The Abbot

“I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling with triumph; “I know that, vain of his school-craft, and carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views with jealousy and hatred the blessings which the saints have conferred on my prayers, and on the holy relics, before the touch, nay, before the bare presence of which, disease and death have so often been known to retreat. – I know he would rend and tear me; but there is a chain and a muzzle on the ban dog that shall restrain his fury, and the Master’s servant shall not be offended by him until the Master’s work is wrought. When that hour comes, let the shadows of the evening descend on me in thunder and in tempest; the time shall be welcome that relieves my eyes from seeing guilt, and my ears from listening to blasphemy. Do thou but be constant – play thy part as I have played and will play mine, and my release shall be like that of a blessed martyr whose ascent to heaven angels hail with psalm and song, while earth pursues him with hiss and with execration.”

As she concluded, the serving-man again entered the cottage, and said, “All is well! the time holds for to-morrow night.”

“What time? what holds?” exclaimed Roland Graeme; “I trust I have given the Douglas’s packet to no wrong – ”

“Content yourself, young man,” answered the serving-man; “thou hast my word and token.”

“I know not if the token be right,” said the page; “and I care not much for the word of a stranger.”

“What,” said the matron, “although thou mayest have given a packet delivered to thy charge by one of the Queen’s rebels into the hand of a loyal subject – there were no great mistake in that, thou hot-brained boy!”

“By Saint Andrew, there were foul mistake, though,” answered the page; “it is the very spirit of my duty, in this first stage of chivalry, to be faithful to my trust; and had the devil given me a message to discharge, I would not (so I had plighted my faith to the contrary) betray his counsel to an angel of light.”

“Now, by the love I once bore thee,” said the matron, “I could slay thee with mine own hand, when I hear thee talk of a dearer faith being due to rebels and heretics, than thou owest to thy church and thy prince!”

“Be patient, my good sister,” said the serving-man; “I will give him such reasons as shall counterbalance the scruples which beset him – the spirit is honourable, though now it may be mistimed and misplaced. – Follow me, young man.”

“Ere I go to call this stranger to a reckoning,” said the page to the matron, “is there nothing I can do for your comfort and safety?”

“Nothing,” she replied, “nothing, save what will lead more to thine own honour; – the saints who have protected me thus far, will lend me succour as I need it. Tread the path of glory that is before thee, and only think of me as the creature on earth who will be most delighted to hear of thy fame. – Follow the stranger – he hath tidings for you that you little expect.”

The stranger remained on the threshold as if waiting for Roland, and as soon as he saw him put himself in motion, he moved on before at a quick pace. Diving still deeper down the lane, Roland perceived that it was now bordered by buildings upon the one side only, and that the other was fenced by a high old wall, over which some trees extended their branches. Descending a good way farther, they came to a small door in the wall. Roland’s guide paused, looked around an instant to see if any one were within sight, then taking a key from his pocket, opened the door and entered, making a sign to Roland Graeme to follow him. He did so, and the stranger locked the door carefully on the inside. During this operation the page had a moment to look around, and perceived that he was in a small orchard very trimly kept.

The stranger led him through an alley or two, shaded by trees loaded with summer-fruit, into a pleached arbour, where, taking the turf-seat which was on the one side, he motioned to Roland to occupy that which was opposite to him, and, after a momentary silence, opened the conversation as follows: “You have asked a better warrant than the word of a mere stranger, to satisfy you that I have the authority of George of Douglas for possessing myself of the packet intrusted to your charge.”

“It is precisely the point on which I demand reckoning of you,” said Roland. “I fear I have acted hastily; if so, I must redeem my error as I best may.”

“You hold me then as a perfect stranger?” said the man. “Look at my face more attentively, and see if the features do not resemble those of a man much known to you formerly.”

Roland gazed attentively; but the ideas recalled to his mind were so inconsistent with the mean and servile dress of the person before him, that he did not venture to express the opinion which he was irresistibly induced to form.

“Yes, my son,” said the stranger, observing his embarrassment, “you do indeed see before you the unfortunate Father Ambrosius, who once accounted his ministry crowned in your preservation from the snares of heresy, but who is now condemned to lament thee as a castaway!”

