Chapter the Eighth.
Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's treasure, Though fools are lavish on't--the fatal Fisher Hooks souls, while we waste moments. OLD PLAY.
A November mist overspread the little valley, up which slowly butsteadily rode the Monk Eustace. He was not insensible to the feeling ofmelancholy inspired by the scene and by the season. The stream seemed tomurmur with a deep and oppressed note, as if bewailing the departureof autumn. Among the scattered copses which here and there fringed itsbanks, the oak-trees only retained that pallid green that precedes theirrusset hue. The leaves of the willows were most of them stripped fromthe branches, lay rustling at each breath, and disturbed by every stepof the mule; while the foliage of other trees, totally withered, keptstill precarious possession of the boughs, waiting the first wind toscatter them.
The monk dropped into the natural train of pensive thought which theseautumnal emblems of mortal hopes are peculiarly calculated to inspire."There," he said, looking at the leaves which lay strewed around, "liethe hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest wither, andloveliest in spring to become most contemptible in winter; but you,ye lingerers," he added, looking to a knot of beeches which still boretheir withered leaves, "you are the proud plans of adventurous manhood,formed later, and still clinging to the mind of age, although itacknowledges their inanity! None lasts--none endures, save the foliageof the hardy oak, which only begins to show itself when that of the restof the forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and decayed hue isall it possesses, but still it retains that symptom of vitality to thelast.--So be it with Father Eustace! The fairy hopes of my youth I havetrodden under foot like those neglected rustlers--to the prouder dreamsof my manhood I look back as to lofty chimeras, of which the pith andessence have long since faded; but my religious vows, the faithfulprofession which I have made in my maturer age, shall retain life whileaught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be--feeble it must be--yet liveit shall, the proud determination to serve the Church of which I ama member, and to combat the heresies by which she is assailed." Thusspoke, at least thus thought, a man zealous according to his imperfectknowledge, confounding the vital interests of Christianity with theextravagant and usurped claims of the Church of Rome, and defending hiscause with an ardour worthy of a better.
While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he could not helpthinking more than once, that he saw in his path the form of a femaledressed in white, who appeared in the attitude of lamentation. But theimpression was only momentary, and whenever he looked steadily to thepoint where he conceived the figure appeared, it always proved thathe had mistaken some natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of adecayed birch-tree with its silver bark, for the appearance in question.
Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to partake the superstitiousfeelings of the more ignorant Scottish clergy; yet he certainly thoughtit extraordinary, that so strong an impression should have been madeon his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. "It is strange," he said tohimself, "that this story, which doubtless was the invention of BrotherPhilip to cover his own impropriety of conduct, should run so much in myhead, and disturb my more serious thoughts--I am wont, I think, to havemore command over my senses. I will repeat my prayers, and banish suchfolly from my recollection."
The monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his beads, in pursuanceof the prescribed rule of his order, and was not again disturbed by anywanderings of the imagination, until he found himself beneath the littlefortalice of Glendearg.
Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a shout of surprise andjoy at seeing the good father. "Martin," she said, "Jasper, where be a'the folk?--help the right reverend Sub-Prior to dismount, and take hismule from him.--O father! God has sent you in our need--I was just goingto send man and horse to the convent, though I ought to be ashamed togive so much trouble to your reverences."
"Our trouble matters not, good dame," said Father Eustace; "in what canI pleasure you? I came hither to visit the Lady of Avenel."
"Well-a-day!" said Dame Alice, "and it was on her part that I had theboldness to think of summoning you, for the good lady will never be ableto wear over the day!--Would it please you to go to her chamber?"
"Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip?" said the monk.
"Shriven she was," said the Dame of Glendearg, "and by Father Philip,as your reverence truly says--but--I wish it may have been a cleanshrift--Methought Father Philip looked but moody upon it--and there wasa book which he took away with him, that--" She paused as if unwillingto proceed.
"Speak out, Dame Glendinning," said the Father; "with us it is your dutyto have no secrets."
"Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I would keep anythingfrom your reverence's knowledge, but I fear I should prejudice the ladyin your opinion; for she is an excellent lady--months and years has shedwelt in this tower, and none more exemplary than she; but this matter,doubtless, she will explain it herself to your reverence."
"I desire first to know it from you, Dame Glendinning," said the monk;"and I again repeat, it is your duty to tell it to me."
"This book, if it please your reverence, which Father Philip removedfrom Glendearg, was this morning returned to us in a strange manner,"said the good widow.
"Returned!" said the monk; "how mean you?"
