[Illustration: ROLAND GRAEME AND CATHERINE SETON BEFORE QUEEN MARY.]



           THE ABBOT.

BEING THE SEQUEL TO THE MONASTERY.

     By Sir Walter Scott


     *     *     *     *     *

INTRODUCTION--(1831.)

From what is said in the Introduction to the Monastery, it must
necessarily be inferred, that the Author considered that romance as
something very like a failure. It is true, the booksellers did not
complain of the sale, because, unless on very felicitous occasions, or
on those which are equally the reverse, literary popularity is not
gained or lost by a single publication. Leisure must be allowed for
the tide both to flow and ebb. But I was conscious that, in my
situation, not to advance was in some Degree to recede, and being
naturally unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay in
myself, I was at least desirous to know of a certainty, whether the
degree of discountenance which I had incurred, was now owing to an
ill-managed story, or an ill-chosen subject.

I was never, I confess, one of those who are willing to suppose the
brains of an author to be a kind of milk, which will not stand above a
single creaming, and who are eternally harping to young authors to
husband their efforts, and to be chary of their reputation, lest it
grow hackneyed in the eyes of men. Perhaps I was, and have always
been, the more indifferent to the degree of estimation in which I
might be held as an author, because I did not put so high a value as
many others upon what is termed literary reputation in the abstract,
or at least upon the species of popularity which had fallen to my
share; for though it were worse than affectation to deny that my
vanity was satisfied at my success in the department in which chance
had in some measure enlisted me, I was, nevertheless, far from
thinking that the novelist or romance-writer stands high in the ranks
of literature. But I spare the reader farther egotism on this subject,
as I have expressed my opinion very fully in the Introductory Epistle
to the Fortunes of Nigel, first edition; and, although it be composed
in an imaginary character, it is as sincere and candid as if it had
been written "without my gown and band."

In a word, when I considered myself as having been unsuccessful in the
Monastery, I was tempted to try whether I could not restore, even at
the risk of totally losing, my so-called reputation, by a new
hazard--I looked round my library, and could not but observe, that,
from the time of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular authors
had been the most prolific. Even the aristarch Johnson allowed that
the quality of readiness and profusion had a merit in itself,
independent of the intrinsic value of the composition. Talking of
Churchill, I believe, who had little merit in his prejudiced eyes, he
allowed him that of fertility, with some such qualification as this,
"A Crab-apple can bear but crabs after all; but there is a great
difference in favour of that which bears a large quantity of fruit,
however indifferent, and that which produces only a few."

Looking more attentively at the patriarchs of literature, whose earner
was as long as it was brilliant, I thought I perceived that in the
busy and prolonged course of exertion, there were no doubt occasional
failures, but that still those who were favourites of their age
triumphed over these miscarriages. By the new efforts which they
made, their errors were obliterated, they became identified with the
literature of their country, and after having long received law from
the critics, came in some degree to impose it. And when such a writer
was at length called from the scene, his death first made the public
sensible what a large share he had occupied in their attention. I
recollected a passage in Grimm's Correspondence, that while the
unexhausted Voltaire sent forth tract after tract to the very close of
a long life, the first impression made by each as it appeared, was,
that it was inferior to its predecessors; an opinion adopted from the
general idea that the Patriarch of Ferney must at last find the point
from which he was to decline. But the opinion of the public finally
ranked in succession the last of Voltaire's Essays on the same footing
with those which had formerly charmed the French nation. The inference
from this and similar facts seemed to me to be, that new works were
often judged of by the public, not so much from their own intrinsic
merit, as from extrinsic ideas which readers had previously formed
with regard to them, and over which a writer might hope to triumph by
patience and by exertion. There is risk in the attempt;

"If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim."

But this is a chance incident to every literary attempt, and by which
men of a sanguine temper are little moved.

I may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of most men in
travelling. If we have found any stage particularly tedious, or in an
especial degree interesting, particularly short, or much longer than
we expected, our imaginations are so apt to exaggerate the original
impression, that, on repeating the journey, we usually find that we
have considerably over-rated the predominating quality, and the road
appears to be duller or more pleasant, shorter or more tedious, than
what we expected, and, consequently, than what is actually the case.
It requires a third or fourth journey to enable us to form an accurate
judgment of its beauty, its length, or its other attributes.

In the same manner, the public, judging of a new work, which it
receives perhaps with little expectation, if surprised into applause,
becomes very often ecstatic, gives a great deal more approbation than
is due, and elevates the child of its immediate favour to a rank
which, as it affects the author, it is equally difficult to keep, and
painful to lose. If, on this occasion, the author trembles at the
height to which he is raised, and becomes afraid of the shadow of his
own renown, he may indeed retire from the lottery with the prize which
he has drawn, but, in future ages, his honour will be only in
proportion to his labours. If, on the contrary, he rushes again into
the lists, he is sure to be judged with severity proportioned to the
former favour of the public. If he be daunted by a bad reception on
this second occasion, he may again become a stranger to the arena. If,
on the contrary, he can keep his ground, and stand the shuttlecock's
fate, of being struck up and down, he will probably, at length, hold
with some certainty the level in public opinion which he may be found
to deserve; and he may perhaps boast of arresting the general
attention, in the same manner as the Bachelor Samson Carrasco, of
fixing the weathercock La Giralda of Seville for weeks, months, or
years, that is, for as long as the wind shall uniformly blow from one
quarter. To this degree of popularity the author had the hardihood to
aspire, while, in order to attain it, he assumed the daring resolution
to keep himself in the view of the public by frequent appearances
before them.

