The husband nodded acquiescence; for it was deemed highly imprudent to
speak of the fairies, either by their title of _good neighbours_
or by any other, especially when about to pass the places which they
were supposed to haunt.

[Footnote: This superstition continues to prevail, though one would
suppose it must now be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an
itinerant puppet show-man, who, disdaining to acknowledge the
profession of Gines de Passamonte, called himself an artist from
Vauxhall, brought a complaint of a singular nature before the author,
as Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The singular dexterity with which the
show-man had exhibited the machinery of his little stage, had, upon a
Selkirk fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of some mechanics of
Galashiels. These men, from no worse motive that could be discovered
than a thirst after knowledge beyond their sphere, committed a
burglary upon the barn in which the puppets had been consigned to
repose, and carried them off in the nook of their plaids, when
returning from Selkirk to their own village.

  "But with the morning cool reflection came."

The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that
the whole troop were equally intractable; they had also, perhaps, some
apprehensions of the Rhadamanth of the district; and, willing to be
quit of their booty, they left the puppets seated in a grove by the
side of the Ettrick, where they were sure to be touched by the first
beams of the rising sun. Here a shepherd, who was on foot with sunrise
to pen his master's sheep on a field of turnips, to his utter
astonishment, saw this train, profusely gay, sitting in the little
grotto. His examination proceeded thus:--

_Sheriff_. You saw these gay-looking things? what did you think
they were?

_Shepherd_. Ou, I am no that free to say what I might think they
were.

_Sheriff_. Come, lad, I must have a direct answer--who did you
think they were?

_Shepherd_. Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind
wha I might think they were.

_Sheriff_. Come, come sir! I ask you distinctly, did you think
they were the fairies you saw?

_Shepherd_. Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was
the Good Neighbours.

Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and
captious inhabitants of fairy land.]

They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last day of October. "This
is thy birthday, my sweet Mary," said the mother, as a sting of bitter
recollection crossed her mind. "Oh, who could have believed that the
head, which, a few years since, was cradled amongst so many rejoicing
friends, may perhaps this night seek a cover in vain!"

The exiled family then set forward,--Mary Avenel, a lovely girl between
five and six years old, riding gipsy fashion upon Shagram, betwixt two
bundles of bedding; the Lady of Avenel walking by the animal's side;
Tibb leading the bridle, and old Martin walking a little before, looking
anxiously around him to explore the way.

Martin's task as guide, after two or three miles' walking, became more
difficult than he himself had expected, or than he was willing to
avow. It happened that the extensive range of pasturage, with which he
was conversant, lay to the west, and to get into the little valley of
Glendearg he had to proceed easterly. In the wilder districts of
Scotland, the passage from one vale to another, otherwise than by
descending that which you leave, and reascending the other, is often
very difficult.--Heights and hollows, mosses and rocks intervene, and
all those local impediments which throw a traveller out of his course.
So that Martin, however sure of his general direction, became
conscious, and at length was forced reluctantly to admit, that he had
missed the direct road to Glendearg, though he insisted they must be
very near it. "If we can but win across this wide bog," he said, "I
shall warrant ye are on the top of the tower." But to get across the
bog was a point of no small difficulty. The farther they ventured into
it, though proceeding with all the caution which Martin's experience
recommended, the more unsound the ground became, until, after they had
passed some places of great peril, their best argument for going
forward came to be, that they had to encounter equal danger in
returning.  The Lady of Avenel had been tenderly nurtured, but what
will not a woman endure when her child is in danger? Complaining less
of the dangers of the road than her attendants, who had been inured to
such from their infancy, she kept herself close by the side of the
pony, watching its every footstep, and ready, if it should flounder in
the morass, to snatch her little Mary from its back. At length they
came to a place where the guide greatly hesitated, for all around him
was broken lumps of heath, divided from each other by deep sloughs of
black tenacious mire. After great consideration, Martin, selecting
what he thought the safest path, began himself to lead forward
Shagram, in order to afford greater security to the child. But Shagram
snorted, laid his ears back, stretched his two feet forward, and drew
his hind feet under him, so as to adopt the best possible posture for
obstinate resistance, and refused to move one yard in the direction
indicated. Old Martin, much puzzled, now hesitated whether to exert
his absolute authority, or to defer to the contumacious obstinacy of
Shagram, and was not greatly comforted by his wife's observation, who,
seeing Shagram stare with his eyes, distend his nostrils, and tremble
with terror, hinted that "he surely saw more than they could see."

In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed--"Bonny leddy signs to
us to come yon gate." They all looked in the direction where the child
pointed, but saw nothing, save a wreath, of rising mist, which fancy
might form into a human figure; but which afforded to Martin only the
sorrowful conviction, that the danger of their situation was about to
be increased by a heavy fog. He once more essayed to lead forward
Shagram; but the animal was inflexible in its determination not to
move in the direction Martin recommended. "Take your awn way for it,
then," said Martin, "and let us see what you can do for us."

Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free-will, set off
boldly in the direction the child had pointed. There was nothing
wonderful in this, nor in its bringing them safe to the other side of
the dangerous morass; for the instinct of these animals in traversing
bogs is one of the most curious parts of their nature, and is a fact
generally established.  But it was remarkable, that the child more
than once mentioned the beautiful lady and her signals, and that
Shagram seemed to be in the secret, always moving in the same
direction which she indicated. The Lady of Avenel took little notice
at the time, her mind being probably occupied by the instant danger;
but her attendants changed expressive looks with each other more than
once.

"All-Hallow Eve!" said Tibb, in a whisper to Martin.

"For the mercy of Our Lady, not a word of that now!" said Martin in
reply. "Tell your beads, woman, if you cannot be silent."

When they got once more on firm ground, Martin recognized certain
land-marks, or cairns, on the tops of the neighbouring hills, by which
he was enabled to guide his course, and ere long they arrived at the
Tower of Glendearg.

It was at the sight of this little fortalice that the misery of her
lot pressed hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. When by any accident they
had met at church, market, or other place of public resort, she
remembered the distant and respectful air with which the wife of the
warlike baron was addressed by the spouse of the humble feuar. And
now, so much was her pride humbled, that she was to ask to share the
precarious safety of the same feuar's widow, and her pittance of food,
which might perhaps be yet more precarious. Martin probably guessed
what was passing in her mind, for he looked at her with a wistful
glance, as if to deprecate any change of resolution; and answering to
his looks, rather than his words, she said, while the sparkle of
subdued pride once more glanced from her eye, "If it were for myself
alone, I could but die-but for this infant--the last pledge of
Avenel--"

"True, my lady," said Martin, hastily; and, as if to prevent the
possibility of her retracting, he added, "I will step on and see Dame
Elspeth--I kend her husband weel, and have bought and sold with him,
for as great a man as he was."

Martin's tale was soon told, and met all acceptance from her companion
in misfortune. The Lady of Avenel had been meek and courteous in her
prosperity; in adversity, therefore, she met with the greatest
sympathy.  Besides, there was a point of pride in sheltering and
supporting a woman of such superior birth and rank; and, not to do
Elspeth Glendinning injustice, she felt sympathy for one whose fate
resembled her own in so many points, yet was so much more severe.
Every species of hospitality was gladly and respectfully extended to
the distressed travellers, and they were kindly requested to stay as
long at Glendearg as their circumstances rendered necessary, or their
inclination prompted.




Chapter the Fourth.


   Ne'er be I found by thee unawed,
   On that thrice hallow'd eve abroad.
   When goblins haunt from flood and fen,
                         The steps of men.
                            COLLINS'S _Ode to Fear_.

As the country became more settled, the Lady of Avenel would have
willingly returned to her husband's mansion. But that was no longer in
her power. It was a reign of minority, when the strongest had the best
right, and when acts of usurpation were frequent amongst those who had
much power and little conscience.

Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased Walter, was a
person of this description. He hesitated not to seize upon his
brother's house and lands, so soon as the retreat of the English
permitted him. At first, he occupied the property in the name of his
niece; but when the lady proposed to return with her child to the
mansion of its fathers, he gave her to understand, that Avenel, being
a male fief, descended to the brother, instead of the daughter, of the
last possessor.  The ancient philosopher declined a dispute with the
emperor who commanded twenty legions, and the widow of Walter Avenel
was in no condition to maintain a contest with the leader of twenty
moss-troopers. Julian was also a man of service, who could back a
friend in case of need, and was sure, therefore, to find protectors
among the ruling powers. In short, however clear the little Mary's
right to the possessions of her father, her mother saw the necessity
of giving way, at least for the time, to the usurpation of her uncle.

Her patience and forbearance were so far attended with advantage, that
Julian, for very shame's sake, could no longer suffer her to be
absolutely dependant on the charity of Elspeth Glendinning. A drove of
cattle and a bull (which were probably missed by some English farmer)
were driven to the pastures of Glendearg; presents of raiment and
household stuff were sent liberally, and some little money, though
with a more sparing hand: for those in the situation of Julian Avenel
could come more easily by the goods, than the representing medium of
value, and made their payments chiefly in kind.

In the meantime, the widows of Walter Avenel and Simon Glendinning had
become habituated to each other's society, and were unwilling to part.
The lady could hope no more secret and secure residence than in the
Tower of Glendearg, and she was now in a condition to support her
share of the mutual housekeeping. Elspeth, on the other hand, felt
pride, as well as pleasure, in the society of a guest of such
distinction, and was at all times willing to pay much greater
deference than the Lady of Walter Avenel could be prevailed on to
accept.

Martin and his wife diligently served the united family in their
several vocations, and yielded obedience to both mistresses, though
always considering themselves as the especial servants of the Lady of
Avenel. This distinction sometimes occasioned a slight degree of
difference between Dame Elspeth and Tibb; the former being jealous of
her own consequence, and the latter apt to lay too much stress upon
the rank and family of her mistress.  But both were alike desirous to
conceal such petty squabbles from the lady, her hostess scarce
yielding to her old domestic in respect for her person. Neither did
the difference exist in such a degree as to interrupt the general
harmony of the family, for the one wisely gave way as she saw the
other become warm; and Tibb, though she often gave the first
provocation, had generally the sense to be the first in relinquishing
the argument.