"I mean," answered Dame Glendinning, "that it was brought back to thetower of Glendearg, the saints best know how--that same book whichFather Philip carried with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that ismy tasker and the lady's servant, was driving out the cows to thepasture--for we have three good milk-cows, reverend father, blessed beSaint Waldave, and thanks to the holy Monastery--"
The monk groaned with impatience; but he remembered that a woman ofthe good dame's condition was like a top, which, if you let it spin onuntouched, must at last come to a pause; but, if you interrupt it byflogging, there is no end to its gyrations. "But, to speak no more ofthe cows, your reverence, though they are likely cattle as ever weretied to a stake, the tasker was driving them out, and the lads, thatis my Halbert and my Edward, that your reverence has seen at church onholidays, and especially Halbert,--for you patted him on the head andgave him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which he wears in his bonnet,--andlittle Mary Avenel, that is the lady's daughter, they ran all after thecattle, and began to play up and down the pasture as young folk will,your reverence. And at length they lost sight of Martin and thecows; and they began to run up a little cleugh which we call_Corri-nan-Shian_, where there is a wee bit stripe of a burn, andthey saw there--Good guide us!--a White Woman sitting on the burnsidewringing her hands--so the bairns were frighted to see a strange womansitting there, all but Halbert, who will be sixteen come Whitsuntide;and, besides, he never feared ony thing--and when they went up toher--behold she was passed away!"
"For shame, good woman!" said Father Eustace; "a woman of your sense tolisten to a tale so idle!--the young folk told you a lie, and that wasall."
"Nay, sir, it was more than that," said the old dame; "for, besides thatthey never told me a lie in their lives, I must warn you that on thevery ground where the White Woman was sitting, they found the Lady ofAvenel's book, and brought it with them to the tower."
"That is worthy of mark at least," said the monk. "Know you no othercopy of this volume within these bounds?"
"None, your reverence," returned Elspeth; "why should there?--no onecould read it were there twenty."
"Then you are sure it is the very same volume which you gave to FatherPhilip?" said the monk.
"As sure as that I now speak with your reverence."
"It is most singular!" said the monk; and he walked across the room in amusing posture.
"I have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence would say,"continued Dame Glendinning, "respecting this matter--There is nothingI would not do for the Lady of Avenel and her family, and that has beenproved, and for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb, althoughTib
b is not so civil sometimes as altogether I have a right to expect;but I cannot think it beseeming to have angels, or ghosts, or fairies,or the like, waiting upon a leddy when she is in another woman's house,in respect it is no ways creditable. Ony thing she had to do was alwaysdone to her hand, without costing her either pains or pence, as acountry body says; and besides the discredit, I cannot but think thatthere is no safety in having such unchancy creatures about ane. But Ihave tied red thread round the bairns's throats," (so her fondness stillcalled them,) "and given ilka ane of them a riding-wand of rowan-tree,forby sewing up a slip of witch-elm into their doublets; and I wish toknow of your reverence if there be ony thing mair that a lone woman cando in the matter of ghosts and fairies?--Be here! that I should havenamed their unlucky names twice ower!"
"Dame Glendinning," answered the monk, somewhat abruptly, when the goodwoman had finished her narrative, "I pray you, do you know the miller'sdaughter?"
"Did I know Kate Happer?" replied the widow; "as well as the beggarknows his dish--a canty quean was Kate, and a special cummer of my ainmaybe twenty years syne."
"She cannot be the wench I mean," said Father Eustace; "she after whomI inquire is scarce fifteen, a black-eyed girl--you may have seen her atthe kirk."
"Your reverence must be in the right; and she is my cummer's nie'ce,doubtless, that you are pleased to speak of: but I thank God I havealways been too duteous in attention to the mass, to know whether youngwenches have black eyes or green ones."
The good father had so much of the world about him, that he was unableto avoid smiling, when the dame boasted her absolute resistance to atemptation, which was not quite so liable to beset her as those of theother sex.
"Perhaps, then," he said, "you know her usual dress, Dame Glendinning?"
"Ay, ay, father," answered the dame readily enough, "a white kirtle thewench wears, to hide the dust of the mill, no doubt--and a blue hood,that might weel be spared, for pridefulness."
"Then, may it not be she," said the father, "who has brought back thisbook, and stepped out of the way when the children came near her?"
The dame paused--was unwilling to combat the solution suggested by themonk--but was at a loss to conceive why the lass of the mill should comeso far from home into so wild a corner merely to leave an old book withthree children, from whose observation she wished to conceal herself.