It must be added, that the author's incognito gave him greater courage
to renew his attempts to please the public, and an advantage similar
to that which Jack the Giant-killer received from his coat of
darkness. In sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, he
had used the well-known practice recommended by Bassanio:--

  "In my school days, when I had lost one shaft,
  I shot another of the self-same flight,
  The self-same way, with more advised watch,
  To find the other forth."

And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of the lesser
Ajax, were discharged more readily that the archer was as inaccessible
to criticism, personally speaking, as the Grecian archer under his
brother's sevenfold shield.

Should the reader desire to know upon what principles the Abbot was
expected to amend the fortune of the Monastery, I have first to
request his attention to the Introductory Epistle addressed to the
imaginary Captain Clutterbuck; a mode by which, like his predecessors
in this walk of fiction, the real author makes one of his _dramatis
personae_ the means of communicating his own sentiments to the
public, somewhat more artificially than by a direct address to the
readers. A pleasing French writer of fairy tales, Monsieur Pajon,
author of the History of Prince Soly, has set a diverting example of
the same machinery, where he introduces the presiding Genius of the
land of Romance conversing with one of the personages of the tale.

In this Introductory Epistle, the author communicates, in confidence,
to Captain Clutterbuck, his sense that the White Lady had not met the
taste of the times, and his reason for withdrawing her from the scene.
The author did not deem it equally necessary to be candid respecting
another alteration. The Monastery was designed, at first, to have
contained some supernatural agency, arising out of the fact, that
Melrose had been the place of deposit of the great Robert Bruce's
heart. The writer shrunk, however, from filling up, in this
particular, the sketch as it was originally traced; nor did he venture
to resume, in continuation, the subject which he had left unattempted
in the original work. Thus, the incident of the discovery of the
heart, which occupies the greater part of the Introduction to the
Monastery, is a mystery unnecessarily introduced, and which remains at
last very imperfectly explained. In this particular, I was happy to
shroud myself by the example of the author of "Caleb Williams," who
never condescends to inform us of the actual contents of that Iron
Chest which makes such a figure in his interesting work, and gives the
name to Mr. Colman's drama.

The public had some claim to inquire into this matter, but it seemed
indifferent policy in the author to give the explanation. For,
whatever praise may be due to the ingenuity which brings to a general
combination all the loose threads of a narrative, like the knitter at
the finishing of her stocking, I am greatly deceived if in many cases
a superior advantage is not attained, by the air of reality which the
deficiency of explanation attaches to a work written on a different
system. In life itself, many things befall every mortal, of which the
individual never knows the real cause or origin; and were we to point
out the most marked distinction between a real and a fictitious
narrative, we would say, that the former in reference to the remote
causes of the events it relates, is obscure, doubtful, and mysterious;
whereas, in the latter case, it is a part of the author's duty to
afford satisfactory details upon the causes of the separate events he
has recorded, and, in a word, to account for every thing. The reader,
like Mungo in the Padlock, will not be satisfied with hearing what he
is not made fully to comprehend.

I omitted, therefore, in the Introduction to the Abbot, any attempt to
explain the previous story, or to apologize for unintelligibility.

Neither would it have been prudent to have endeavoured to proclaim, in
the Introduction to the Abbot, the real spring, by which I hoped it
might attract a greater degree of interest than its immediate
predecessor. A taking title, or the announcement of a popular subject,
is a recipe for success much in favour with booksellers, but which
authors will not always find efficacious. The cause is worth a
moment's examination.

There occur in every country some peculiar historical characters,
which are, like a spell or charm, sovereign to excite curiosity and
attract attention, since every one in the slightest degree interested
in the land which they belong to, has heard much of them, and longs to
hear more. A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred or Elizabeth in
England, or of Wallace or Bruce in Scotland, is sure by the very
announcement to excite public curiosity to a considerable degree, and
ensure the publisher's being relieved of the greater part of an
impression, even before the contents of the work are known. This is of
the last importance to the bookseller, who is at once, to use a
technical phrase, "brought home," all his outlay being repaid. But it
is a different case with the author, since it cannot be denied that we
are apt to feel least satisfied with the works of which we have been
induced, by titles and laudatory advertisements, to entertain
exaggerated expectations. The intention of the work has been
anticipated, and misconceived or misrepresented, and although the
difficulty of executing the work again reminds us of Hotspur's task of
"o'er-walking a current roaring loud," yet the adventurer must look
for more ridicule if he fails, than applause if he executes, his
undertaking.

Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors pause ere they adopt
a theme which, exciting general interest and curiosity, is often the
preparative for disappointment, yet it would be an injudicious
regulation which should deter the poet or painter from attempting to
introduce historical portraits, merely from the difficulty of
executing the task in a satisfactory manner. Something must be trusted
to the generous impulse, which often thrusts an artist upon feats of
which he knows the difficulty, while he trusts courage and exertion
may afford the means of surmounting it.

It is especially when he is sensible of losing ground with the public,
that an author may be justified in using with address, such selection
of subject or title as is most likely to procure a rehearing. It was
with these feelings of hope and apprehension, that I venture to
awaken, in a work of fiction, the memory of Queen Mary, so interesting
by her wit, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the mystery which still
does, and probably always will, overhang her history. In doing so, I
was aware that failure would be a conclusive disaster, so that my task
was something like that of an enchanter who raises a spirit over whom
he is uncertain of possessing an effectual control; and I naturally
paid attention to such principles of composition, as I conceived were
best suited to the historical novel.

Enough has been already said to explain the purpose of composing the
Abbot. The historical references are, as usual, explained in the
notes. That which relates to Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven
Castle, is a more minute account of that romantic adventure, than is
to be found in the histories of the period.

  ABBOTSFORD,
  1_st January_, 1831.



     *     *     *     *     *

INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE.

FROM THE AUTHOR OF "WAVERLEY," TO CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, LATE OF HIS
MAJESTY'S ---- REGIMENT OF INFANTRY.

DEAR CAPTAIN:

I am sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you disapprove of the
numerous retrenchments and alterations which I have been under the
necessity of making on the Manuscript of your friend, the Benedictine,
and I willingly make you the medium of apology to many, who have
honoured me more than I deserve.

I admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, and leave gaps in
the story, which, in your original manuscript, would have run
well-nigh to a fourth volume, as my printer assures me. I am sensible,
besides, that, in consequence of the liberty of curtailment you have
allowed me, some parts of the story have been huddled up without the
necessary details. But, after all, it is better that the travellers
should have to step over a ditch, than to wade through a morass--that
the reader should have to suppose what may easily be inferred, than be
obliged to creep through pages of dull explanation. I have struck out,
for example, the whole machinery of the White Lady, and the poetry by
which it is so ably supported, in the original manuscript. But you
must allow that the public taste gives little encouragement to those
legendary superstitions, which formed alternately the delight and the
terror of our predecessors. In like manner, much is omitted
illustrative of the impulse of enthusiasm in favour of the ancient
religion in Mother Magdalen and the Abbot. But we do not feel deep
sympathy at this period with what was once the most powerful and
animating principle in Europe, with the exception of that of the
Reformation, by which it was successfully opposed.

You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have rendered the title
no longer applicable to the subject, and that some other would have
been more suitable to the Work, in its present state, than that of THE
ABBOT, who made so much greater figure in the original, and for whom
your friend, the Benedictine, seems to have inspired you with a
sympathetic respect. I must plead guilty to this accusation,
observing, at the same time, in manner of extenuation, that though the
objection might have been easily removed, by giving a new title to the
Work, yet, in doing so, I should have destroyed the necessary cohesion
between the present history, and its predecessor THE MONASTERY, which
I was unwilling to do, as the period, and several of the personages,
were the same.

After all, my good friend, it is of little consequence what the work
is called, or on what interest it turns, provided it catches the
public attention; for the quality of the wine (could we but insure it)
may, according to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of
little consequence.

I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent with prudence
to establish your Tilbury, and approve of the colour, and of your
boy's livery, (subdued green and pink.)--As you talk of completing
your descriptive poem on the "Ruins of Kennaquhair, with notes by an
Antiquary," I hope you have procured a steady horse.--I remain, with
compliments to all friends, dear Captain, very much

Yours, &c. &c. &c.

THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.

     *     *     *     *     *


          THE ABBOT.


     *     *     *     *     *



Chapter the First.


  _Domum mansit--lanam fecit._
              Ancient Roman Epitaph.

  She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele.
                                      GAWAIN DOUGLAS.

The time which passes over our heads so imperceptibly, makes the same
gradual change in habits, manners, and character, as in personal
appearance. At the revolution of every five years we find ourselves
another, and yet the same--there is a change of views, and no less of
the light in which we regard them; a change of motives as well as of
actions. Nearly twice that space had glided away over the head of
Halbert Glendinning and his lady, betwixt the period of our former
narrative, in which they played a distinguished part, and the date at
which our present tale commences.

Two circumstances only had imbittered their union, which was otherwise
as happy as mutual affection could render it. The first of these was
indeed the common calamity of Scotland, being the distracted state of
that unhappy country, where every man's sword was directed against his
neighbour's bosom. Glendinning had proved what Murray expected of him,
a steady friend, strong in battle, and wise in counsel, adhering to
him, from motives of gratitude, in situations where by his own
unbiassed will he would either have stood neuter, or have joined the
opposite party. Hence, when danger was near--and it was seldom far
distant--Sir Halbert Glendinning, for he now bore the rank of
knighthood, was perpetually summoned to attend his patron on distant
expeditions, or on perilous enterprises, or to assist him with his
counsel in the doubtful intrigues of a half-barbarous court. He was
thus frequently, and for a long space, absent from his castle and from
his lady; and to this ground of regret we must add, that their union
had not been blessed with children, to occupy the attention of the
Lady of Avenel, while she was thus deprived of her husband's domestic
society.

