The Abbot

Chapter 7

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

hound?"

"Hawk or hound," said Roland, "I will never perhaps hollo to again. I

have been dismissed--that is, I have left the castle."

Ralph was surprised. "What! you are to pass into the Knight's service,

and take the black jack and the lance?"

"Indeed," replied Roland Graeme, "I am not--I am now leaving the

service of Avenel for ever."

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

"Nay, that is a question which it craves time to answer--I have that

matter to determine yet," replied the disgraced favourite.

"Nay, nay," said Ralph, "I warrant you it is the same to you which way

you go--my Lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining

into the pouches of your doublet."

"Sordid slave!" said Roland Graeme, "dost thou think I would have

accepted a boon from one who was giving me over a prey to detraction

and to ruin, at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddling

serving-woman? The bread that I had bought with such an alms would

have choked me at the first mouthful."

Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of wonder not unmixed

with contempt. "Well," he said, at length, "no occasion for

passion--each man knows his own stomach best--but, were I on a black

moor at this time of day, not knowing whither I was going, I should be

glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, come by them as I

could.--But perhaps you will go with me to my father's--that is, for a

night, for to-morrow we expect my uncle Menelaus and all his folk;

but, as I said, for one night----"

The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to one night only,

and that tendered most unwillingly, offended the pride of the

discarded favourite.

"I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have done many a

night on less occasion," said Roland Graeme, "than in the smoky garret

of your father, that smells of peat smoke and usquebaugh like a

Highlander's plaid."

"You may choose, my master, if you are so nice," replied Ralph Fisher;

"you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you

journey long in the fashion you propose. You might have said

God-a-mercy for your proffer, though--it is not every one that will

put themselves in the way of ill-will by harbouring a discarded

serving-man."

"Ralph," said Roland Graeme, "I would pray you to remember that I have

switched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you

have tasted."

Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full

strength, and conscious of the most complete personal superiority,

laughed contemptuously at the threats of the slight-made stripling.

"It may be the same wand," he said, "but not the same hand; and that

is as good rhyme as if it were in a ballad. Look you, my Lady's page

that was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of you, but of your

betters, that kept mine down--and I wot not what hinders me from

clearing old scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was your

Lady's livery-coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood,

Master Roland."

In the midst of his rage, Roland Graeme was just wise enough to see,

that by continuing this altercation, he would subject himself to very

rude treatment from the boor, who was so much older and stronger than

himself; and while his antagonist, with a sort of jeering laugh of

defiance, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness

of his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion of tears,

which he in vain endeavoured to conceal with both his hands.

Even the rough churl was moved with the distress of his quondam

companion.

"Nay, Master Roland," he said, "I did but as 'twere jest with thee--I

would not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance sake. But

ever look to a man's inches ere you talk of switching--why, thine arm,

man, is but like a spindle compared to mine.--But hark, I hear old

Adam Woodcock hollowing to his hawk--Come along, man, we will have a

merry afternoon, and go jollily to my father's in spite of the

peat-smoke and usquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some

honest way of winning your bread, though it's hard to come by in these

broken times."

The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands

from his face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable

tone of comfort.

"Why, man, when you were my Lady's minion, men held you proud, and

some thought you a Papist, and I wot not what; and so, now that you

have no one to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and

wait on the minister's examinations, and put these things out of

folk's head; and if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head

to the stream; and if a gentleman, or a gentleman's gentleman, give

you a rough word, or a light blow, you must only say, thank you for

dusting my doublet, or the like, as I have done by you.--But hark to

Woodcock's whistle again. Come, and I will teach you all the trick

on't as we go on."

"I thank you," said Roland Graeme, endeavouring to assume an air of

indifference and of superiority; "but I have another path before me,

and were it otherwise, I could not tread in yours."

"Very true, Master Roland," replied the clown; "and every man knows

his own matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you

say. Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld lang syne.--What! not

clap palms ere we part?--well, so be it--a wilful man will have his

way, and so farewell, and the blessing of the morning to you."