The world which lay beyond was gradually forgotten by the inhabitants
of this sequestered glen, and unless when she attended mass at the
Monastery Church upon some high holiday, Alice of Avenel almost forgot
that she once held an equal rank with the proud wives of the
neighbouring barons and nobles who on such occasions crowded to the
solemnity. The recollection gave her little pain. She loved her
husband for himself, and in his inestimable loss all lesser subjects
of regret had ceased to interest her. At times, indeed, she thought of
claiming the protection of the Queen Regent (Mary of Guise) for her
little orphan, but the fear of Julian Avenel always came between. She
was sensible that he would have neither scruple nor difficulty in
spiriting away the child, (if he did not proceed farther,) should he
once consider its existence as formidable to his interest. Besides, he
led a wild and unsettled life, mingling in all feuds and forays,
wherever there was a spear to be broken; he evinced no purpose of
marrying, and the fate which he continually was braving might at
length remove him from his usurped inheritance. Alice of Avenel,
therefore, judged it wise to check all ambitious thoughts for the
present, and remain quiet in the rude, but peaceable retreat, to which
Providence had conducted her.

It was upon an All-Hallow's eve, when the family had resided together
for the space of three years, that the domestic circle was assembled
round the blazing turf-fire, in the old narrow hall of the Tower of
Glendearg. The idea of the master or mistress of the mansion feeding
or living apart from their domestics, was at this period never
entertained. The highest end of the board, the most commodious settle
by the fire,--these were the only marks of distinction; and the
servants mingled, with deference indeed, but unreproved and with
freedom, in whatever conversation was going forward.  But the two or
three domestics, kept merely for agricultural purposes, had retired to
their own cottages without, and with them a couple of wenches, usually
employed within doors, the daughters of one of the hinds.

After their departure, Martin locked, first, the iron grate; and,
secondly, the inner door of the tower, when the domestic circle was
thus arranged.  Dame Elspeth sate pulling the thread from her distaff;
Tibb watched the progress of scalding the whey, which hung in a large
pot upon the _crook_, a chain terminated by a hook, which was
suspended in the chimney to serve the purpose of the modern crane.
Martin, while busied in repairing some of the household articles, (for
every man in those days was his own carpenter and smith, as well as
his own tailor and shoemaker,) kept from time to time a watchful eye
upon the three children.

They were allowed, however, to exercise their juvenile restlessness by
running up and down the hall, behind the seats of the elder members of
the family, with the privilege of occasionally making excursions into
one or two small apartments which opened from it, and gave excellent
opportunity to play at hide-and-seek. This night, however, the
children seemed not disposed to avail themselves of their privilege of
visiting these dark regions, but preferred carrying on their gambols
in the vicinity of the light.

In the meanwhile, Alice of Avenel, sitting close to an iron
candlestick, which supported a misshapen torch of domestic
manufacture, read small detached passages from a thick clasped volume,
which she preserved with the greatest care. The art of reading the
lady had acquired by her residence in a nunnery during her youth, but
she seldom, of late years, put it to any other use than perusing this
little volume, which formed her whole library.  The family listened to
the portions which she selected, as to some good thing which there was
a merit in hearing with respect, whether it was fully understood or
no. To her daughter, Alice of Avenel had determined to impart their
mystery more fully, but the knowledge was at that period attended with
personal danger, and was not rashly to be trusted to a child.

The noise of the romping children interrupted, from time to time, the
voice of the lady, and drew on the noisy culprits the rebuke of Elspeth.

"Could they not go farther a-field, if they behoved to make such a
din, and disturb the lady's good words?" And this command was backed
with the threat of sending the whole party to bed if it was not
attended to punctually.  Acting under the injunction, the children
first played at a greater distance from the party, and more quietly,
and then began to stray into the adjacent apartments, as they became
impatient of the restraint to which they were subjected. But, all at
once, the two boys came open-mouthed into the hall, to tell that there
was an armed man in the spence.

"It must be Christie of Clint-hill," said Martin, rising; "what can have
brought him here at this time?"

"Or how came he in?" said Elspeth.

"Alas! what can he seek?" said the Lady of Avenel, to whom this man, a
retainer of her husband's brother, and who sometimes executed his
commissions at Glendearg, was an object of secret apprehension and
suspicion.  "Gracious heavens!" she added, rising up, "where is my
child?" All rushed to the spence, Halbert Glendinning first arming
himself with a rusty sword, and the younger seizing upon the lady's
book. They hastened to the spence, and were relieved of a part of
their anxiety by meeting Mary at the door of the apartment. She did
not seem in the slightest degree alarmed, or disturbed. They rushed
into the spence, (a sort of interior apartment in which the family ate
their victuals in the summer season,) but there was no one there.

"Where is Christie of Clint-hill?" said Martin.

"I do not know," said little Mary; "I never saw him."

