THE MONASTERY & THE ABBOT (Illustrated Edition) - Walter Scott

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said the youth, colouring so deeply, that face, neck, and hands were in a sanguine glow; "make me sensible of thy purpose."

      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."

      "Tell me, then," said Halbert, his cheek still deeply crimsoned, "thou who hast said to me that which I dared not say to myself, by what means shall I urge my passion—by what means make it known?"

      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."

      "Yet thine own fate," replied Halbert, "unless men greatly err, is linked with that of mortals?"

      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."

      "Speak yet more plainly," answered young Glendinning; "of this I can understand nothing. Say, what hath forged thy wierded {Footnote: Wierded—fated.} link of destiny with the House of Avenel? Say, especially, what fate now overhangs that house?"

      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."

      "Then canst thou read the stars," answered the youth; "and mayest tell me the fate of my passion, if thou canst not aid 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."

      "And rivalry?" repeated Glendinning; "it is, then, as I feared!—But shall that English silkworm presume to beard me in my father's house, and in the presence of Mary Avenel?—Give me to meet him, spirit—give me to do away the vain distinction of rank on which he refuses me the combat. Place us on equal terms, and gleam the stars with what aspect they will, the sword of my father shall control their influences."

      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."

      "Give me to redeem my honour," said Halbert Glendinning—"give me to retort on my proud rival the insults he has thrown on me, and let the rest fare as it will. If I cannot revenge my wrong, I shall sleep quiet, and know nought of my disgrace."

      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!"

      As the White Lady spoke or chanted these last words, she undid from her locks a silver bodkin around which they were twisted, and gave it to Halbert Glendinning; then shaking her dishevelled hair till it fell like a veil around her, the outlines of her form gradually became as diffuse as her flowing tresses, her countenance grew pale as the moon in her first quarter, her features became indistinguishable, and she melted into the air.

      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."

      Chapter the Eighteenth

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      I give thee eighteenpence a-day,

       And my bow shall thou bear,

       And over all the north country,

       I make thee the chief rydere.

       And I thirteenpence a-day, quoth the queen,

       By God and by my faye,

      

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