Above all, she could not understand why, since she had acquaintances inthe family, and since the Dame Glendinning had always paid her multureand knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in to restherself and eat a morsel, and tell her the current news of the water.
These very objections satisfied the monk that his conjectures wereright. "Dame," he said, "you must be cautious in what you say. This isan instance--I would it were the sole one--of the power of the Enemyin these days. The matter must be sifted--with a curious and a carefulhand."
"Indeed," said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime in with the ideasof the Sub-Prior, "I have often thought the miller's folk at theMonastery-mill were far over careless in sifting our melder, and inbolting it too--some folk say they will not stick at whiles to put in ahandful of ashes amongst Christian folk's corn-meal."
"That shall be looked after also, dame," said the Sub-Prior, notdispleased to see that the good old woman went off on a false scent;"and now, by your leave, I will see this lady--do you go before, andprepare her to see me."
Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment accordingly, which the monkpaced in anxious reflection, considering how he might best discharge,with humanity as well as with effect, the important duty imposed on him.He resolved to approach the bedside of the sick person with reprimands,mitigated only by a feeling for her weak condition--he determined, incase of her reply, to which late examples of hardened heretics mightencourage her, to be prepared with answers to the customary scruples.High fraught, also, with zeal against her unauthorized intrusion intothe priestly function, by study of the Sacred Scriptures, he imaginedto himself the answers which one of the modern school of heresy mightreturn to him--the victorious refutation which should lay the disputantprostrate at the Confessor's mercy--and the healing, yet awfulexhortation, which, under pain of refusing the last consolations ofreligion, he designed to make to the penitent, conjuring her, as sheloved her own soul's welfare, to disclose to him what she knew of thedark mystery of iniquity, by which heresies were introduced into themost secluded spots of the very patrimony of the Church herself--whatagents they had who could thus glide, as it were unseen, from place toplace, bring back the volume which the Church had interdicted to thespots from which it had been removed under her express auspices; and,who, by encouraging the daring and profane thirst after knowledgeforbidden and useless to the laity, had encouraged the fisher of soulsto use with effect his old bait of ambition and vain-glory.
Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the good father, whenElspeth returned, her tears flowing faster than her apron could drythem, and made him a signal to follow her. "How," said the monk, "is shethen so near her end?--nay, the Church must not break or bruise,when comfort is yet possible;" and forgetting his polemics, the goodSub-Prior hastened to the little apartment, where, on the wretched bedwhich she had occupied since her misfortunes had driven her to the Towerof Glendearg, the widow of Walter Avenel had rendered up her spiritto her Creator. "My God!" said the Sub-Prior, "and has my unfortunatedallying suffered her to depart without the Church's consolation! Lookto her, dame," he exclaimed, with eager impatience; "is there not yet asparkle of the life left?--may she not be recalled--recalled but fora moment?--Oh! would that she could express, but by the most imperfectword--but by the most feeble motion, her acquiescence in the needfultask of penitential prayer!--Does she not breathe?--Art thou sure shedoth not?"
"She will never breathe more," said the matron. "Oh! the poor fatherlessgirl--now motherless also--Oh, the kind companion I have had these manyyears, whom I shall never see again! But she is in heaven for certain,if ever woman went there; for a woman of better life----"
"Wo to me," said the good monk, "if indeed she went not hence in goodassurance--wo to the reckless shepherd, who suffered the wolf to carrya choice one from the flock, while he busied himself with trimminghis sling and his staff to give the monster battle! Oh! if in the longHereafter, aught but weal should that poor spirit share, what has mydelay cost?--the value of an immortal soul!"
He then approached the body, full of the deep remorse natural to agood man of his persuasion, who devoutly believed the doctrines of theCatholic Church. "Ay," said he, gazing on the pallid corpse, from whichthe spirit had parted so placidly as to leave a smile upon the thin bluelips, which had been so long wasted by decay that they had partedwith the last breath of animation without the slightest convulsivetremor--"Ay," said Father Eustace, "there lies the faded tree, and, asit fell, so it lies--awful thought for me, should my neglect have leftit to descend in an evil direction!" He then again and again conjuredDame Glendinning to tell him what she knew of the demeanour and ordinarywalk of the deceased.
All tended to the high honour of the deceased lady; for her companion,who admired her sufficiently while alive, notwithstanding some triflingpoints of jealousy, now idolized her after her death, and could think ofno attribute of praise with which she did not adorn her memory.
Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might privately doubt some ofthe doctrines announced by the Church of Rome, and although she hadprobably tacitly appealed from that corrupted system of Christianityto the volume on which Christianity itself is founded, had neverthelessbeen regular in her attendance on the worship of the Church, not,perhaps, extending her scruples so far as to break off communion. Suchindeed was the first sentiment of the earlier reformers, who seemed tohave studied, for a time at least, to avoid a schism, until the violenceof the Pope rendered it inevitable.
Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with eagerness toeverything which could lead to assure him of the lady's orthodoxy in themain points of belie
f; for his conscience reproached him sorely, that,instead of protracting conversation with the Dame of Glendearg, he hadnot instantly hastened where his presence was so necessary. "If," hesaid, addressing the dead body, "thou art yet free from the utmostpenalty due to the followers of false doctrine--if thou dost but sufferfor a time, to expiate faults done in the body, but partaking of mortalfrailty more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy abode shall be longin the penal regions to which thou mayest be doomed--if vigils--ifmasses--if penance--if maceration of my body, till it resemblesthat extenuated form which the soul hath abandoned, may assure thydeliverance. The Holy Church--the godly foundation--our blessedPatroness herself, shall intercede for one whose errors werecounter-balanced by so many virtues.--Leave me, dame--here, and by herbed-side, will I perform those duties--which this piteous case demands!"
Elspeth left the monk, who employed himself in fervent and sincere,though erroneous prayers, for the weal of the departed spirit. For anhour he remained in the apartment of death, and then returned to thehall, where he found the still weeping friend of the deceased.
But it would be injustice to Mrs. Glendinning's hospitality, if wesuppose her to have been weeping during this long interval, or rather ifwe suppose her so entirely absorbed by the tribute of sorrow which shepaid frankly and plentifully to her deceased friend, as to be incapableof attending to the rights of hospitality due to the holy visitor--whowas confessor at once, and Sub-Prior--mighty in all religious andsecular considerations, so far as the vassals of the Monastery wereinterested.
Her barley-bread had been toasted--her choicest cask of home-brewed alehad been broached--her best butter had been placed on the hall-table,along with her most savoury ham, and her choicest cheese, ere sheabandoned herself to the extremity of sorrow; and it was not till shehad arranged her little repast neatly on the board, that she sat down inthe chimney corner, threw her checked apron over her head, and gaveway to the current of tears and sobs. In this there was no grimaceor affectation. The good dame held the honours of her house to be asessential a duty, especially when a monk was her visitant, as anyother pressing call upon her conscience; nor until these were suitablyattended to did she find herself at liberty to indulge her sorrow forher departed friend.
When she was conscious of the Sub-Prior's presence, she rose with thesame attention to his reception; but he declined all the offers ofhospitality with which she endeavoured to tempt him. Not her butter,as yellow as gold, and the best, she assured him, that was made in thepatrimony of St. Mary--not the barley scones, which "the departed saint,God sain her! used to say were so good"--not the ale, nor any othercates which poor Elspeth's stores afforded, could prevail on theSub-Prior to break his fast. "This day," he said, "I must not tastefood until the sun go down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate my ownnegligence--happier still, if my sufferings of this trifling nature,undertaken in pure faith and singleness of heart, may benefit the soulof the deceased. Yet, dame," he added, "I may not so far forget theliving in my cares for the dead, as to leave behind me that book, whichis to the ignorant what, to our first parents, the tree of Knowledgeof Good and Evil unhappily proved-excellent indeed in itself, but fatalbecause used by those to whom it is prohibited."
"Oh, blithely, reverend father," said the widow of Simon Glendinning,"will I give you the book, if so be I can while it from the bairns; andindeed, poor things, as the case stands with them even now, you mighttake the heart out of their bodies, and they never find it out, they aresae begrutten." [Footnote: _Begrutten_--over-weeped]
"Give them this missal instead, good dame," said the father, drawingfrom his pocket one which was curiously illuminated with paintings, "andI will come myself, or send one at a fitting time, and teach them themeaning of these pictures."
"The bonny images!" said Dame Glendinning, forgetting for an instanther grief in her admiration, "and weel I wot," added she, "it is anothersort of a book than the poor Lady of Avenel's; and blessed might we havebeen this day, if your reverence had found the way up the glen, insteadof Father Philip, though the Sacristan is a powerful man too, and speaksas if he would ger the house fly abroad, save that the walls are geythick. Simon's forebears (may he and they be blessed!) took care ofthat."
The monk ordered his mule, and was about to take his leave; and the gooddame was still delaying him with questions about the funeral, when ahorseman, armed and accoutred, rode into the little court-yard whichsurrounded the Keep.