"And what made you, ye misleard loons," said Dame Elspeth to her two
boys, "come yon gate into the ha', roaring like bullsegs, to frighten
the leddy, and her far frae strong?" The boys looked at each other in
silence and confusion, and their mother proceeded with her lecture.
"Could ye find nae night for daffin but Hallowe'en, and nae time but
when the leddy was reading to us about the holy Saints? May ne'er be
in my fingers, if I dinna sort ye baith for it!" The eldest boy bent
his eyes on the ground, the younger began to weep, but neither spoke;
and the mother would have proceeded to extremities, but for the
interposition of the little maiden.

"Dame Elspeth, it was _my_ fault--I did say to them, that I saw a
man in the spence."

"And what made you do so, child," said her mother, "to startle us all
thus?"

"Because," said Mary, lowering her voice, "I could not help it."

"Not help it, Mary!--you occasioned all this idle noise, and you could
not help it? How mean you by that, minion?"

"There really was an armed man in this spence," said Mary; "and
because I was surprised to see him, I cried out to Halbert and Edward--"

"She has told it herself," said Halbert Glendinning, "or it had never
been told by me."

"Nor by me neither," said Edward, emulously.

"Mistress Mary," said Elspeth, "you never told us anything before that
was not true; tell us if this was a Hallowe'en cantrip, and make an
end of it." The Lady of Avenel looked as if she would have interfered,
but knew not how; and Elspeth, who was too eagerly curious to regard
any distant hint, persevered in her inquiries. "Was it Christie of the
Clint-hill?--I would not for a mark that he were about the house, and
a body no ken whare."

"It was not Christie," said Mary; "it was--it was a gentleman--a
gentleman with a bright breastplate, like what I hae seen langsyne,
when we dwelt at Avenel--"

"What like was he?" continued Tibb, who now took share in the
investigation.

"Black-haired, black-eyed, with a peaked black beard," said the child;
"and many a fold of pearling round his neck, and hanging down his
breast ower his breastplate; and he had a beautiful hawk, with silver
bells, standing on his left hand, with a crimson silk hood upon its
head--"

"Ask her no more questions, for the love of God," said the anxious
menial to Elspeth, "but look to my leddy!" But the Lady of Avenel,
taking Mary in her hand, turned hastily away, and, walking into the
hall, gave them no opportunity of remarking in what manner she
received the child's communication, which she thus cut short. What
Tibb thought of it appeared from her crossing herself repeatedly, and
whispering into Elspeth's ear, "Saint Mary preserve us!--the lassie
has seen her father!"

When they reached the hall, they found the lady holding her daughter
on her knee, and kissing her repeatedly. When they entered, she again
arose, as if to shun observation, and retired to the little apartment
where her child and she occupied the same bed.

The boys were also sent to their cabin, and no one remained by the
hall fire save the faithful Tibb and dame Elspeth, excellent persons
both, and as thorough gossips as ever wagged a tongue.

It was but natural that they should instantly resume the subject of the
supernatural appearance, for such they deemed it, which had this night
alarmed the family.

"I could hae wished it had been the deil himself--be good to and
preserve us!--rather than Christie o' the Clint-hill," said the matron
of the mansion, "for the word runs rife in the country, that he is ane
of the maist masterfu' thieves ever lap on horse."

"Hout-tout, Dame Elspeth," said Tibb, "fear ye naething frae Christie;
tods keep their ain holes clean. You kirk-folk make sic a fasherie
about men shifting a wee bit for their living! Our Border-lairds would
ride with few men at their back, if a' the light-handed lads were out
o' gate."

"Better they rade wi' nane than distress the country-side the gate they
do," said Dame Elspeth.

"But wha is to haud back the Southron, then," said Tibb, "if ye take
away the lances and broadswords? I trow we auld wives couldna do that
wi' rock and wheel, and as little the monks wi' bell and book."

"And sae weel as the lances and broadswords hae kept them back, I
trow!--I was mair beholden to ae Southron, and that was Stawarth
Bolton, than to a' the border-riders ever wore Saint Andrew's cross--I
reckon their skelping back and forward, and lifting honest men's gear,
has been a main cause of a' the breach between us and England, and I
am sure that cost me a kind goodman. They spoke about the wedding of
the Prince and our Queen, but it's as like to be the driving of the
Cumberland folk's stocking that brought them down on us like dragons."
Tibb would not have failed in other circumstances to answer what she
thought reflections disparaging to her country folk; but she
recollected that Dame Elspeth was mistress of the family, curbed her
own zealous patriotism, and hastened to change the subject.

"And is it not strange," she said, "that the heiress of Avenel should
have seen her father this blessed night?"

"And ye think it was her father, then?" said Elspeth Glendinning.

"What else can I think?" said Tibb.

"It may hae been something waur, in his likeness," said Dame
Glendinning.

"I ken naething about that," said Tibb,--"but his likeness it was,
that I will be sworn to, just as he used to ride out a-hawking; for
having enemies in the country, he seldom laid off the breast-plate;
and for my part," added Tibb, "I dinna think a man looks like a man
unless he has steel on his breast, and by his side too."

"I have no skill of your harness on breast or side either," said Dame
Glendinning; "but I ken there is little luck in Hallowe'en sights, for I
have had ane myself."

"Indeed, Dame Elspeth?" said old Tibb, edging her stool closer to the
huge elbow-chair occupied by her friend, "I should like to hear about
that."

