbetwixt you, and I sent him out of my company with a wanion--I wouldrather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave at my elbow--andnow, Master Roland, tell me what way wing ye?"

  "That is as God pleases," replied the page, with a sigh which he couldnot suppress.

  "Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off," said the falconer;"who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for all thisyet?--Look at Diamond there, 'tis a noble bird, and shows gallantlywith his hood, and bells, and jesses; but there is many a wild falconin Norway that would not change properties with him--And that is whatI would say of you. You are no longer my Lady's page, and you willnot clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or show sogallant--What of all that? if you are not her page, you are your ownman, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or whistle. Theworst is the loss of the sport, but who knows what you may come to? Theysay that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad tobe the Abbot's forester, and now he has hounds and hawks of his own, andAdam Woodcock for a falconer to the boot."

  "You are right, and say well, Adam," answered the youth, the bloodmantling in his cheeks, "the falcon will soar higher without his bellsthan with them, though the bells be made of silver."

  "That is cheerily spoken," replied the falconer; "and whither now?"

  "I thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair," answered RolandGraeme, "to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose."

  "And joy go with you," said the falconer, "though it is likely you mayfind the old monks in some sorrow; they say the commons are threateningto turn them out of their cells, and make a devil's mass of it in theold church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long; and troth Iam clear of the same opinion."

  "Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having a friend beside him!"said the page, manfully.

  "Ay, but, my young fearnought," replied the falconer, "the friend willscarce be the better of being beside Father Ambrose--he may come by theredder's lick, and that is ever the worst of the battle."

  "I care not for that," said the page, "the dread of a lick should nothold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers byvisiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert's cell,where the old priest will give me a night's shelter; and I will send toFather Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the convent."

  "By Our Lady," said the falconer, "and that is a likely plan--and now,"he continued, exchanging his frankness of manner for a sort of awkwardembarrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready meansto bring out--"and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawk'smeat, [Footnote: This same hag, like every thing belonging to falconry,was esteemed an honourable distinction, and worn often by the nobilityand gentry. One of the Sommervilles of Camnethan was called _Sir Johnwith the red bag_, because it was his wont to wear his hawking pouchcovered with satin of that colour.] and so forth; but wot you what it islined with, Master Roland?"

  "With leather, to be sure," replied Roland, somewhat surprised at thehesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question apparently sosimple.

  "With leather, lad?" said Woodcock; "ay, and with silver to the boot ofthat. See here," he said, showin
g a secret slit in the lining of his bagof office--"here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were struckin bluff old Hal's time, and ten of them are right heartily at yourservice; and now the murder is out."

  Roland's first idea was to refuse his assistance; but he recollected thevows of humility which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred thatthis was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolution to the test.Assuming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with asmuch frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing what wasso contrary to his inclinations, that he accepted thankfully of hiskind offer, while, to soothe his own reviving pride, he could not helpadding, "he hoped soon to requite the obligation."

  "That as you list--that as you list, young man," said the falconer, withglee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply he hadso generously offered, and then adding, with great cheerfulness,--"Nowyou may go through the world; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn,hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword and buckler, with awhole pair of shoes, a green jacket, and ten lily-white groats in hispouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. Farewell, andGod be with you!"

  So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks of his companion,he turned hastily round, and left Roland Graeme to pursue his journeyalone.