On such occasions she lived almost entirely secluded from the world,
within the walls of her paternal mansion. Visiting amongst neighbors
was a matter entirely out of the question, unless on occasions of
solemn festival, and then it was chiefly confined to near kindred. Of
these the Lady of Avenel had none who survived, and the dames of the
neighbouring barons affected to regard her less as the heiress of the
house of Avenel than as the wife of a peasant, the son of a
church-vassal, raised up to mushroom eminence by the capricious favour
of Murray.

The pride of ancestry, which rankled in the bosom of the ancient
gentry, was more openly expressed by their ladies, and was, moreover,
imbittered not a little by the political feuds of the time, for most
of the Southern chiefs were friends to the authority of the Queen, and
very jealous of the power of Murray. The Castle of Avenel was,
therefore, on all these accounts, as melancholy and solitary a
residence for its lady as could well be imagined. Still it had the
essential recommendation of great security. The reader is already
aware that the fortress was built upon an islet on a small lake, and
was only accessible by a causeway, intersected by a double ditch,
defended by two draw-bridges, so that without artillery, it might in
those days be considered as impregnable. It was only necessary,
therefore, to secure against surprise, and the service of six able men
within the castle was sufficient for that purpose. If more serious
danger threatened, an ample garrison was supplied by the male
inhabitants of a little hamlet, which, under the auspices of Halbert
Glendinning, had arisen on a small piece of level ground, betwixt the
lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to the spot where the causeway
joined the mainland.  The Lord of Avenel had found it an easy matter
to procure inhabitants, as he was not only a kind and beneficent
overlord, but well qualified, both by his experience in arms, his high
character for wisdom and integrity, and his favour with the powerful
Earl of Murray, to protect and defend those who dwelt under his
banner. In leaving his castle for any length of time, he had,
therefore, the consolation to reflect, that this village afforded, on
the slightest notice, a band of thirty stout men, which was more than
sufficient for its defence; while the families of the villagers, as
was usual on such occasions, fled to the recesses of the mountains,
drove their cattle to the same places of shelter, and left the enemy
to work their will on their miserable cottages.

One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, at the Castle of
Avenel. This was Henry Warden, who now felt himself less able for the
stormy task imposed on the reforming clergy; and having by his zeal
given personal offence to many of the leading nobles and chiefs, did
not consider himself as perfectly safe, unless when within the walls
of the strong mansion of some assured friend. He ceased not, however,
to serve his cause as eagerly with his pen, as he had formerly done
with his tongue, and had engaged in a furious and acrimonious contest,
concerning the sacrifice of the mass, as it was termed, with the Abbot
Eustatius, formerly the Sub-Prior of Kennaquhair. Answers, replies,
duplies, triplies, quadruplies, followed thick upon each other, and
displayed, as is not unusual in controversy, fully as much zeal as
Christian charity. The disputation very soon became as celebrated as
that of John Knox and the Abbot of Crosraguel, raged nearly as
fiercely, and, for aught I know, the publications to which it gave
rise may be as precious in the eyes of bibliographers. [Footnote: The
tracts which appeared in the Disputation between the Scottish Reformer
and Quentin Kennedy, Abbot of Crosraguel, are among the scarcest in
Scottish Bibliography. See M'Crie's _Life of Knox_, p. 258.] But
the engrossing nature of his occupation rendered the theologian not
the most interesting companion for a solitary female; and his grave,
stern, and absorbed deportment, which seldom showed any interest,
except in that which concerned his religious profession, made his
presence rather add to than diminish the gloom which hung over the
Castle of Avenel. To superintend the tasks of numerous female
domestics, was the principal part of the Lady's daily employment; her
spindle and distaff, her Bible, and a solitary walk upon the
battlements of the castle, or upon the causeway, or occasionally, but
more seldom, upon the banks of the little lake, consumed the rest of
the day. But so great was the insecurity of the period, that when she
ventured to extend her walk beyond the hamlet, the warder on the
watch-tower was directed to keep a sharp look-out in every direction,
and four or five men held themselves in readiness to mount and sally
forth from the castle on the slightest appearance of alarm.

Thus stood affairs at the castle, when, after an absence of several
weeks, the Knight of Avenel, which was now the title most frequently
given to Sir Halbert Glendinning, was daily expected to return home.
Day after day, however, passed away, and he returned not. Letters in
those days were rarely written, and the Knight must have resorted to a
secretary to express his intentions in that manner; besides,
intercourse of all kinds was precarious and unsafe, and no man cared
to give any public intimation of the time and direction of a journey,
since, if his route were publicly known, it was always likely he might
in that case meet with more enemies than friends upon the road. The
precise day, therefore, of Sir Halbert's return, was not fixed, but
that which his lady's fond expectation had calculated upon in her own
mind had long since passed, and hope delayed began to make the heart
sick.