"Ye maun ken, then, Tibb," said Dame Glendinning, "that when I was
a hempie of nineteen or twenty, it wasna my fault if I wasna at a' the
merry-makings time about."

"That was very natural," said Tibb; "but ye hae sobered since that, or
ye wadna haud our braw gallants sae lightly."

"I have had that wad sober me or ony ane," said the matron, "Aweel,
Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack wooers, for I wasna sae
ill-favoured that the tikes wad bark after me."

"How should that be," said Tibb, "and you sic a weel-favoured woman
to this day?"

"Fie, fie, cummer," said the matron of Glendearg, hitching her seat of
honour, in her turn, a little nearer to the cuttle-stool on which Tibb
was seated; "weel-favoured is past my time of day; but I might pass
then, for I wasna sae tocherless but what I had a bit land at my
breast-lace. My father was portioner of Little-dearg."

"Ye hae tell'd me that before," said Tibb; "but anent the Hallowe'en?"

"Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favoured nane o' them;
and sae, at Hallowe'en, Father Nicolas the cellarer--he was cellarer
before this father, Father Clement, that now is--was cracking his nuts
and drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and
they would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me: and the monk
said there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he would assoil me for
it. And wha but I into the barn to winnow my three weights o'
naething--sair, sair my mind misgave me for fear of wrang-doing and
wrang-suffering baith; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not
winnowed the last weight clean out, and the moon was shining bright
upon the floor, when in stalked the presence of my dear Simon
Glendinning, that is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life
than I did that moment; he held up an arrow as he passed me, and I
swarf'd awa wi' fright. Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysell
again, and sair they tried to make me believe it was a trick of Father
Nicolas and Simon between them, and that the arrow was to signify
Cupid's shaft, as the Father called it; and mony a time Simon wad
threep it to me after I was married--gude man, he liked not it should
be said that he was seen out o' the body!--But mark the end o' it,
Tibb; we were married, and the gray-goose wing was the death o' him
after a'!"

"As it has been of ower mony brave men," said Tibb; "I wish there
wasna sic a bird as a goose in the wide warld, forby the clecking that
we hae at the burn-side."

"But tell me, Tibb," said Dame Glendinning, "what does your leddy aye
do reading out o' that thick black book wi' the silver clasps?--there
are ower mony gude words in it to come frae ony body but a priest--An
it were about Robin Hood, or some o' David Lindsay's ballants, ane wad
ken better what to say to it. I am no misdoubting your mistress nae
way, but I wad like ill to hae a decent house haunted wi' ghaists and
gyrecarlines."

"Ye hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or ony thing she says or does,
Dame Glendinning," said the faithful Tibb, something offended; "and
touching the bairn, it's weel kend she was born on Hallowe'en, was nine
years gane, and they that are born on Hallowe'en whiles see mair than
ither folk."

"And that wad be the cause, then, that the bairn didna mak muckle din
about what it saw?--if it had been my Halbert himself, forby Edward,
who is of softer nature, he wad hae yammered the haill night of a
constancy.  But it's like Mistress Mary hae sic sights mair natural to
her."

"That may weel be," said Tibb; "for on Hallowe'en she was born, as I
tell ye, and our auld parish priest wad fain hae had the night ower,
and All-Hallow day begun. But for a' that, the sweet bairn is just
like ither bairns, as ye may see yourself; and except this blessed
night, and ance before when we were in that weary bog on the road
here, I kenna that it saw mair than ither folk."

"But what saw she in the bog, then," said Dame Glendinning, "forby
moor-cocks and heather-blutters?"

"The wean saw something like a white leddy that weised us the gate,"
said Tibb; "when we were like to hae perished in the moss-hags--
certain it was that Shagram reisted, and I ken Martin thinks he saw
something."

"And what might the white leddy be?" said Elspeth; "have ye ony
guess o' that?"

"It's weel kend that, Dame Elspeth," said Tibb; "if ye had lived under
grit folk, as I hae dune, ye wadna be to seek in that matter."

"I hae aye keepit my ain ha' house abune my head," said Elspeth, not
without emphasis, "and if I havena lived wi' grit folk, grit folk have
lived wi' me."

"Weel, weel, dame," said Tibb, "your pardon's prayed, there was nae
offence meant. But ye maun ken the great ancient families canna be
just served wi' the ordinary saunts, (praise to them!) like Saunt
Anthony, Saunt Cuthbert, and the like, that come and gang at every
sinner's bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or angels, or what
not, to themsells; and as for the White Maiden of Avenel, she is kend
ower the haill country. And she is aye seen to yammer and wail before
ony o' that family dies, as was weel kend by twenty folk before the
death of Walter Avenel, haly be his cast!"

"If she can do nae mair than that," said Elspeth, somewhat scornfully,
"they needna make mony vows to her, I trow. Can she make nae better
fend for them than that, and has naething better to do than wait on
them?"

"Mony braw services can the White Maiden do for them to the boot of
that, and has dune in the auld histories," said Tibb, "but I mind o'
naething in my day, except it was her that the bairn saw in the bog."