Roland Graeme’s kindness of heart was at least equal to his vivacity of temper – he could not bear to see his ancient and honoured master and spiritual guide in a situation which inferred a change of fortune so melancholy, but throwing himself at his feet, grasped his knees and wept aloud.

“What mean these tears, my son?” said the Abbot; “if they are shed for your own sins and follies, surely they are gracious showers, and may avail thee much – but weep not, if they fall on my account. You indeed see the Superior of the community of Saint Mary’s in the dress of a poor sworder, who gives his master the use of his blade and buckler, and, if needful, of his life, for a coarse livery coat and four marks by the year. But such a garb suits the time, and, in the period of the church militant, as well becomes her prelates, as staff, mitre, and crosier, in the days of the church’s triumph.”

“By what fate,” said the page – “and yet why,” added he, checking himself, “need I ask? Catherine Seyton in some sort prepared me for this. But that the change should be so absolute – the destruction so complete!” —

“Yes, my son,” said the Abbot Ambrosius, “thine own eyes beheld, in my unworthy elevation to the Abbot’s stall, the last especial act of holy solemnity which shall be seen in the church of Saint Mary’s, until it shall please Heaven to turn back the captivity of the church. For the present, the shepherd is smitten – ay, well-nigh to the earth – the flock are scattered, and the shrines of saints and martyrs, and pious benefactors to the church, are given to the owls of night, and the satyrs of the desert.”

“And your brother, the Knight of Avenel – could he do nothing for your protection?”

“He himself hath fallen under the suspicion of the ruling powers,” said the Abbot, “who are as unjust to their friends as they are cruel to their enemies. I could not grieve at it, did I hope it might estrange him from his cause; but I know the soul of Halbert, and I rather fear it will drive him to prove his fidelity to their unhappy cause, by some deed which may be yet more destructive to the church, and more offensive to Heaven. Enough of this; and now to the business of our meeting. – I trust you will hold it sufficient if I pass my word to you that the packet of which you were lately the bearer, was designed for my hands by George of Douglas?”

“Then,” said the page, “is George of Douglas – ”

“A true friend to his Queen, Roland; and will soon, I trust, have his eyes opened to the errors of his (miscalled) church.”

“But what is he to his father, and what to the Lady of Lochleven, who has been as a mother to him?” said the page impatiently.

“The best friend to both, in time and through eternity,” said the Abbot, “if he shall prove the happy instrument for redeeming the evil they have wrought, and are still working.”

“Still,” said the page, “I like not that good service which begins in breach of trust.”

“I blame not thy scruples, my son,” said the Abbot; “but the time which has wrenched asunder the allegiance of Christians to the church, and of subjects to their king, has dissolved all the lesser bonds of society; and, in such days, mere human ties must no more restrain our progress, than the brambles and briers which catch hold of his garments, should delay the path of a pilgrim who travels to pay his vows.”

“But, my father,” – said the youth, and then stopt short in a hesitating manner.

“Speak on, my son,” said the Abbot; “speak without fear.”

“Let me not offend you then,” said Roland, “when I say, that it is even this which our adversaries charge against us; when they say that, shaping the means according to the end, we are willing to commit great moral evil in order that we may work out eventual good.”

“The heretics have played their usual arts on you, my son,” said the Abbot; “they would willingly deprive us of the power of acting wisely and secretly, though their possession of superior force forbids our contending with them on terms of equality. They have reduced us to a state of exhausted weakness, and now would fain proscribe the means by which weakness, through all the range of nature, supplies the lack of strength and defends itself against its potent enemies. As well might the hound say to the hare, use not these wily turns to escape me, but contend with me in pitched battle, as the armed and powerful heretic demand of the down-trodden and oppressed Catholic to lay aside the wisdom of the serpent, by which alone they may again hope to raise up the Jerusalem over which they weep, and which it is their duty to rebuild – But more of this hereafter. And now, my son, I command thee on thy faith to tell me truly and particularly what has chanced to thee since we parted, and what is the present state of thy conscience. Thy relation, our sister Magdalen, is a woman of excellent gifts, blessed with a zeal which neither doubt nor danger can quench; but yet it is not a zeal altogether according to knowledge; wherefore, my son, I would willingly be myself thy interrogator, and thy counsellor, in these days of darkness and stratagem.”

