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

what passed betwixt the Queen and him. He also was moody and thoughtful, but cleared his brow at the Queen's question, “How now, Roland? you are negligent in your attendance this morning. Are you so much overcome with your night's ride?”

“Not so, gracious madam,” answered Graeme; “but I am told the page of Lochleven is not the page of Niddrie Castle; and so Master Henry Seyton hath in a manner been pleased to supersede my attendance.”

“Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, “how soon these cock-chickens begin to spar!—with children and boys, at least, I may be a queen.—I will have you friends.—Some one send me Henry Seyton hither.” As she spoke the last words aloud, the youth whom she had named entered the apartment. “Come hither,” she said, “Henry Seyton—I will have you give your hand to this youth, who so well aided in the plan of my escape.”

“Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “so that the youth will grant me, as a boon, that he touch not the hand of another Seyton whom he knows of. My hand has passed current for hers with him before now—and to win my friendship, he must give up thoughts of my sister's love.”

“Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “does it become you to add any condition to my command?”

“Madam,” said Henry, “I am the servant of your Grace's throne, son to the most loyal man in Scotland. Our goods, our castles, our blood, are yours: Our honour is in our own keeping. I could say more, but—”

“Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen; “what avails it that I am released from Lochleven, if I am thus enthralled under the yoke of my pretended deliverers, and prevented from doing justice to one who has deserved as well of me as yourself?”

“Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign Lady,” said Roland; “this young gentleman, being the faithful servant of your Grace, and the brother of Catherine Seyton, bears that about him which will charm down my passion at the hottest.”

“I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton, haughtily, “that you make no speech which may infer that the daughter of Lord Seyton can be aught to thee beyond what she is to every churl's blood in Scotland.”

The Queen was again about to interfere, for Roland's complexion rose, and it became somewhat questionable how long his love for Catherine would suppress the natural fire of his temper. But the interposition of another person, hitherto unseen, prevented Mary's interference, There was in the oratory a separate shrine, enclosed with a high screen of pierced oak, within which was placed an image of Saint Bennet, of peculiar sanctity. From this recess, in which she had been probably engaged in her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Graeme, and addressed Henry Seyton, in reply to his last offensive expressions,—“And of what clay, then, are they moulded these Seytons, that the blood of the Graemes may not aspire to mingle with theirs? Know, proud boy, that when I call this youth my daughter's child, I affirm his descent from Malise Earl of Strathern, called Malise with the Bright Brand; and I trow the blood of your house springs from no higher source.”

“Good mother,” said Seyton, “methinks your sanctity should make you superior to these worldly vanities; and indeed it seems to have rendered you somewhat oblivious touching them, since, to be of gentle descent, the father's name and lineage must be as well qualified as the mother's.”

“And if I say he comes of the blood of Avenel by the father's side,” replied Magdalen Graeme, “name I not blood as richly coloured as thine own?”

“Of Avenel?” said the Queen; “is my page descended of Avenel?”

“Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male heir of that ancient house—Julian Avenel was his father, who fell in battle against the Southron.”

“I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen; “it was thy daughter, then, who followed that unfortunate baron to the field, and died on his body? Alas! how many ways does woman's affection find to work out her own misery! The tale has oft been told and sung in hall and bower—And thou, Roland, art that child of misfortune, who was left among the dead and dying? Henry Seyton, he is thine equal in blood and birth.”

“Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “even were he legitimate; but if the tale be told and sung aright, Julian Avenel was a false knight, and his leman a frail and credulous maiden.”

“Now, by Heaven, thou liest!” said Roland Graeme, and laid his hand on his sword. The entrance of Lord Seyton, however, prevented violence.

“Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “and separate these wild and untamed spirits.”

“How, Henry,” said the Baron, “are my castle, and the Queen's presence, no checks on thine insolence and impetuosity?—And with whom art thou brawling?—unless my eyes spell that token false, it is with the very youth who aided me so gallantly in the skirmish with the Leslies—Let me look, fair youth, at the medal which thou wearest in thy cap. By Saint Bennet, it is the same!—Henry, I command thee to forbear him, as thou lovest my blessing——”

“And as you honour my command,” said the Queen; “good service hath he done me.”

“Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, “as when he carried the billet enclosed in the sword-sheath to Lochleven—marry, the good youth knew no more than a pack-horse what he was carrying.”

“But I who dedicated him to this great work,” said Magdalen Graeme—“I, by whose advice and agency this just heir hath been unloosed from her thraldom—I, who spared not the last remaining hope of a falling house in this great action—I, at least, knew and counselled; and what merit may be mine, let the reward, most gracious Queen, descend upon this youth. My ministry here is ended; you are free—a sovereign Princess, at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by valiant barons—My service could avail you no farther, but might well prejudice you; your fortune now rests upon men's hearts and men's swords. May they prove as trusty as the faith of women!”

“You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen—“you whose practices in our favour were so powerful, who dared so many dangers, and wore so many disguises, to blind our enemies and to confirm our friends—you will not leave us in the dawn of our reviving fortunes, ere we have time to know and to thank you?”

“You cannot know her,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “who knows not herself—there are times, when, in this woman's frame of mine, there is the strength of him of Gath—in this overtoiled brain, the wisdom of the most sage counsellor—and again the mist is on me, and my strength is weakness, my wisdom folly. I have spoken before princes and cardinals—ay, noble Princess, even before the princes of thine own house of Lorraine; and I know not whence the words of persuasion came which flowed from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears.—And now, even when I most need words of persuasion, there is something which chokes my voice, and robs me of utterance.”

“If there be aught in my power to do thee pleasure,” said the Queen, “the barely naming it shall avail as well as all thine eloquence.”