"Aweel, aweel, Tibb," said Dame Glendinning, rising and lighting the
iron lamp, "these are great privileges of your grand folk. But our
Lady and Saunt Paul are good eneugh saunts for me, and I'se warrant
them never leave me in a bog that they can help me out o', seeing I
send four waxen candles to their chapels every Candlemas; and if they
are not seen to weep at my death, I'se warrant them smile at my joyful
rising again, whilk Heaven send to all of us, Amen."

"Amen," answered Tibb, devoutly; "and now it's time I should hap up
the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is ower low."

Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict of Simon
Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a heedful and cautious
glance all around the hall, to see that nothing was out of its proper
place; then, wishing Tibb good-night, she retired to repose.

"The deil's in the carline," said Tibb to herself, "because she was
the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself grander, I trow, than the
bower-woman of a lady of that ilk!" Having given vent to her
suppressed spleen in this little ejaculation, Tibb also betook herself
to slumber.




Chapter the Fifth.


  A priest, ye cry, a priest!--lame shepherds they,
  How shall they gather in the straggling flock?
  Dumb dogs which bark not--how shall they compel
  The loitering vagrants to the Master's fold?
  Fitter to bask before the blazing fire,
  And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses,
  Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf.
                           REFORMATION.


The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradually decaying ever
since her disaster. It seemed as if the few years which followed her
husband's death had done on her the work of half a century. She lost
the fresh elasticity of form, the colour and the mien of health, and
became wasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have no formed
complaint; yet it was evident to those who looked on her, that her
strength waned daily. Her lips at length became blenched and her eye
dim; yet she spoke not of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth
Glendinning in her zeal could not refrain from touching upon a point
which she deemed essential to salvation. Alice of Avenel received her
hint kindly, and thanked her for it.

"If any good priest would take the trouble of such a journey," she
said, "he should be welcome; for the prayers and lessons of the good
must be at all times advantageous."

This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth Glendinning wished
or expected. She made up, however, by her own enthusiasm, for the
lady's want of eagerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and
Martin was despatched with such haste as Shagram would make, to pray
one of the religious men of Saint Mary's to come up to administer the
last consolations to the widow of Walter Avenel.

When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, that the Lady of
the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in very weak health in the Tower of
Glendearg, and desired the assistance of a father confessor, the
lordly monk paused on the request.

"We do remember Walter de Avenel," he said; "a good knight and a
valiant: he was dispossessed of his lands, and slain by the
Southron--May not the lady come hither to the sacrament of confession?
the road is distant and painful to travel."

"The lady is unwell, holy father," answered the Sacristan, "and unable
to bear the journey."

"True--ay,--yes--then must one of our brethren go to her--Knowest
thou if she hath aught of a jointure from this Walter de Avenel?"

"Very little, holy father," said the Sacristan; "she hath resided at
Glendearg since her husband's death, well-nigh on the charity of a
poor widow, called Elspeth Glendinning."

"Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country-side!" said the
Abbot. "Ho! ho! ho!" and he shook his portly sides at his own jest.

"Ho! ho! ho!" echoed the Sacristan, in the tone and tune in which an
inferior applauds the jest of his superior.--Then added, with a
hypocritical shuffle, and a sly twinkle of his eye, "It is our duty,
most holy father, to comfort the widow--He! he! he!"

This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot should put his
sanction on the jest.

"Ho! ho!" said the Abbot; "then, to leave jesting, Father Philip, take
thou thy riding gear, and go to confess this Dame Avenel."

"But," said the Sacristan----

"Give me no _Buts;_ neither But nor If pass between monk and
Abbot, Father Philip; the bands of discipline must not be
relaxed--heresy gathers force like a snow-ball--the multitude expect
confessions and preachings from the Benedictine, as they would from so
many beggarly friars--and we may not desert the vineyard, though the
toil be grievous unto us."

"And with so little advantage to the holy monastery," said the
Sacristan.

"True, Father Philip; but wot you not that what preventeth harm doth
good? This Julian de Avenel lives a light and evil life, and should we
neglect the widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we
never able to show who hurt us--moreover it is our duty to an ancient
family, who, in their day, have been benefactors to the Abbey. Away
with thee instantly, brother; ride night and day, an it be necessary,
and let men see how diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children
are in the execution of their spiritual duty--toil not deterring them,
for the glen is five miles in length--fear not withholding them, for
it is said to be haunted of spectres--nothing moving them from pursuit
of their spiritual calling; to the confusion of calumnious heretics,
and the comfort and edification of all true and faithful sons of the
Catholic Church. I wonder what our brother Eustace will say to this?"

Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil which he was
to encounter, and the fame which he was to acquire, (both by proxy,)
the Abbot moved slowly to finish his luncheon in the refectory, and
the Sacristan, with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his
return to Glendearg; the greatest impediment in the journey being the
trouble of restraining his pampered mule, that she might tread in
something like an equal pace with poor jaded Shagram.

After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, the monk
returned moody and full of thought. Dame Elspeth, who had placed for
the honoured guest some refreshment in the hall, was struck with the
embarrassment which appeared in his countenance. Elspeth watched him
with great anxiety. She observed there was that on his brow which
rather resembled a person come from hearing the confession of some
enormous crime, than the look of a confessor who resigns a reconciled
penitent, not to earth, but to heaven. After long hesitating, she
could not at length refrain from hazarding a question. She was sure
she said, the leddy had made an easy shrift.  Five years had they
resided together, and she could safely say, no woman lived better.