"Good-morrow--good-morrow," said Roland, hastily; and the clown walked

lightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid of

an acquaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no

longer the means to be serviceable to him.

Roland Graeme compelled himself to walk on while they were within

sight of each other that his former intimate might not augur any

vacillation of purpose, or uncertainty of object, from his remaining

on the same spot; but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned,

as it were, and giddy; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound,

and quaking under his feet like the surface of a bog; and he had once

or twice nearly fallen, though the path he trode was of firm

greensward. He kept resolutely moving forward, in spite of the

internal agitation to which these symptoms belonged, until the distant

form of his acquaintance disappeared behind the slope of a hill, when

his heart failed at once; and, sitting down on the turf, remote from

human ken, he gave way to the natural expressions of wounded pride,

grief, and fear, and wept with unrestrained profusion and unqualified

bitterness.

When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had subsided, the

deserted and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usually

follows such discharges of sorrow. The tears continued to chase each

other down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the same

sense of desolation; an afflicting yet milder sentiment was awakened

in his mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the unwearied

kindness which had attached her to him, in spite of many acts of

provoking petulance, now recollected as offences of a deep dye, which

had protected him against the machinations of others, as well as

against the consequences of his own folly, and would have continued to

do so, had not the excess of his presumption compelled her to withdraw

her protection.

"Whatever indignity I have borne," he said, "has been the just reward

of my own ingratitude. And have I done well to accept the hospitality,

the more than maternal kindness, of my protectress, yet to detain from

her the knowledge of my religion?--but she shall know that a Catholic

has as much gratitude as a Puritan--that I have been thoughtless, but

not wicked--that in my wildest moments I have loved, respected, and

honoured her--and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but

was never ungrateful!"

He turned, as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began

hastily to retread his footsteps towards the castle. But he checked

the first eagerness of his repentant haste, when he reflected on the

scorn and contempt with which the family were likely to see the return

of the fugitive, humbled, as they must necessarily suppose him, into a

supplicant, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to

return to his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still.

"I care not," he resolutely determined; "let them wink, point, nod,

sneer, speak of the conceit which is humbled, of the pride which has

had a fall--I care not; it is a penance due to my folly, and I will

endure it with patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also

should think me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her

pardon alone, but for a renewal of the advantages which I derived from

her favour--_her_ suspicion of my meanness I cannot--I will not

brook."

He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional obstinacy

against his more just feeling, urged that he would incur the scorn of

the Lady of Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by following the

course which the first ardour of his repentant feelings had dictated

to him.

"If I had but some plausible pretext," he thought, "some ostensible

reason for my return, some excuse to allege which might show I came

not as a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go

thither--but as I am, I cannot--my heart would leap from its place and

burst."

As these thoughts swept through his mind, something passed in the air

so near him as to dazzle his eyes, and almost to brush the plume in

his cap. He looked up--it was the favourite falcon of Sir Halbert,

which, flying around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that

of a well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the

accustomed whoop, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist, and

began to prune itself, glancing at the youth from time to time an

acute and brilliant beam of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he

caressed it not with his usual fondness.

"Ah, Diamond!" he said, as if the bird understood him, "thou and I

must be strangers henceforward. Many a gallant stoop have I seen thee

make, and many a brave heron strike down; but that is all gone and

over, and there is no hawking more for me!"

"And why not, Master Roland," said Adam Woodcock the falconer, who

came at that instant from behind a few alder bushes which had

concealed him from view, "why should there be no more hawking for you?

Why, man, what were our life without our sports?--thou know'st the

jolly old song--

"And rather would Allan in dungeon lie,

Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly;

And Allan would rather lie in Sexton's pound,

Than live where he followed not the merry hawk and hound."

The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in

which he half-sung half-recited his rude ballad, implied honest

frankness and cordiality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its

consequences, embarrassed Roland, and prevented his reply. The

falconer saw his hesitation, and guessed the cause.

