The Abbot. Вальтер Скотт

to the observances which the priest recommended. He adhered to the forms of his religion rather because he felt it would be dishonourable to change that of his fathers, than from any rational conviction or sincere belief of its mysterious doctrines. It was a principal part of the distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him out from those with whom he lived, and gave him an additional, though an internal and concealed reason, for contemning those of the household who showed an undisguised dislike of him, and for hardening himself against the instructions of the chaplain, Henry Warden.

      “The fanatic preacher,” he thought within himself, during some one of the chaplain’s frequent discourses against the Church of Rome, “he little knows whose ears are receiving his profane doctrine, and with what contempt and abhorrence they hear his blasphemies against the holy religion by which kings have been crowned, and for which martyrs have died!”

      But in such proud feelings of defiance of heresy, as it was termed, and of its professors, which associated the Catholic religion with a sense of generous independence, and that of the Protestants with the subjugation of his mind and temper to the direction of Mr. Warden, began and ended the faith of Roland Graeme, who, independently of the pride of singularity, sought not to understand, and had no one to expound to him, the peculiarities of the tenets which he professed. His regret, therefore, at missing the rosary which had been conveyed to him through the hands of Father Ambrose, was rather the shame of a soldier who has dropped his cockade, or badge of service, than that of a zealous votary who had forgotten a visible symbol of his religion.

      His thoughts on the subject, however, were mortifying, and the more so from apprehension that his negligence must reach the ears of his relative. He felt it could be no one but her who had secretly transmitted these beads to Father Ambrose for his use, and that his carelessness was but an indifferent requital of her kindness.

      “Nor will she omit to ask me about them,” said he to himself; “for hers is a zeal which age cannot quell; and if she has not quitted her wont, my answer will not fail to incense her.”

      While he thus communed with himself, Magdalen Graeme entered the apartment. “The blessing of the morning on your youthful head, my son,” she said, with a solemnity of expression which thrilled the youth to the heart, so sad and earnest did the benediction flow from her lips, in a tone where devotion was blended with affection. “And thou hast started thus early from thy couch to catch the first breath of the dawn? But it is not well, my Roland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst; the time is not far behind when the waking eye must be thy portion, as well as mine.”

      She uttered these words with an affectionate and anxious tone, which showed, that devotional as were the habitual exercises of her mind, the thoughts of her nursling yet bound her to earth with the cords of human affection and passion.

      But she abode not long in a mood which she probably regarded as a momentary dereliction of her imaginary high calling – “Come,” she said, “youth, up and be doing – It is time that we leave this place.”

      “And whither do we go?” said the young man; “or what is the object of our journey?”

      The matron stepped back, and gazed on him with surprise, not unmingled with displeasure.

      “To what purpose such a question?” she said; “is it not enough that I lead the way? Hast thou lived with heretics till thou hast learned to instal the vanity of thine own private judgment in place of due honour and obedience?”

      “The time,” thought Roland Graeme within himself, “is already come, when I must establish my freedom, or be a willing thrall for ever – I feel that I must speedily look to it.”

      She instantly fulfilled his foreboding, by recurring to the theme by which her thoughts seemed most constantly engrossed, although, when she pleased, no one could so perfectly disguise her religion.

      “Thy beads, my son – hast thou told thy beads?”

      Roland Graeme coloured high; he felt the storm was approaching, but scorned to avert it by a falsehood.

      “I have forgotten my rosary,” he said, “at the Castle of Avenel.”

      “Forgotten thy rosary!” she exclaimed; “false both to religion and to natural duty, hast thou lost what was sent so far, and at such risk, a token of the truest affection, that should have been, every bead of it, as dear to thee as thine eyeballs?”

      “I am grieved it should have so chanced, mother,” replied the youth, “and much did I value the token, as coming from you. For what remains, I trust to win gold enough, when I push my way in the world; and till then, beads of black oak, or a rosary of nuts, must serve the turn.”

      “Hear him!” said his grandmother; “young as he is, he hath learned already the lessons of the devil’s school! The rosary, consecrated by the Holy Father himself, and sanctified by his blessing, is but a few knobs of gold, whose value may be replaced by the wages of his profane labour, and whose virtue may be supplied by a string of hazel-nuts! – This is heresy – So Henry Warden, the wolf who ravages the flock of the Shepherd, hath taught thee to speak and to think.”

      “Mother,” said Roland Graeme, “I am no heretic; I believe and I pray according to the rules of our church – This misfortune I regret, but I cannot amend it.”

      “Thou canst repent it, though,” replied his spiritual directress, “repent it in dust and ashes, atone for it by fasting, prayer, and penance, instead of looking on me with a countenance as light as if thou hadst lost but a button from thy cap.”

      “Mother,” said Roland, “be appeased; I will remember my fault in the next confession which I have space and opportunity to make, and will do whatever the priest may require of me in atonement. For the heaviest fault I can do no more. – But, mother,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “let me not incur your farther displeasure, if I ask whither our journey is bound, and what is its object. I am no longer a child, but a man, and at my own disposal, with down upon my chin, and a sword by my side – I will go to the end of the world with you to do your pleasure; but I owe it to myself to inquire the purpose and direction of our travels.”

      “You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy?” replied his relative, passion rapidly supplying the colour which age had long chased from her features, – “to yourself you owe nothing – you can owe nothing – to me you owe every thing – your life when an infant – your support while a child – the means of instruction, and the hopes of honour – and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the noble cause to which I have devoted thee, would I see thee lie a corpse at my feet!”

      Roland was alarmed at the vehement agitation with which she spoke, and which threatened to overpower her aged frame; and he hastened to reply, – “I forget nothing of what I owe to you, my dearest mother – show me how my blood can testify my gratitude, and you shall judge if I spare it. But blindfold obedience has in it as little merit as reason.”

      “Saints and angels!” replied Magdalen, “and do I hear these words from the child of my hopes, the nursling by whose bed I have kneeled, and for whose weal I have wearied every saint in heaven with prayers? Roland, by obedience only canst thou show thy affection and thy gratitude. What avails it that you might perchance adopt the course I propose to thee, were it to be fully explained? Thou wouldst not then follow my command, but thine own judgment; thou wouldst not do the will of Heaven, communicated through thy best friend, to whom thou owest thine all; but thou wouldst observe the blinded dictates of thine own imperfect reason. Hear me, Roland! a lot calls thee – solicits thee – demands thee – the proudest to which man can be destined, and it uses the voice of thine earliest, thy best, thine only friend – Wilt thou resist it? Then go thy way – leave me here – my hopes on earth are gone and withered – I will kneel me down before yonder profaned altar, and when the raging heretics return, they shall dye it with the blood of a martyr.”

      “But, my dearest mother,” said Roland Graeme, whose early recollections of her violence were formidably renewed by these wild expressions of reckless passion, “I will not forsake you – I will abide with you – worlds shall not force me from your side – I will protect – I will defend you – I will live with you, and die for you!”

      “One