"Woman," said the Sacristan, sternly, "thou speakest thou knowest not
what--What avails clearing the outside of the platter, if the inside
be foul with heresy?"

"Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they could be wished,
holy father," said Elspeth, but half understanding what he said, and
beginning with her apron to wipe the dust from the plates, of which
she supposed him to complain.

"Forbear, Dame Elspeth" said the monk; "your plates are as clean as
wooden trenchers and pewter flagons can well be; the foulness of which
I speak is of that pestilential heresy which is daily becoming
ingrained in this our Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm in
the rose-garland of the Spouse."

"Holy Mother of Heaven!" said Dame Elspeth, crossing herself, "have
I kept house with a heretic?"

"No, Elspeth, no," replied the monk; "it were too strong a speech for
me to make of this unhappy lady, but I would I could say she is free
from heretical opinions. Alas! they fly about like the pestilence by
noon-day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! For it
is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high in judgment as in
rank."

"And she can write and read, I had almost said, as weel as your
reverence" said Elspeth.

"Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read?" said the monk,
eagerly.

"Nay," replied Elspeth, "I cannot say I ever saw her write at all, but
her maiden that was--she now serves the family--says she can write--And
for reading, she has often read to us good things out of a thick black
volume with silver clasps."

"Let me see it," said the monk, hastily, "on your allegiance as a true
vassal--on your faith as a Catholic Christian--instantly--instantly
let me see it."

The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in which the confessor
took up her information; and being moreover of opinion, that what so
good a woman as the Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be
of a tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamour,
exclamations, and something like threats used by Father Philip, she at
length brought him the fatal volume. It was easy to do this without
suspicion on the part of the owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted
with the fatigue of a long conference with her confessor, and as the
small _round_, or turret closet, in which was the book and her
other trifling property, was accessible by another door. Of all her
effects the book was the last she would have thought of securing, for
of what use or interest could it be in a family who neither read
themselves, nor were in the habit of seeing any who did? so that Dame
Elspeth had no difficulty in possessing herself of the volume,
although her heart all the while accused her of an ungenerous and an
inhospitable part towards her friend and inmate. The double power of a
landlord and a feudal superior was before her eyes; and to say truth,
the boldness, with which she might otherwise have resisted this double
authority, was, I grieve to say it, much qualified by the curiosity
she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, to have some explanation
respecting the mysterious volume which the lady cherished with so much
care, yet whose contents she imparted with such caution. For never had
Alice of Avenel read them any passage from the book in question until
the iron door of the tower was locked, and all possibility of
intrusion prevented. Even then she had shown, by the selection of
particular passages, that she was more anxious to impress on their
minds the principles which the volume contained, than to introduce
them to it as a new rule of faith.

When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had placed the book in the
monk's hands, he exclaimed, after turning over the leaves, "Now, by mine
order, it is as I suspected!--My mule, my mule!--I will abide no longer
here--well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my hands this perilous
volume."

"Is it then witchcraft or devil's work?" said Dame Elspeth, in great
agitation.

"Nay, God forbid!" said the monk, signing himself with the cross, "it
is the Holy Scripture. But it is rendered into the vulgar tongue, and
therefore, by the order of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to be in
the hands of any lay person."

"And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our common salvation,"
said Elspeth. "Good Father, you must instruct mine ignorance better;
but lack of wit cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor
thinking, I should be glad to read the Holy Scripture."

"I dare say thou wouldst," said the monk; "and even thus did our
mother Eve seek to have knowledge of good and evil, and thus Sin came
into the world, and Death by Sin."

"I am sure, and it is true," said Elspeth. "Oh, if she had dealt by the
counsel of Saint Peter and Saint Paul!"

"If she had reverenced the command of Heaven," said the monk, "which,
as it gave her birth, life, and happiness, fixed upon the grant such
conditions as best corresponded with its holy pleasure. I tell thee,
Elspeth, _the Word slayeth_--that is, the text alone, read with
unskilled eye and unhallowed lips, is like those strong medicines
which sick men take by the advice of the learned. Such patients
recover and thrive; while those dealing in them at their own hand,
shall perish by their own deed."

"Nae doubt, nae doubt," said the poor woman, "your reverence knows
best."