It was upon the evening of a sultry summer's day, when the sun was
half-sunk behind the distant western mountains of Liddesdale, that the
Lady took her solitary walk on the battlements of a range of
buildings, which formed the front of the castle, where a flat roof of
flag-stones presented a broad and convenient promenade. The level
surface of the lake, undisturbed except by the occasional dipping of a
teal-duck, or coot, was gilded with the beams of the setting luminary,
and reflected, as if in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it
lay embossed. The scene, otherwise so lonely, was occasionally
enlivened by the voices of the children in the village, which,
softened by distance, reached the ear of the Lady, in her solitary
walk, or by the distant call of the herdsman, as he guided his cattle
from the glen in which they had pastured all day, to place them in
greater security for the night, in the immediate vicinity of the
village. The deep lowing of the cows seemed to demand the attendance
of the milk-maidens, who, singing shrilly and merrily, strolled forth,
each with her pail on her head, to attend to the duty of the evening.
The Lady of Avenel looked and listened; the sounds which she heard
reminded her of former days, when her most important employment, as
well as her greatest delight, was to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb
Tackett in milking the cows at Glendearg. The thought was fraught
with melancholy.

"Why was I not," she said, "the peasant girl which in all men's eyes I
seemed to be? Halbert and I had then spent our life peacefully in his
native glen, undisturbed by the phantoms either of fear or of
ambition. His greatest pride had then been to show the fairest herd in
the Halidome; his greatest danger to repel some pilfering snatcher
from the Border; and the utmost distance which would have divided us,
would have been the chase of some outlying deer. But, alas! what
avails the blood which Halbert has shed, and the dangers which he
encounters, to support a name and rank, dear to him because he has it
from me, but which we shall never transmit to our posterity! with me
the name of Avenel must expire."

She sighed as the reflections arose, and, looking towards the shore of
the lake, her eye was attracted by a group of children of various
ages, assembled to see a little ship, constructed by some village
artist, perform its first voyage on the water. It was launched amid
the shouts of tiny voices and the clapping of little hands, and shot
bravely forth on its voyage with a favouring wind, which promised to
carry it to the other side of the lake. Some of the bigger boys ran
round to receive and secure it on the farther shore, trying their
speed against each other as they sprang like young fawns along the
shingly verge of the lake. The rest, for whom such a journey seemed
too arduous, remained watching the motions of the fairy vessel from
the spot where it had been launched. The sight of their sports pressed
on the mind of the childless Lady of Avenel.

"Why are none of these prattlers mine?" she continued, pursuing the
tenor of her melancholy reflections. "Their parents can scarce find
them the coarsest food--and I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am
doomed never to hear a child call me mother!"

The thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness which resembled envy,
so deeply is the desire of offspring implanted in the female breast.
She pressed her hands together as if she were wringing them in the
extremity of her desolate feeling, as one whom Heaven had written
childless. A large stag-hound of the greyhound species approached at
this moment, and attracted perhaps by the gesture, licked her hands
and pressed his large head against them. He obtained the desired
caresses in return, but still the sad impression remained.

"Wolf," she said, as if the animal could have understood her
complaints, "thou art a noble and beautiful animal; but, alas! the
love and affection that I long to bestow, is of a quality higher than
can fall to thy share, though I love thee much."

And, as if she were apologizing to Wolf for withholding from him any
part of her regard, she caressed his proud head and crest, while,
looking in her eyes, he seemed to ask her what she wanted, or what he
could do to show his attachment. At this moment a shriek of distress
was heard on the shore, from the playful group which had been lately
so jovial. The Lady looked, and saw the cause with great agony.

The little ship, the object of the children's delighted attention, had
stuck among some tufts of the plant which bears the water-lily, that
marked a shoal in the lake about an arrow-flight from the shore. A
hardy little boy, who had taken the lead in the race round the margin
of the lake, did not hesitate a moment to strip off his
_wylie-coat_, plunge into the water, and swim towards the object
of their common solicitude. The first movement of the Lady was to call
for help; but she observed that the boy swam strongly and fearlessly,
and as she saw that one or two villagers, who were distant spectators
of the incident, seemed to give themselves no uneasiness on his
account, she supposed that he was accustomed to the exercise, and that
there was no danger. But whether, in swimming, the boy had struck his
breast against a sunken rock, or whether he was suddenly taken with
cramp, or whether he had over-calculated his own strength, it so
happened, that when he had disembarrassed the little plaything from
the flags in which it was entangled, and sent it forward on its
course, he had scarce swam a few yards in his way to the shore, than
he raised himself suddenly from the water, and screamed aloud,
clapping his hands at the same time with an expression of fear and
pain.

