The Monastery. Вальтер Скотт

may weel be,” said Tibb; “for on Hallowe’en she was born, as I tell ye, and our auld parish priest wad fain hae had the night ower, and All-Hallow day begun. But for a’ that, the sweet bairn is just like ither bairns, as ye may see yourself; and except this blessed night, and ance before when we were in that weary bog on the road here, I kenna that it saw mair than ither folk.”

      “But what saw she in the bog, then,” said Dame Glendinning, “forby moor-cocks and heather-blutters?”

      “The wean saw something like a white leddy that weised us the gate,” said Tibb; “when we were like to hae perished in the moss-hags – certain it was that Shagram reisted, and I ken Martin thinks he saw something.”

      “And what might the white leddy be?” said Elspeth; “have ye ony guess o’ that?”

      “It’s weel kend that, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb; “if ye had lived under grit folk, as I hae dune, ye wadna be to seek in that matter.”

      “I hae aye keepit my ain ha’ house abune my head,” said Elspeth, not without emphasis, “and if I havena lived wi’ grit folk, grit folk have lived wi’ me.”

      “Weel, weel, dame,” said Tibb, “your pardon’s prayed, there was nae offence meant. But ye maun ken the great ancient families canna be just served wi’ the ordinary saunts, (praise to them!) like Saunt Anthony, Saunt Cuthbert, and the like, that come and gang at every sinner’s bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or angels, or what not, to themsells; and as for the White Maiden of Avenel, she is kend ower the haill country. And she is aye seen to yammer and wail before ony o’ that family dies, as was weel kend by twenty folk before the death of Walter Avenel, haly be his cast!”

      “If she can do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, somewhat scornfully, “they needna make mony vows to her, I trow. Can she make nae better fend for them than that, and has naething better to do than wait on them?”

      “Mony braw services can the White Maiden do for them to the boot of that, and has dune in the auld histories,” said Tibb, “but I mind o’ naething in my day, except it was her that the bairn saw in the bog.”

      “Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, rising and lighting the iron lamp, “these are great privileges of your grand folk. But our Lady and Saunt Paul are good eneugh saunts for me, and I’se warrant them never leave me in a bog that they can help me out o’, seeing I send four waxen candles to their chapels every Candlemas; and if they are not seen to weep at my death, I’se warrant them smile at my joyful rising again, whilk Heaven send to all of us, Amen.”

      “Amen,” answered Tibb, devoutly; “and now it’s time I should hap up the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire is ower low.”

      Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict of Simon Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a heedful and cautious glance all around the hall, to see that nothing was out of its proper place; then, wishing Tibb good-night, she retired to repose.

      “The deil’s in the carline,” said Tibb to herself, “because she was the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks herself grander, I trow, than the bower-woman of a lady of that ilk!” Having given vent to her suppressed spleen in this little ejaculation, Tibb also betook herself to slumber.

      Chapter the Fifth

        A priest, ye cry, a priest! – lame shepherds they,

        How shall they gather in the straggling flock?

        Dumb dogs which bark not – how shall they compel

        The loitering vagrants to the Master’s fold?

        Fitter to bask before the blazing fire,

        And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses,

        Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf.

REFORMATION.

      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