With the respect which he owed to his first instructor, Roland Graeme went rapidly through the events which the reader is acquainted with; and while he disguised not from the prelate the impression which had been made on his mind by the arguments of the preacher Henderson, he accidentally and almost involuntarily gave his Father Confessor to understand the influence which Catherine Seyton had acquired over his mind.

“It is with joy I discover, my dearest son,” replied the Abbot, “that I have arrived in time to arrest thee on the verge of the precipice to which thou wert approaching. These doubts of which you complain, are the weeds which naturally grow up in a strong soil, and require the careful hand of the husbandman to eradicate them. Thou must study a little volume, which I will impart to thee in fitting time, in which, by Our Lady’s grace, I have placed in somewhat a clearer light than heretofore, the points debated betwixt us and these heretics, who sow among the wheat the same tares which were formerly privily mingled with the good seed by the Albigenses and the Lollards. But it is not by reason alone that you must hope to conquer these insinuations of the enemy: It is sometimes by timely resistance, but oftener by timely flight. You must shut your ears against the arguments of the heresiarch, when circumstances permit you not to withdraw the foot from his company. Anchor your thoughts upon the service of Our Lady, while he is expending in vain his heretical sophistry. Are you unable to maintain your attention on heavenly objects – think rather on thine own earthly pleasures, than tempt Providence and the Saints by giving an attentive ear to the erring doctrine – think of thy hawk, thy hound, thine angling rod, thy sword and buckler – think even of Catherine Seyton, rather than give thy soul to the lessons of the tempter. Alas! my son, believe not that, worn out with woes, and bent more by affliction than by years, I have forgotten the effect of beauty over the heart of youth. Even in the watches of the night, broken by thoughts of an imprisoned Queen, a distracted kingdom, a church laid waste and ruinous, come other thoughts than these suggest, and feelings which belonged to an earlier and happier course of life. Be it so – we must bear our load as we may: and not in vain are these passions implanted in our breast, since, as now in thy case, they may come in aid of resolutions founded upon higher grounds. Yet beware, my son – this Catherine Seyton is the daughter of one of Scotland’s proudest, as well as most worthy barons; and thy state may not suffer thee, as yet, to aspire so high. But thus it is – Heaven works its purposes through human folly; and Douglas’s ambitious affection, as well as thine, shall contribute alike to the desired end.”

“How, my father,” said the page, “my suspicions are then true! – Douglas loves – ”

“He does; and with a love as much misplaced as thine own; but beware of him – cross him not – thwart him not.”

“Let him not cross or thwart me,” said the page; “for I will not yield him an inch of way, had he in his body the soul of every Douglas that has lived since the time of the Dark Gray Man.” [Footnote: By an ancient, though improbable tradition, the Douglasses are said to have derived their name from a champion who had greatly distinguished himself in an action. When the king demanded by whom the battle had been won, the attendants are said to have answered, “Sholto Douglas, sir;” which is said to mean, “Yonder dark gray man.” But the name is undoubtedly territorial, and taken from Douglas river and vale.]

“Nay, have patience, idle boy, and reflect that your suit can never interfere with his. – But a truce with these vanities, and let us better employ the little space which still remains to us to spend together. To thy knees, my son, and resume the long-interrupted duty of confession, that, happen what may, the hour may find in thee a faithful Catholic, relieved from the guilt of his sins by authority of the Holy Church. Could I but tell thee, Roland, the joy with which I see thee once more put thy knee to its best and fittest use! Quid dicis, mi fili?”

“Culpas meas” answered the youth; and according to the ritual of the Catholic Church, he confessed and received absolution, to which was annexed the condition of performing certain enjoined penances.

When this religious ceremony was ended, an old man, in the dress of a peasant of the better order, approached the arbour, and greeted the Abbot. – “I have waited the conclusion of your devotions,” he said, “to tell you the youth is sought after by the chamberlain, and it were well he should appear without delay. Holy Saint Francis, if the halberdiers were to seek him here, they might sorely wrong my garden-plot – they are in office, and reck not where they tread, were each step on jessamine and clovegilly-flowers.”

“We will speed him forth, my brother,” said the Abbot; “but alas! is it possible that such trifles should live in your mind at a crisis so awful as that which is now impending?”