The Lady of Avenel, instantly taking the alarm, called hastily to the
attendants to get the boat ready. But this was an affair of some time.
The only boat permitted to be used on the lake, was moored within the
second cut which intersected the canal, and it was several minutes ere
it could be unmoored and got under way. Meantime, the Lady of Avenel,
with agonizing anxiety, saw that the efforts that the poor boy made to
keep himself afloat, were now exchanged for a faint struggling, which
would soon have been over, but for aid equally prompt and unhoped-for.
Wolf, who, like some of that large species of greyhound, was a
practised water-dog, had marked the object of her anxiety, and,
quitting his mistress's side, had sought the nearest point from which
he could with safety plunge into the lake. With the wonderful instinct
which these noble animals have so often displayed in the like
circumstances, he swam straight to the spot where his assistance was
so much wanted, and seizing the child's under-dress in his mouth, he
not only kept him afloat, but towed him towards the causeway. The
boat having put off with a couple of men, met the dog half-way, and
relieved him of his burden. They landed on the causeway, close by the
gates of the castle, with their yet lifeless charge, and were there
met by the Lady of Avenel, attended by one or two of her maidens,
eagerly waiting to administer assistance to the sufferer.

He was borne into the castle, deposited upon a bed, and every mode of
recovery resorted to, which the knowledge of the times, and the skill
of Henry Warden, who professed some medical science, could dictate.
For some time it was all in vain, and the Lady watched, with
unspeakable earnestness, the pallid countenance of the beautiful
child. He seemed about ten years old. His dress was of the meanest
sort, but his long curled hair, and the noble cast of his features,
partook not of that poverty of appearance. The proudest noble in
Scotland might have been yet prouder could he have called that child
his heir. While, with breathless anxiety, the Lady of Avenel gazed on
his well-formed and expressive features, a slight shade of colour
returned gradually to the cheek; suspended animation became restored
by degrees, the child sighed deeply, opened his eyes, which to the
human countenance produces the effect of light upon the natural
landscape, stretched his arms towards the Lady, and muttered the word
"Mother," that epithet, of all others, which is dearest to the female
ear.

"God, madam," said the preacher, "has restored the child to your
wishes; it must be yours so to bring him up, that he may not one day
wish that he had perished in his innocence."

"It shall be my charge," said the Lady; and again throwing her arms
around the boy, she overwhelmed him with kisses and caresses, so much
was she agitated by the terror arising from the danger in which he had
been just placed, and by joy at his unexpected deliverance.

"But you are not my mother," said the boy, recovering his
recollection, and endeavouring, though faintly, to escape from the
caresses of the Lady of Avenel; "you are not my mother,--alas! I have
no mother--only I have dreamt that I had one."

"I will read the dream for you, my love," answered the Lady of Avenel;
"and I will be myself your mother. Surely God has heard my wishes,
and, in his own marvellous manner, hath sent me an object on which my
affections may expand themselves." She looked towards Warden as she
spoke. The preacher hesitated what he should reply to a burst of
passionate feeling, which, perhaps, seemed to him more enthusiastic
than the occasion demanded. In the meanwhile, the large stag-hound,
Wolf, which, dripping wet as he was, had followed his mistress into
the apartment, and had sat by the bedside, a patient and quiet
spectator of all the means used for resuscitation of the being whom he
had preserved, now became impatient of remaining any longer unnoticed,
and began to whine and fawn upon the Lady with his great rough paws.

"Yes," she said, "good Wolf, and you shall be remembered also for your
day's work; and I will think the more of you for having preserved the
life of a creature so beautiful."

But Wolf was not quite satisfied with the share of attention which he
thus attracted; he persisted in whining and pawing upon his mistress,
his caresses rendered still more troublesome by his long shaggy hair
being so much and thoroughly wetted, till she desired one of the
domestics, with whom he was familiar, to call the animal out of the
apartment. Wolf resisted every invitation to this purpose, until his
mistress positively commanded him to be gone, in an angry tone; when,
turning towards the bed on which the body still lay, half awake to
sensation, half drowned in the meanders of fluctuating delirium, he
uttered a deep and savage growl, curled up his nose and lips, showing
his full range of white and sharpened teeth, which might have matched
those of an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sullenly followed
the domestic out of the apartment.

"It is singular," said the Lady, addressing Warden; "the animal is not
only so good-natured to all, but so particularly fond of children.
What can ail him at the little fellow whose life he has saved?"

"Dogs," replied the preacher, "are but too like the human race in
their foibles, though their instinct be less erring than the reason of
poor mortal man when relying upon his own unassisted powers. Jealousy,
my good lady, is a passion not unknown to them, and they often evince
it, not only with respect to the preferences which they see given by
their masters to individuals of their own species, but even when their
rivals are children. You have caressed that child much and eagerly,
and the dog considers himself as a discarded favourite."

"It is a strange instinct," said the Lady; "and from the gravity with
which you mention it, my reverend friend, I would almost say that you
supposed this singular jealousy of my favourite Wolf, was not only
well founded, but justifiable. But perhaps you speak in jest?"

"I seldom jest," answered the preacher; "life was not lent to us to be
expended in that idle mirth which resembles the crackling of thorns
under the pot. I would only have you derive, if it so please you, this
lesson from what I have said, that the best of our feelings, when
indulged to excess, may give pain to others. There is but one in which
we may indulge to the utmost limit of vehemence of which our bosom is
capable, secure that excess cannot exist in the greatest intensity to
which it can be excited--I mean the love of our Maker."

"Surely," said the Lady of Avenel, "we are commanded by the same
authority to love our neighbour?"

