I'll seek for other aid--Spirits, they say,
Flit round invisible, as thick as motes
Dance in the sunbeam. If that spell
Or necromancer's sigil can compel them,
They shall hold council with me.
The reader's attention must be recalled to Halbert Glendinning, who had
left the Tower of Glendearg immediately after his quarrel with its new
guest, Sir Piercie Shafton. As he walked with a rapid pace up the glen,
Old Martin followed him, beseeching him to be less hasty.
"Halbert," said the old man, "you will never live to have white hair, if
you take fire thus at every spark of provocation."
"And why should I wish it, old man," said Halbert, "if I am to be the
butt that every fool may aim a shaft of scorn against?--What avails
it, old man, that you yourself move, sleep, and wake, eat thy niggard
meal, and repose on thy hard pallet?--Why art thou so well pleased
that the morning should call thee up to daily toil, and the evening
again lay thee down a wearied-out wretch? Were it not better sleep and
wake no more, than to undergo this dull exchange of labour for
insensibility and of insensibility for labour?"
"God help me," answered Martin, "there may be truth in what thou
sayest--but walk slower, for my old limbs cannot keep pace with your
young legs--walk slower, and I will tell you why age, though unlovely,
is yet endurable."
"Speak on then," said Halbert, slackening his pace, "but remember we
must seek venison to refresh the fatigues of these holy men, who will
this morning have achieved a journey of ten miles; and if we reach not
the Brocksburn head we are scarce like to see an antler."
"Then know, my good Halbert," said Martin, "whom I love as my own son,
that I am satisfied to live till death calls me, because my Maker
wills it. Ay, and although I spend what men call a hard life, pinched
with cold in winter, and burnt with heat in summer, though I feed hard
and sleep hard, and am held mean and despised, yet I bethink me, that
were I of no use on the face of this fair creation, God would withdraw
me from it."
"Thou poor old man," said Halbert, "and can such a vain conceit as
this of thy fancied use, reconcile thee to a world where thou playest
so poor a part?"
"My part was nearly as poor," said Martin, "my person nearly as much
despised, the day that I saved my mistress and her child from
perishing in the wilderness."
"Right, Martin," answered Halbert; "there, indeed, thou didst what
might be a sufficient apology for a whole life of insignificance."
"And do you account it for nothing, Halbert, that I should have the
power of giving you a lesson of patience, and submission to the
destinies of Providence? Methinks there is use for the grey hairs on
the old scalp, were it but to instruct the green head by precept and
Halbert held down his face, and remained silent for a minute or two, and
then resumed his discourse: "Martin, seest thou aught changed in me of
"Surely," said Martin. "I have always known you hasty, wild, and
inconsiderate, rude, and prompt to speak at the volley and without
reflection; but now, methinks, your bearing, without losing its
natural fire, has something in it of force and dignity which it had
not before. It seems as if you had fallen asleep a carle, and awakened
"Thou canst judge, then, of noble bearing?" said Halbert.
"Surely," answered Martin, "in some sort I can; for I have travelled
through court, and camp, and city, with my master, Walter Avenel,
although he could do nothing for me in the long run, but give me room
for two score of sheep on the hill--and surely even now, while I speak
with you, I feel sensible that my language is more refined than it is
my wont to use, and that--though I know not the reason--the rude
northern dialect, so familiar to my tongue, has given place to a more
"And this change in thyself and me, thou canst by no means account
for?" said young Glendinning.
"Change!" replied Martin, "by our Lady it is not so much a change
which I feel, as a recalling and renewing sentiments and expressions
which I had some thirty years since, ere Tibb and I set up our humble
household. It is singular, that your society should have this sort of
influence over me, Halbert, and that I should never have experienced
it ere now."
"Thinkest thou," said Halbert, "thou seest in me aught that can raise
me from this base, low, despised state, into one where I may rank with
those proud men, who now despise my clownish poverty?"
Martin paused an instant, and then answered, "Doubtless you may,
Halbert; as broken a ship has come to land. Heard ye never of Hughie
Dun, who left this Halidome some thirty-five years gone by? A
deliverly fellow was Hughie--could read and write like a priest, and
could wield brand and buckler with the best of the riders. I mind
him--the like of him was never seen in the Halidome of Saint Mary's,
and so was seen of the preferment that God sent him."
"And what was that?" said Halbert, his eyes sparkling with eagerness.
"Nothing less," answered Martin, "than body-servant to the Archbishop
of Saint Andrews!"
Halbert's countenance fell.--"A servant--and to a priest? Was this all
that knowledge and activity could raise him to?"
