"That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and in this unsettled land," said the Lady; "the English hands have been as deeply dyed in our blood as ever those of Scotsmen have been in yours."
"You have right to say it, Lady," answered Magdalen Graeme; "for men tell of a time when this castle was not strong enough to save your father's life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place of refuge. And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own home, and with mine own people?"
"It was indeed an idle question," answered the Lady, "where misery so often makes wanderers; but wherefore take refuge in a hostile country?"
"My neighbours were Popish and mass-mongers," said the old woman; "it has pleased Heaven to give me a clearer sight of the gospel, and I have tarried here to enjoy the ministry of that worthy man Henry Warden, who, to the praise and comfort of many, teacheth the Evangel in truth and in sincerity."
"Are you poor?" again demanded the Lady of Avenel.
"You hear me ask alms of no one," answered the Englishwoman.
Here there was a pause. The manner of the woman was, if not disrespectful, at least much less than gracious; and she appeared to give no encouragement to farther communication. The Lady of Avenel renewed the conversation on a different topic.
"You have heard of the danger in which your boy has been placed?"
"I have, Lady, and how by an especial providence he was rescued from death. May Heaven make him thankful, and me!"
"What relation do you bear to him?"
"I am his grandmother, lady, if it so please you; the only relation he hath left upon earth to take charge of him."
"The burden of his maintenance must necessarily be grievous to you in your deserted situation?" pursued the Lady.
"I have complained of it to no one," said Magdalen Graeme, with the same unmoved, dry, and unconcerned tone of voice, in which she had answered all the former questions.
"If," said the Lady of Avenel, "your grandchild could be received into a noble family, would it not advantage both him and you?"
"Received into a noble family!" said the old woman, drawing herself up, and bending her brows until her forehead was wrinkled into a frown of unusual severity; "and for what purpose, I pray you?--to be my lady's page, or my lord's jackman, to eat broken victuals, and contend with other menials for the remnants of the master's meal? Would you have him to fan the flies from my lady's face while she sleeps, to carry her train while she walks, to hand her trencher when she feeds, to ride before her on horseback, to walk after her on foot, to sing when she lists, and to be silent when she bids?--a very weathercock, which, though furnished in appearance with wings and plumage, cannot soar into the air--cannot fly from the spot where it is perched, but receives all its impulse, and performs all its revolutions, obedient to the changeful breath of a vain woman? When the eagle of Helvellyn perches on the tower of Lanercost, and turns and changes his place to show how the wind sits, Roland Graeme shall be what you would make him."
The woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence which seemed to have in it a touch of insanity; and a sudden sense of the danger to which the child must necessarily be exposed in the charge of such a keeper, increased the Lady's desire to keep him in the castle if possible.
"You mistake me, dame," she said, addressing the old woman in a soothing manner; "I do not wish your boy to be in attendance on myself, but upon the good knight my husband. Were he himself the son of a belted earl, he could not better be trained to arms, and all that befits a gentleman, than by the instructions and discipline of Sir Halbert Glendinning."
"Ay," answered the old woman, in the same style of bitter irony, "I know the wages of that service;--a curse when the corslet is not sufficiently brightened,--a blow when the girth is not tightly drawn,--to be beaten because the hounds are at fault,--to be reviled because the foray is unsuccessful,--to stain his hands for the master's bidding in the blood alike of beast and of man,--to be a butcher of harmless deer, a murderer and defacer of God's own image, not at his own pleasure, but at that of his lord,--to live a brawling ruffian, and a common stabber--exposed to heat, to cold, to want of food, to all the privations of an anchoret, not for the love of God, but for the service of Satan,--to die by the gibbet, or in some obscure skirmish,--to sleep out his brief life in carnal security, and to awake in the eternal fire, which is never quenched."
"Nay," said the Lady of Avenel, "but to such unhallowed course of life your grandson will not be here exposed. My husband is just and kind to those who live under his banner; and you yourself well know, that youth have here a strict as well as a good preceptor in the person of our chaplain."
The old woman appeared to pause.
"You have named," she said, "the only circumstance which can move me. I must soon onward, the vision has said it--I must not tarry in the same spot--I must on,--I must on, it is my weird.--Swear, then, that you will protect the boy as if he were your own, until I return hither and claim him, and I will consent for a space to part with him. But especially swear, he shall not lack the instruction of the godly man who hath placed the gospel-truth high above those idolatrous shavelings, the monks and friars."
"Be satisfied, dame," said the Lady of Avenel; "the boy shall have as much care as if he were born of my own blood. Will you see him now?"
"No," answered the old woman sternly; "to part is enough. I go forth on my own mission. I will not soften my heart by useless tears and wailings, as one that is not called to a duty."
"Will you not accept of something to aid you in your pilgrimage?" said the Lady of Avenel, putting into her hands two crowns of the sun. The old woman flung them down on the table.
"Am I of the race of Cain," she said, "proud Lady, that you offer me gold in exchange for my own flesh and blood?"
"I had no such meaning," said the Lady, gently; "nor am I the proud woman you term me. Alas! my own fortunes might have taught me humility, even had it not been born with me."
The old woman seemed somewhat to relax her tone of severity.
"You are of gentle blood," she said, "else we had not parleyed thus long together.--You are of gentle blood, and to such," she added, drawing up her tall form as she spoke, "pride is as graceful as is the plume upon the bonnet. But for these pieces of gold, lady, you must needs resume them. I need not money. I am well provided; and I may not care for myself, nor think how, or by whom, I shall be sustained. Farewell, and keep your word. Cause your gates to be opened, and your bridges to be lowered. I will set forward this very night. When I come again, I will demand from you a strict account, for I have left with you the jewel of my life! Sleep will visit me but in snatches, food will not refresh me, rest will not restore my strength, until I see Roland Graeme. Once more, farewell."
"Make your obeisance, dame," said Lilias to Magdalen Graeme, as she retired, "make your obeisance to her ladyship, and thank her for her goodness, as is but fitting and right."