“Reverend father,” answered the proprietor of the garden, for such he was, “how oft shall I pray you to keep your high counsel for high minds like your own? What have you required of me, that I have not granted unresistingly, though with an aching heart?”

“I would require of you to be yourself, my brother,” said the Abbot Ambrosius; “to remember what you were, and to what your early vows have bound you.”

“I tell thee, Father Ambrosius,” replied the gardener, “the patience of the best saint that ever said pater-noster, would be exhausted by the trials to which you have put mine – What I have been, it skills not to speak at present-no one knows better than yourself, father, what I renounced, in hopes to find ease and quiet during the remainder of my days – and no one better knows how my retreat has been invaded, my fruit-trees broken, my flower-beds trodden down, my quiet frightened away, and my very sleep driven from my bed, since ever this poor Queen, God bless her, hath been sent to Lochleven. – I blame her not; being a prisoner, it is natural she should wish to get out from so vile a hold, where there is scarcely any place even for a tolerable garden, and where the water-mists, as I am told, blight all the early blossoms – I say, I cannot blame her for endeavouring for her freedom; but why I should be drawn into the scheme – why my harmless arbours, that I planted with my own hands, should become places of privy conspiracy-why my little quay, which I built for my own fishing boat, should have become a haven for secret embarkations – in short, why I should be dragged into matters where both heading and hanging are like to be the issue, I profess to you, reverend father, I am totally ignorant.”

“My brother,” answered the Abbot, “you are wise, and ought to know – ”

“I am not – I am not – I am not wise,” replied the horticulturist, pettishly, and stopping his ears with his fingers – “I was never called wise but when men wanted to engage me in some action of notorious folly.”

“But, my good brother,” said the Abbot —

“I am not good neither,” said the peevish gardener; “I am neither good nor wise – Had I been wise, you would not have been admitted here; and were I good, methinks I should send you elsewhere to hatch plots for destroying the quiet of the country. What signifies disputing about queen or king, – when men may sit at peace —sub umbra vitis sui? and so would I do, after the precept of Holy Writ, were I, as you term me, wise or good. But such as I am, my neck is in the yoke, and you make me draw what weight you list. – Follow me, youngster. This reverend father, who makes in his jackman’s dress nearly as reverend a figure as I myself, will agree with me in one thing at least, and that is, that you have been long enough here.”

“Follow the good father, Roland,” said the Abbot, “and remember my words – a day is approaching that will try the temper of all true Scotsmen – may thy heart prove faithful as the steel of thy blade!”

The page bowed in silence, and they parted; the gardener, notwithstanding his advanced age, walking on before him very briskly, and muttering as he went, partly to himself, partly to his companion, after the manner of old men of weakened intellects – “When I was great,” thus ran his maundering, “and had my mule and my ambling palfrey at command, I warrant you I could have as well flown through the air as have walked at this pace. I had my gout and my rheumatics, and an hundred things besides, that hung fetters on my heels; and, now, thanks to Our Lady, and honest labour, I can walk with any good man of my age in the kingdom of Fife – Fy upon it, that experience should be so long in coming!”

As he was thus muttering, his eye fell upon the branch of a pear-tree which drooped down for want of support, and at once forgetting his haste, the old man stopped and set seriously about binding it up. Roland Graeme had both readiness, neatness of hand, and good nature in abundance; he immediately lent his aid, and in a minute or two the bough was supported, and tied up in a way perfectly satisfactory to the old man, who looked at it with great complaisance. “They are bergamots,” he said, “and if you will come ashore in autumn, you shall taste of them – the like are not in Lochleven Castle – the garden there is a poor pin-fold, and the gardener, Hugh Houkham, hath little skill of his craft – so come ashore, Master Page, in autumn, when you would eat pears. But what am I thinking of – ere that time come, they may have given thee sour pears for plums. Take an old man’s advice, youth, one who hath seen many days, and sat in higher places than thou canst hope for – bend thy sword into a pruning-hook, and make a dibble of thy dagger – thy days shall be the longer, and thy health the better for it, – and come to aid me in my garden, and I will teach thee the real French fashion of imping, which the Southron call graffing. Do this, and do it without loss of time, for there is a whirlwind coming over the land, and only those shall escape who lie too much beneath the storm to have their boughs broken by it.”