"Ay, madam," said Warden, "but our love to God is to be unbounded--we
are to love him with our whole heart, our whole soul, and our whole
strength. The love which the precept commands us to bear to our
neighbour, has affixed to it a direct limit and qualification--we are
to love our neighbour as ourself; as it is elsewhere explained by the
great commandment, that we must do unto him as we would that he should
do unto us. Here there is a limit, and a bound, even to the most
praiseworthy of our affections, so far as they are turned upon
sublunary and terrestrial objects. We are to render to our neighbour,
whatever be his rank or degree, that corresponding portion of
affection with which we could rationally expect we should ourselves be
regarded by those standing in the same relation to us. Hence, neither
husband nor wife, neither son nor daughter, neither friend nor
relation, are lawfully to be made the objects of our idolatry. The
Lord our God is a jealous God, and will not endure that we bestow on
the creature that extremity of devotion which He who made us demands
as his own share. I say to you, Lady, that even in the fairest, and
purest, and most honourable feelings of our nature, there is that
original taint of sin which ought to make us pause and hesitate, ere
we indulge them to excess."

"I understand not this, reverend sir," said the Lady; "nor do I guess
what I can have now said or done, to draw down on me an admonition
which has something a taste of reproof."

"Lady," said Warden, "I crave your pardon, if I have urged aught
beyond the limits of my duty. But consider, whether in the sacred
promise to be not only a protectress, but a mother, to this poor
child, your purpose may meet the wishes of the noble knight your
husband. The fondness which you have lavished on the unfortunate, and,
I own, most lovely child, has met something like a reproof in the
bearing of your household dog.--Displease not your noble husband. Men,
as well as animals, are jealous of the affections of those they love."

"This is too much, reverend sir," said the Lady of Avenel, greatly
offended. "You have been long our guest, and have received from the
Knight of Avenel and myself that honour and regard which your
character and profession so justly demand. But I am yet to learn that
we have at any time authorized your interference in our family
arrangements, or placed you as a judge of our conduct towards each
other. I pray this may be forborne in future."

"Lady," replied the preacher, with the boldness peculiar to the clergy
of his persuasion at that time, "when you weary of my admonitions--
when I see that my services are no longer acceptable to you, and the
noble knight your husband, I shall know that my Master wills me no
longer to abide here; and, praying for a continuance of his best
blessings on your family I will then, were the season the depth of
winter, and the hour midnight, walk out on yonder waste, and travel
forth through these wild mountains, as lonely and unaided, though far
more helpless, than when I first met your husband in the valley of
Glendearg. But while I remain here, I will not see you err from the
true path, no, not a hair's-breadth, without making the old man's
voice and remonstrance heard."

"Nay, but," said the Lady, who both loved and respected the good man,
though sometimes a little offended at what she conceived to be an
exuberant degree of zeal, "we will not part this way, my good friend.
Women are quick and hasty in their feelings; but, believe me, my
wishes and my purposes towards this child are such as both my husband
and you will approve of." The clergyman bowed, and retreated to his
own apartment.




Chapter the Second.


  How steadfastly he fix'd his eyes on me--
  His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears--
  Then stretch'd his little arms, and call'd me mother!
  What could I do? I took the bantling home--
  I could not tell the imp he had no mother.
                         COUNT BASIL.

When Warden had left the apartment, the Lady of Avenel gave way to the
feelings of tenderness which the sight of the boy, his sudden danger,
and his recent escape, had inspired; and no longer awed by the
sternness, as she deemed it, of the preacher, heaped with caresses the
lovely and interesting child. He was now, in some measure, recovered
from the consequences of his accident, and received passively, though
not without wonder, the tokens of kindness with which he was thus
loaded. The face of the lady was strange to him, and her dress
different and far more sumptuous than any he remembered. But the boy
was naturally of an undaunted temper; and indeed children are
generally acute physiognomists, and not only pleased by that which is
beautiful in itself, but peculiarly quick in distinguishing and
replying to the attentions of those who really love them. If they see
a person in company, though a perfect stranger, who is by nature fond
of children, the little imps seem to discover it by a sort of
free-masonry, while the awkward attempts of those who make advances to
them for the purpose of recommending themselves to the parents,
usually fail in attracting their reciprocal attention. The little boy,
therefore, appeared in some degree sensible of the lady's caresses,
and it was with difficulty she withdrew herself from his pillow, to
afford him leisure for necessary repose.

"To whom belongs our little rescued varlet?" was the first question
which the Lady of Avenel put to her handmaiden Lilias, when they had
retired to the hall.

"To an old woman in the hamlet," said Lilias, "who is even now come so
far as the porter's lodge to inquire concerning his safety. Is it your
pleasure that she be admitted?"

"Is it my pleasure?" said the Lady of Avenel, echoing the question
with a strong accent of displeasure and surprise; "can you make any
doubt of it? What woman but must pity the agony of the mother, whose
heart is throbbing for the safety of a child so lovely!"

"Nay, but, madam," said Lilias, "this woman is too old to be the
mother of the child; I rather think she must be his grandmother, or
some more distant relation."