Martin, in his turn, looked with wistful surprise in the face of his
young friend. "And to what could fortune lead him farther?" answered
he. "The son of a kirk-feuar is not the stuff that lords and knights
are made of. Courage and school craft cannot change churl's blood into
gentle blood, I trow. I have heard, forby, that Hughie Dun left a good
five hundred punds of Scots money to his only daughter, and that she
married the Bailie of Pittenweem."
At this moment, and while Halbert was embarrassed with devising a
suitable answer, a deer bounded across their path. In an instant the
crossbow was at the youth's shoulder, the bolt whistled, and the deer,
after giving one bound upright, dropt dead on the green sward.
"There lies the venison our dame wanted," said Martin; "who would have
thought of an out-lying stag being so low down the glen at this
season?--And it is a hart of grease too, in full season, and three
inches of fat on the brisket. Now this is all your luck, Halbert, that
follows you, go where you like. Were you to put in for it, I would
warrant you were made one of the Abbot's yeoman-prickers, and ride
about in a purple doublet as bold as the best."
"Tush, man," answered Halbert, "I will serve the Queen or no one.
Take thou care to have down the venison to the Tower, since they
expect it. I will on to the moss. I have two or three bird-bolts at
my girdle, and it may be I shall find wild-fowl."
He hastened his pace, and was soon out of sight. Martin paused for a
moment, and looked after him. "There goes the making of a right
gallant stripling, an ambition have not the spoiling of him--Serve the
Queen! said he. By my faith, and she hath worse servants, from all
that I e'er heard of him. And wherefore should he not keep a high
head? They that ettle to the top of the ladder will at least get up
some rounds. They that mint [Footnote: _Mint_--aim at.] at a gown
of gold, will always get a sleeve of it. But come, sir, (addressing
the stag,) you shall go to Glendearg on my two legs somewhat more
slowly than you were frisking it even now on your own four nimble
shanks. Nay, by my faith, if you be so heavy, I will content me with
the best of you, and that's the haunch and the nombles, and e'en heave
up the rest on the old oak-tree yonder, and come back for it with one
of the yauds." [Footnote: _Yauds_--horses; more particularly
horses of labour.]
While Martin returned to Glendearg with the venison, Halbert
prosecuted his walk, breathing more easily since he was free of his
companion. "The domestic of a proud and lazy priest--body-squire to
the Archbishop of Saint Andrews," he repeated to himself; "and this,
with the privilege of allying his blood with the Bailie of Pittenween,
is thought a preferment worth a brave man's struggling for;--nay more,
a preferment which, if allowed, should crown the hopes, past, present,
and to come, of the son of a Kirk-vassal! By Heaven, but that I find
in me a reluctance to practise their acts of nocturnal rapine, I would
rather take the jack and lance, and join with the Border-riders.
--Something I will do. Here, degraded and dishonoured, I will not live
the scorn of each whiffling stranger from the South, because,
forsooth, he wears tinkling spurs on a tawney boot. This thing--this
phantom, be it what it will, I will see it once more. Since I spoke
with her, and touched her hand, thoughts and feelings have dawned on
me, of which my former life had not even dreamed; but shall I, who
feel my father's glen too narrow for my expanding spirit, brook to be
bearded in it by this vain gewgaw of a courtier, and in the sight too
of Mary Avenel? I will not stoop to it, by Heaven!"
As he spoke thus, he arrived in the sequestered glen of
Corri-nan-shian, as it verged upon the hour of noon. A few moments he
remained looking upon the fountain, and doubting in his own mind with
what countenance the White Lady might receive him. She had not indeed
expressly forbidden his again evoking her; but yet there was something
like such a prohibition implied in the farewell, which recommended him
to wait for another guide.
Halbert Glendinning did not long, however, allow himself to pause.
Hardihood was the natural characteristic of his mind; and under the
expansion and modification which his feelings had lately undergone, it
had been augmented rather than diminished. He drew his sword, undid
the buskin from his foot, bowed three times with deliberation towards
the fountain, and as often towards the tree, and repeated the same
rhyme as formerly,--
"Thrice to the holy brake--
Thrice to the well:--
I bid thee awake,
White Maid of Avenel!
Noon gleams on the lake--
Noon glows on the fell--
Wake thee, O wake,
White Maid of Avenel!"
"This is the day when the fairy kind
Sits weeping alone for their hopeless lot,
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing wind,
And the mer-maiden weeps in her crystal grot:
For this is the day that a deed was wrought,
In which we have neither part nor share.