So saying, he dismissed Roland Graeme, through a different door from that by which he had entered, signed a cross, and pronounced a benedicite as they parted, and then, still muttering to himself, retired into the garden, and locked the door on the inside.

Chapter the Twenty-Ninth

  Pray God she prove not masculine ere long!KING HENRY VI.

Dismissed from the old man’s garden, Roland Graeme found that a grassy paddock, in which sauntered two cows, the property of the gardener, still separated him from the village. He paced through it, lost in meditation upon the words of the Abbot. Father Ambrosius had, with success enough, exerted over him that powerful influence which the guardians and instructors of our childhood possess over our more mature youth. And yet, when Roland looked back upon what the father had said, he could not but suspect that he had rather sought to evade entering into the controversy betwixt the churches, than to repel the objections and satisfy the doubts which the lectures of Henderson had excited. “For this he had no time,” said the page to himself, “neither have I now calmness and learning sufficient to judge upon points of such magnitude. Besides, it were base to quit my faith while the wind of fortune sets against it, unless I were so placed, that my conversion, should it take place, were free as light from the imputation of self-interest. I was bred a Catholic – bred in the faith of Bruce and Wallace – I will hold that faith till time and reason shall convince me that it errs. I will serve this poor Queen as a subject should serve an imprisoned and wronged sovereign – they who placed me in her service have to blame themselves – who sent me hither, a gentleman trained in the paths of loyalty and honour, when they should have sought out some truckling, cogging, double-dealing knave, who would have been at once the observant page of the Queen, and the obsequious spy of her enemies. Since I must choose betwixt aiding and betraying her, I will decide as becomes her servant and her subject; but Catherine Seyton – Catherine Seyton, beloved by Douglas and holding me on or off as the intervals of her leisure or caprice will permit – how shall I deal with the coquette? – By heaven, when I next have an opportunity, she shall render me some reason for her conduct, or I will break with her for ever!”

As he formed this doughty resolution, he crossed the stile which led out of the little enclosure, and was almost immediately greeted by Dr. Luke Lundin.

“Ha! my most excellent young friend,” said the Doctor, “from whence come you? – but I note the place. – Yes, neighbour Blinkhoolie’s garden is a pleasant rendezvous, and you are of the age when lads look after a bonny lass with one eye, and a dainty plum with another. But hey! you look subtriste and melancholic – I fear the maiden has proved cruel, or the plums unripe; and surely I think neighbour Blinkhoolie’s damsons can scarcely have been well preserved throughout the winter – he spares the saccharine juice on his confects. But courage, man, there are more Kates in Kinross; and for the immature fruit, a glass of my double distilled aqua mirabilis – probatum est.”

The page darted an ireful glance at the facetious physician; but presently recollecting that the name Kate, which had provoked his displeasure, was probably but introduced for the sake of alliteration, he suppressed his wrath, and only asked if the wains had been heard of?

“Why, I have been seeking for you this hour, to tell you that the stuff is in your boat, and that the boat waits your pleasure. Auchtermuchty had only fallen into company with an idle knave like himself, and a stoup of aquavitae between them. Your boatmen lie on their oars, and there have already been made two wefts from the warder’s turret to intimate that those in the castle are impatient for your return. Yet there is time for you to take a slight repast; and, as your friend and physician, I hold it unfit you should face the water-breeze with an empty stomach.”

Roland Graeme had nothing for it but to return, with such cheer as he might, to the place where his boat was moored on the beach, and resisted all offer of refreshment, although the Doctor promised that he should prelude the collation with a gentle appetizer – a decoction of herbs, gathered and distilled by himself. Indeed, as Roland had not forgotten the contents of his morning cup, it is possible that the recollection induced him to stand firm in his refusal of all food, to which such an unpalatable preface was the preliminary. As they passed towards the boat, (for the ceremonious politeness of the worthy Chamberlain would not permit the page to go thither without attendance,) Roland Graeme, amidst a group who seemed to be assembled around a party of wandering musicians, distinguished, as he thought, the dress of Catherine Seyton. He shook himself clear from his attendant, and at one spring was in the midst of the crowd, and at the side of the damsel. “Catherine,” he whispered, “is it well for you to be still here? – will you not return to the castle?”