"Be she who she will, Lilias," replied the Lady, "she must have an
aching heart while the safety of a creature so lovely is uncertain. Go
instantly and bring her hither. Besides, I would willingly learn
something concerning his birth."

Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards returned, ushering in a
tall female very poorly dressed, yet with more pretension to decency
and cleanliness than was usually combined with such coarse garments.
The Lady of Avenel knew her figure the instant she presented herself.
It was the fashion of the family, that upon every Sabbath, and on two
evenings in the week besides, Henry Warden preached or lectured in the
chapel at the castle. The extension of the Protestant faith was, upon
principle, as well as in good policy, a primary object with the Knight
of Avenel. The inhabitants of the village were therefore invited to
attend upon the instructions of Henry Warden, and many of them were
speedily won to the doctrine which their master and protector
approved. These sermons, homilies, and lectures, had made a great
impression on the mind of the Abbot Eustace, or Eustatius, and were a
sufficient spur to the severity and sharpness of his controversy with
his old fellow-collegiate; and, ere Queen Mary was dethroned, and
while the Catholics still had considerable authority in the Border
provinces, he more than once threatened to levy his vassals, and
assail and level with the earth that stronghold of heresy the Castle
of Avenel. But notwithstanding the Abbot's impotent resentment, and
notwithstanding also the disinclination of the country to favour the
new religion, Henry Warden proceeded without remission in his labours,
and made weekly converts from the faith of Rome to that of the
reformed church. Amongst those who gave most earnest and constant
attendance on his ministry, was the aged woman, whose form, tall, and
otherwise too remarkable to be forgotten, the Lady had of late
observed frequently as being conspicuous among the little audience.
She had indeed more than once desired to know who that stately-looking
woman was, whose appearance was so much above the poverty of her
vestments. But the reply had always been, that she was an
Englishwoman, who was tarrying for a season at the hamlet, and that no
one knew more concerning her. She now asked her after her name and
birth.

"Magdalen Graeme is my name," said the woman; "I come of the Graemes
of Heathergill, in Nicol Forest, [Footnote: A district of Cumberland,
lying close to the Scottish border.] a people of ancient blood."

"And what make you," continued the Lady, "so far distant from your
home?"

"I have no home," said Magdalen Graeme, "it was burnt by your
Border-riders--my husband and my son were slain--there is not a drop's
blood left in the veins of any one which is of kin to mine."

"That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and in this unsettled
land," said the Lady; "the English hands have been as deeply dyed in
our blood as ever those of Scotsmen have been in yours."

"You have right to say it, Lady," answered Magdalen Graeme; "for men
tell of a time when this castle was not strong enough to save your
father's life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place of
refuge. And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own
home, and with mine own people?"

"It was indeed an idle question," answered the Lady, "where misery so
often makes wanderers; but wherefore take refuge in a hostile
country?"

"My neighbours were Popish and mass-mongers," said the old woman; "it
has pleased Heaven to give me a clearer sight of the gospel, and I
have tarried here to enjoy the ministry of that worthy man Henry
Warden, who, to the praise and comfort of many, teacheth the Evangel
in truth and in sincerity."

"Are you poor?" again demanded the Lady of Avenel.

"You hear me ask alms of no one," answered the Englishwoman.

Here there was a pause. The manner of the woman was, if not
disrespectful, at least much less than gracious; and she appeared to
give no encouragement to farther communication. The Lady of Avenel
renewed the conversation on a different topic.

"You have heard of the danger in which your boy has been placed?"

"I have, Lady, and how by an especial providence he was rescued from
death. May Heaven make him thankful, and me!"

"What relation do you bear to him?"

"I am his grandmother, lady, if it so please you; the only relation he
hath left upon earth to take charge of him."

"The burden of his maintenance must necessarily be grievous to you in
your deserted situation?" pursued the Lady.

"I have complained of it to no one," said Magdalen Graeme, with the
same unmoved, dry, and unconcerned tone of voice, in which she had
answered all the former questions.

"If," said the Lady of Avenel, "your grandchild could be received into
a noble family, would it not advantage both him and you?"

"Received into a noble family!" said the old woman, drawing herself
up, and bending her brows until her forehead was wrinkled into a frown
of unusual severity; "and for what purpose, I pray you?--to be my
lady's page, or my lord's jackman, to eat broken victuals, and contend
with other menials for the remnants of the master's meal? Would you
have him to fan the flies from my lady's face while she sleeps, to
carry her train while she walks, to hand her trencher when she feeds,
to ride before her on horseback, to walk after her on foot, to sing
when she lists, and to be silent when she bids?--a very weathercock,
which, though furnished in appearance with wings and plumage, cannot
soar into the air--cannot fly from the spot where it is perched, but
receives all its impulse, and performs all its revolutions, obedient
to the changeful breath of a vain woman? When the eagle of Helvellyn
perches on the tower of Lanercost, and turns and changes his place to
show how the wind sits, Roland Graeme shall be what you would make
him."

The woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence which seemed to have in
it a touch of insanity; and a sudden sense of the danger to which the
child must necessarily be exposed in the charge of such a keeper,
increased the Lady's desire to keep him in the castle if possible.