"What now," said he, "Master Roland? do you, who are half an

Englishman, think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger

against you, and you in distress? That were like some of the Scots,

(my master's reverence always excepted,) who can be fair and false,

and wait their time, and keep their mind, as they say, to themselves,

and touch pot and flagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and,

after all, when time serves, pay off some old feud with the point of

the dagger. Canny Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why,

man, an you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken

it from you, than a rough word from another; for you have a good

notion of falconry, though you stand up for washing the meat for the

eyases. So give us your hand, man, and bear no malice."

Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity of

honest Adam's address, could not resist its downright frankness.

Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to the

falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp.

"Why, this is hearty now," said Woodcock; "I always said you had a

kind heart, though you have a spice of the devil in your disposition,

that is certain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find

you, and yon half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You

ever thought too much of that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he

knows nought of sport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw

how it had been betwixt you, and I sent him out of my company with a

wanion--I would rather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave at

my elbow--and now, Master Roland, tell me what way wing ye?"

"That is as God pleases," replied the page, with a sigh which he could

not suppress.

"Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off," said the

falconer; "who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for

all this yet?--Look at Diamond there, 'tis a noble bird, and shows

gallantly with his hood, and bells, and jesses; but there is many a

wild falcon in Norway that would not change properties with him--And

that is what I would say of you. You are no longer my Lady's page, and

you will not clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or

show so gallant--What of all that? if you are not her page, you are

your own man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or

whistle. The worst is the loss of the sport, but who knows what you

may come to? They say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with

reverence, was once glad to be the Abbot's forester, and now he has

hounds and hawks of his own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the

boot."

"You are right, and say well, Adam," answered the youth, the blood

mantling in his cheeks, "the falcon will soar higher without his bells

than with them, though the bells be made of silver."

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

"I thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair," answered Roland

Graeme, "to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose."

"And joy go with you," said the falconer, "though it is likely you may

find the old monks in some sorrow; they say the commons are

threatening to turn them out of their cells, and make a devil's mass

of it in the old church, thinking they have forborne that sport too

long; and troth I am clear of the same opinion."

"Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having a friend beside

him!" said the page, manfully.

"Ay, but, my young fearnought," replied the falconer, "the friend will

scarce be the better of being beside Father Ambrose--he may come by

the redder's lick, and that is ever the worst of the battle."

"I care not for that," said the page, "the dread of a lick should not

hold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers by

visiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert's

cell, where the old priest will give me a night's shelter; and I will

send to Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the

convent."

"By Our Lady," said the falconer, "and that is a likely plan--and

now," he continued, exchanging his frankness of manner for a sort of

awkward embarrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no

ready means to bring out--"and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch

for my hawk's meat, [Footnote: This same hag, like every thing

belonging to falconry, was esteemed an honourable distinction, and

worn often by the nobility and gentry. One of the Sommervilles of

Camnethan was called _Sir John with the red bag_, because it was

his wont to wear his hawking pouch covered with satin of that colour.]

and so forth; but wot you what it is lined with, Master Roland?"

"With leather, to be sure," replied Roland, somewhat surprised at the

hesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question apparently so

simple.

"With leather, lad?" said Woodcock; "ay, and with silver to the boot

of that. See here," he said, showing a secret slit in the lining of

his bag of office--"here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever

were struck in bluff old Hal's time, and ten of them are right

heartily at your service; and now the murder is out."

Roland's first idea was to refuse his assistance; but he recollected

the vows of humility which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred

that this was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolution to the

test. Assuming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam Woodcock

with as much frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing

what was so contrary to his inclinations, that he accepted thankfully

of his kind offer, while, to soothe his own reviving pride, he could

not help adding, "he hoped soon to requite the obligation."

"That as you list--that as you list, young man," said the falconer,

with glee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply

he had so generously offered, and then adding, with great

cheerfulness,--"Now you may go through the world; for he that can back

a horse, wind a horn, hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at

sword and buckler, with a whole pair of shoes, a green jacket, and ten

lily-white groats in his pouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in

his own jesses. Farewell, and God be with you!"

So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks of his companion, he

turned hastily round, and left Roland Graeme to pursue his journey

alone.