"Not I," said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential as he thought
could possibly become the Sacristan of Saint Mary's,--"Not I, but the
Holy Father of Christendom, and our own holy father, the Lord Abbot,
know best. I, the poor Sacristan of Saint Mary's, can but repeat what
I hear from others my superiors. Yet of this, good woman, be
assured,--the Word, the mere Word, slayetlh. But the church hath her
ministers to gloze and to expound the same unto her faithful
congregation; and this I say, not so much, my beloved brethren--I mean
my beloved sister," (for the Sacristan had got into the end of one of
his old sermons,)--"This I speak not so much of the rectors, curates,
and secular clergy, so called because they live after the fashion of
the _seculum_ or age, unbound by those ties which sequestrate us
from the world; neither do I speak this of the mendicant friars,
whether black or gray, whether crossed or uncrossed; but of the monks,
and especially of the monks Benedictine, reformed on the rule of Saint
Bernard of Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of which monks,
Christian brethren--sister, I would say--great is the happiness and
glory of the country in possessing the holy ministers of Saint Mary's,
whereof I, though an unworthy brother, may say it hath produced more
saints, more bishops, more popes--may our patrons make us
thankful!--than any holy foundation in Scotland. Wherefore--But I see
Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I will but salute you with the
kiss of sisterhood, which maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my
toilsome return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil
spirits which haunt it.  Moreover, I may arrive too late at the
bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take to the river, which I
observed to be somewhat waxen."

Accordingly, he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who was confounded by
the rapidity of his utterance, and the doctrine he gave forth, and by
no means easy on the subject of the book, which her conscience told
her she should not have communicated to any one, without the knowledge
of its owner.

Notwithstanding the haste which the monk as well as the mule made to
return to better quarters than they had left at the head of Glendearg;
notwithstanding the eager desire Father Philip had to be the very
first who should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they most
dreaded had been found within the Halidome, or patrimony of the Abbey;
notwithstanding, moreover, certain feelings which induced him to hurry
as fast as possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still
the difficulties of the road, and the rider's want of habitude of
quick motion, were such, that twilight came upon him ere he had nearly
cleared the narrow valley.  It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides
of the vale were so near, that at every double of the river the
shadows from the western sky fell upon, and totally obscured, the
eastern bank; the thickets of copsewood seemed to wave with a
portentous agitation of boughs and leaves, and the very crags and
scaurs seemed higher and grimmer than they had appeared to the monk
while he was travelling in daylight, and in company. Father Philip was
heartily rejoiced, when, emerging from the narrow glen, he gained the
open valley of the Tweed, which held on its majestic course from
current to pool, and from pool stretched away to other currents, with
a dignity peculiar to itself amongst the Scottish rivers; for whatever
may have been the drought of the season, the Tweed usually fills up
the space between its banks, seldom leaving those extensive sheets of
shingle which deform the margins of many of the celebrated Scottish
streams.

The monk, insensible to beauties which the age had not regarded as
deserving of notice, was, nevertheless, like a prudent general,
pleased to find himself out of the narrow glen in which the enemy
might have stolen upon him unperceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced
his mule to her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the agitating
and broken trot at which, to his no small inconvenience, she had
hitherto proceeded, and, wiping his brow, gazed forth at leisure on
the broad moon, which, now mingling with the lights of evening, was
rising over field and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all,
over the stately Monastery, seen far and dim amid the vellow light.

The worst part of the magnificent view, in the monk's apprehension,
was, that the Monastery stood on the opposite side of the river, and
that of the many fine bridges which have since been built across that
classical stream, not one then existed. There was, however, in
recompense, a bridge then standing which has since disappeared,
although its ruins may still be traced by the curious.

It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments were built on
either side of the river, at a part where the stream was peculiarly
contracted.  Upon a rock in the centre of the current was built a
solid piece of masonry, constructed like the pier of a bridge, and
presenting, like a pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The
masonry continued solid until the pier rose to a level with the two
abutments upon either side, and from thence the building rose in the
form of a tower. The lower story of this tower consisted only of an
archway or passage through the building, over either entrance to which
hung a drawbridge with counterpoises, either of which, when dropped,
connected the archway with the opposite abutment, where the farther
end of the drawbridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, the
passage over the river was complete.

The bridge-keeper, who was the dependant of a neighbouring baron,
resided with his family in the second and third stories of the tower,
which, when both drawbridges were raised, formed an insulated
fortalice in the midst of the river. He was entitled to a small toll
or custom for the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes
sometimes arose between him and the passengers. It is needless to say,
that the bridge-ward had usually the better in these questions, since
he could at pleasure detain the traveller on the opposite side; or,
suffering him to pass half way, might keep him prisoner in his tower
till they were agreed on the rate of pontage.

[Footnote: A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the
text, actually existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a half above
Melrose, called from the circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed
in Gordon's _Iter Septentrionale_:--

"In another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile
and a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains
of a curious bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three
octangular pillars, or rather towers, standing within the water,
without any arches to join them. The middle one, which is the most
entire, has a door towards the north, and I suppose another opposite
one toward the south, which I could not see without crossing the
water. In the middle of this tower is a projection or cornice
surrounding it: the whole is hollow from the door upwards, and now
open at the top, near which is a small window. I was informed that not
long agro a countryman and his family lived in this tower--and got his
livelihood by laying out planks from pillar to pillar, and conveying
passengers over the river. Whether this be ancient or modern, I know
not; but as it is singular in its kind I have thought fit to exhibit
it."

The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the
author has often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting
down the Tweed at night for the purpose of killing salmon by
torch-light. Mr. John Mercer of Bridge-end recollects, that about
fifty years ago the pillars were visible above water; and the late Mr.
David Kyle, of the George Inn, Melrose, told the author that he saw a
stone taken from the river bearing this inscription:--