For the children of clay was salvation bought,
But not for the forms of sea or air!
And ever the mortal is most forlorn.
Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn."
As he spoke, the figure looked upon him with a fierce and ireful
countenance, which, without losing the similitude of that which it
usually exhibited, had a wilder and more exaggerated cast of features.
The eyes seemed to contract and become more fiery, and slight
convulsions passed over the face, as if it was about to be transformed
into something hideous. The whole appearance resembled those faces
which the imagination summons up when it is disturbed by laudanum, but
which do not remain under the visionary's command, and, beautiful in
their first appearance, become wild and grotesque ere we can arrest
But when Halbert had concluded his bold speech, the White Lady stood
before him with the same pale, fixed, and melancholy aspect, which she
usually bore. He had expected the agitation which she exhibited would
conclude in some frightful metamorphosis. Folding her arms on her
bosom, the phantom replied,--
"Daring youth! for thee it is well,
Here calling me in haunted dell,
That thy heart has not quail'd,
Nor thy courage fail'd,
And that thou couldst brook
The angry look
Of Her of Avenel.
Did one limb shiver,
Or an eyelid quiver,
Thou wert lost for ever.
Though I am form'd from the ether blue,
And my blood is of the unfallen dew.
And thou art framed of mud and dust,
'Tis thine to speak, reply I must."
The White Lady replied,--
"A mightier wizard far than I
Wields o'er the universe his power;
Him owns the eagle in the sky,
The turtle in the bower.
Chanceful in shape, yet mightiest still,
He wields the heart of man at will,
From ill to good, from good, to ill,
In cot and castle-tower."
The spirit answered,--
"Ask thy heart,--whose secret cell
Is fill'd with Marv Avenel!
Ask thy pride,--why scornful look
In Mary's view it will not brook?
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise
Among the mighty and the wise?--
Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot?--
Why thy pastimes are forgot?
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife
Mend thy luck or lose thy life?
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell,
Sighing from its secret cell,
'Tis for Mary Avenel."
The White Lady replied,--
"Do not ask me;
On doubts like these thou canst not task me.
We only see the passing show
Of human passions' ebb and flow;
And view the pageant's idle glance
As mortals eye the northern dance,
When thousand streamers, flashing bright,
Career it o'er the brow of night.
And gazers mark their changeful gleams,
But feel no influence from their beams."
The phantom answered,
"By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race
Holds strange connexion with the sons of men.
The star that rose upon the House of Avenel,
When Norman Ulric first assumed the name,
That star, when culminating in its orbit,
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew,
And this bright font received it--and a Spirit
Rose from the fountain, and her date of life
Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel,
And with the star that rules it."
The White Lady replied,--
"Look on my girdle--on this thread of gold--
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer.
And, but there is a spell on't, would not bind,
Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe.
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive chain,
Such as might bind the champion of the Jews,
Even when his looks were longest--it hath dwindled,
Hath minish'd in its substance and its strength,
As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel.
When this frail thread gives way. I to the elements
Resign the principles of life they lent me.
Ask me no more of this!--the stars forbid it."
The White Lady again replied,--
"Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel,
Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh,
And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the light-house;
There is an influence sorrowful and fearful.
That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion,
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect
That lowers upon its fortunes."
She answered as promptly as before,--
"Complain not of me, child of clay,
If to thy harm I yield the way.
We, who soar thy sphere above,
Know not aught of hate or love;
As will or wisdom rules thy mood,
My gifts to evil turn, or good."
The phantom failed not to reply,--
"When Piercie Shafton boasteth high,
Let this token meet his eye.
The sun is westering from the dell,
Thy wish is granted--fare thee well!"
Habit inures us to wonders; but the youth did not find himself alone
by the fountain without experiencing, though in a much less degree,
the revulsion of spirits which he had felt upon the phantom's former
disappearance. A doubt strongly pressed upon his mind, whether it
were safe to avail himself of the gifts of a spirit which did not even
pretend to belong to the class of angels, and might, for aught he
knew, have a much worse lineage than that which she was pleased to
avow. "I will speak of it," he said, "to Edward, who is clerkly
learned, and will tell me what I should do. And yet, no--Edward is
scrupulous and wary.--I will prove the effect of her gift on Sir
Piercie Shafton, if he again braves me, and by the issue, I will be
myself a sufficient judge whether there is danger in resorting to her
counsel. Home, then, home--and we shall soon learn whether that home
shall longer hold me; for not again will I brook insult, with my
father's sword by my side, and Mary for the spectator of my disgrace."
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