The Abbot by Walter Scott (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

I wonder what thrift that churl drives, that of late he hath ever had light in his house till the night grew deep. I thought him an industrious, peaceful man—If he turns resetter of idle companions and night-walkers, the place must be rid of him.”

“He may work his baskets perchance,” said the page, desirous to stop the train of her suspicion.

“Or nets, may he not?” answered the Lady.

“Ay, madam,” said Roland, “for trout and salmon.”

“Or for fools and knaves,” replied the Lady: “but this shall be looked after to-morrow.—I wish your Grace and your company a good evening.—Randal, attend us.” And Randal, who waited in the antechamber after having surrendered his bunch of keys, gave his escort to his mistress as usual, while, leaving the Queen's apartments, she retired to her own [End of paragraph missing in original]

“To-morrow” said the page, rubbing his hands with glee as he repeated the Lady's last words, “fools look to-morrow, and wise folk use to-night.—May I pray you, my gracious Liege, to retire for one half hour, until all the castle is composed to rest? I must go and rub with oil these blessed implements of our freedom. Courage and constancy, and all will go well, provided our friends on the shore fail not to send the boat you spoke of.”

“Fear them not,” said Catherine, “they are true as steel—if our dear mistress do but maintain her noble and royal courage.”

[Footnote: In the dangerous expedition to Aberdeenshire, Randolph, the English Ambassador, gives Cecil the following account of Queen Mary's demeanour:—

“In all those garbulles, I assure your honour, I never saw the Queen merrier, never dismayed; nor never thought I that stomache to be in her that I find. She repented nothing but, when the Lords and others, at Inverness, came in the morning from the watches, that she was not a man, to know what life it was to lye all night in the fields, or to walk upon the causeway with a jack and a knaps-cap, a Glasgow buckler, and a broadsword.”—RANDOLPH to CECIL, September 18, 1562.

The writer of the above letter seems to have felt the same impression which Catherine Seyton, in the text, considered as proper to the Queen's presence among her armed subjects.

“Though we neither thought nor looked for other than on that day to have fought or never-what desperate blows would not have been given, when every man should have fought in the sight of so noble a Queen, and so many fair ladies, our enemies to have taken them from us, and we to save our honours, not to be reft of them, your honour can easily judge.”—The same to the same, September 24, 1562. ]

“Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen; “a while since I was overborne, but I have recalled the spirit of my earlier and more sprightly days, when I used to accompany my armed nobles, and wish to be myself a man, to know what life it was to be in the fields with sword and buckler, jack, and knapscap.”

“Oh, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a lighter and gayer song than the merry soldier,” answered Catherine. “Your Grace shall be in the midst of them soon, and the look of such a liege Sovereign will make each of your host worth three in the hour of need:—but I must to my task.”

“We have but brief time,” said Queen Mary; “one of the two lights in the cottage is extinguished—that shows the boat is put off.”

“They will row very slow,” said the page, “or kent where depth permits, to avoid noise.—To our several tasks—I will communicate with the good Father.”

At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent in the castle, the page put the key into the lock of the wicket which opened into the garden, and which was at the bottom of a staircase which descended from the Queen's apartment. “Now, turn smooth and softly, thou good bolt,” said he, “if ever oil softened rust!” and his precautions had been so effectual, that the bolt revolved with little or no sound of resistance. He ventured not to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word with the disguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready?

“This half hour,” said the sentinel. “She lies beneath the wall, too close under the islet to be seen by the warder, but I fear she will hardly escape his notice in putting off again.”

“The darkness,” said the page, “and our profound silence, may take her off unobserved, as she came in. Hildebrand has the watch on the tower—a heavy-headed knave, who holds a can of ale to be the best headpiece upon a night-watch. He sleeps, for a wager.”

“Then bring the Queen,” said the Abbot, “and I will call Henry Seyton to assist them to the boat.”

On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath, trembling at every rustle of their own apparel, one after another the fair prisoners glided down the winding stair, under the guidance of Roland Graeme, and were received at the wicket-gate by Henry Seyton and the churchman. The former seemed instantly to take upon himself the whole direction of the enterprise. “My Lord Abbot,” he said, “give my sister your arm—I will conduct the Queen—and that youth will have the honour to guide Lady Fleming.”

This was no time to dispute the arrangement, although it was not that which Roland Graeme would have chosen. Catherine Seyton, who well knew the garden path, tripped on before like a sylph, rather leading the Abbot than receiving assistance—the Queen, her native spirit prevailing over female fear, and a thousand painful reflections, moved steadily forward, by the assistance of Henry Seyton—while the Lady Fleming, encumbered with her fears and her helplessness Roland Graeme, who followed in the rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet of necessaries belonging to the Queen. The door of the garden, which communicated with the shore of the islet, yielded to one of the keys of which Roland had possessed himself, although not until he had tried several,—a moment of anxious terror and expectation. The ladies were then partly led, partly carried, to the side of the lake, where a boat with six rowers attended them, the men couched along the bottom to secure them from observation. Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the stern; the Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by the Queen's side before he could utter his proffer of help; and Roland Graeme was just lifting Lady Fleming over the boat-side, when a thought suddenly occurred to him, and exclaiming, “Forgotten, forgotten! wait for me but one half-minute,” he replaced on the shore the helpless Lady of the bed-chamber, threw the Queen's packet into the boat, and sped back through the garden with the noiseless speed of a bird on the wing.

“By Heaven, he is false at last!” said Seyton; “I ever feared it!”

“He is as true,” said Catherine, “as Heaven itself, and that I will maintain.”

“Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “for shame, if not for fear—Fellows, put off, and row for your lives!”

“Help me, help me on board!” said the deserted Lady Fleming, and that louder than prudence warranted.

“Put off—put off!” cried Henry Seyton; “leave all behind,