The Monastery

Chapter 5

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:--

But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint Mary's that the

warder had to dispute his perquisites. These holy men insisted for,

and at length obtained, a right of gratuitous passage to themselves,

greatly to the discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they demanded

the same immunity for the numerous pilgrims who visited the shrine,

the bridge-keeper waxed restive, and was supported by his lord in his

resistance. The controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbot

menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, though unable

to retaliate in kind, yet made each individual monk who had to cross

and recross the river, endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would

accommodate them with a passage. This was a great inconvenience, and

would have proved a more serious one, but that the river was fordable

for man and horse in ordinary weather.

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, when Father

Philip approached this bridge, the singular construction of which

gives a curious idea of the insecurity of the times. The river was not

in flood, but it was above its ordinary level--_a heavy water_,

as it is called in that country, through which the monk had no

particular inclination to ride, if he could manage the matter better.

"Peter, my good friend," cried the Sacristan, raising his voice; "my

very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind as to lower the drawbridge.

Peter, I say, dost thou not hear?--it is thy gossip, Father Philip,

who calls thee."

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the bargain; but as

he had considered the Sacristan as peculiarly his enemy in his dispute

with the convent, he went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the monk

through his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that "riding the water

in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no harm, and would teach

him the value of a brig the neist time, on whilk a man might pass high

and dry, winter and summer, flood and ebb."

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, which were

equally unattended to by Peter of the Brig, as he was called, Father

Philip at length moved down the river to take the ordinary ford at the

head of the next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he

began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage of the river

by the ford was not only safe, but pleasant. The banks and scattered

trees were so beautifully reflected from the bosom of the dark stream,

the whole cool and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to

his late agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain endeavours to

move the relentless porter of the bridge, that the result was rather

agreeable than otherwise.

As Father Philip came close to the water's edge, at the spot where he

was to enter it, there sat a female under a large broken scathed

oak-tree, or rather under the remains of such a tree, weeping,

wringing her hands, and looking earnestly on the current of the river.

The monk was struck with astonishment to see a female there at that

time of night. But he was, in all honest service,--and if a step

farther, I put it upon his own conscience,--a devoted squire of dames.

After observing the maiden for a moment, although she seemed to take

no notice of his presence, he was moved by her distress, and willing

to offer his assistance. "Damsel," said he, "thou seemest in no

ordinary distress; peradventure, like myself, thou hast been refused

passage at the bridge by the churlish keeper, and thy crossing may

concern thee either for performance of a vow, or some other weighty

charge."

The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked at the river, and

then in the face of the Sacristan. It struck Father Philip at that

instant, that a Highland chief of distinction had been for some time

expected to pay his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary's; and that

possibly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling alone

for accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by some accident, to whom,

therefore, it would be but right and prudent to use every civility in

his power, especially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland

tongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan was ever known

to assign for his courtesy; if there was any other, I once more refer

it to his own conscience.

To express himself by signs, the common language of all nations, the

cautious Sacristan first pointed to the river, then to his mule's

crupper, and then made, as gracefully as he could, a sign to induce

the fair solitary to mount behind him. She seemed to understand his

meaning, for she rose up as if to accept his offer; and while the good

monk, who, as we have hinted, was no great cavalier, laboured, with

the pressure of the right leg and the use of the left rein, to place

his mule with her side to the bank in such a position that the lady

might mount with ease, she rose from the ground with rather portentous

activity, and at one bound sate behind the monk upon the animal, much

the firmer rider of the two. The mule by no means seemed to approve of

this double burden; she bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown

Father Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a firm hand

detained him in the saddle.

At last the restive brute changed her humour; and, from refusing to

budge off the spot, suddenly stretched her nose homeward, and dashed

into the ford as fast as she could scamper. A new terror now invaded

the monk's mind--the ford seemed unusually deep, the water eddied off

in strong ripple from the counter of the mule, and began to rise upon

her side. Philip lost his presence of mind,--which was at no time his

most ready attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current,

and as the rider was not attentive to keep her head turned up the

river, she drifted downward, lost the ford and her footing at once,

and began to swim with her head down the stream. And what was

sufficiently strange, at the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme

peril, the damsel began to sing, thereby increasing, if anything could

increase, the bodily fear of the worthy Sacristan.

How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or where the

terrified monk's journey might have ended, is uncertain. As she sung

the last stanza, they arrived at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet

of water, caused by a strong wear or damhead, running across the

river, which dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The mule,

whether from choice, or influenced by the suction of the current, made

towards the cut intended to supply the convent mills, and entered it

half swimming half wading, and pitching the unlucky monk to and fro in

the saddle at a fearful rate.

As his person flew hither and thither, his garment became loose, and

in an effort to retain it, his hand lighted on the volume of the Lady

of Avenel which was in his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than

his companion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, where,

still keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him two or three good

souses in the watery fluid, so as to ensure that every other part of

him had its share of wetting, and then quitted her hold when he was so

near the side that by a slight effort (of a great one he was

incapable) he might scramble on shore. This accordingly he

accomplished, and turning his eyes to see what had become of his

extraordinary companion, she was nowhere to be seen; but still he

heard, as if from the surface of the river, and mixing with the noise

of the water breaking over the damhead, a fragment of her wild song,

which seemed to run thus:--