When I hae a saxpence under my thumb,
Then I get credit in ilka town;
But when I am puir they bid me gae by —
Oh, poverty parts good company!
Old song.
While the departure of the page afforded subject for the conversation which we have detailed1 in our last chapter, the late favourite was far advanced on his solitary2 journey, without well knowing what was its object, or what was likely to be its end. He had rowed the skiff in which he left the castle, to the side of the lake most distant from the village, with the desire of escaping from the notice of the inhabitants. His pride whispered, that he would be in his discarded state, only the subject of their wonder and compassion3; and his generosity4 told him, that any mark of sympathy which his situation should excite, might be unfavourably reported at the castle. A trifling5 incident convinced him he had little to fear for his friends on the latter score. He was met by a young man some years older than himself, who had on former occasions been but too happy to be permitted to share in his sports in the subordinate character of his assistant. Ralph Fisher approached to greet him, with all the alacrity6 of an humble7 friend.
“What, Master Roland, abroad on this side, and without either hawk8 or hound?”
“Hawk or hound,” said Roland, “I will never perhaps hollo to again. I have been dismissed — that is, I have left the castle.”
Ralph was surprised. “What! you are to pass into the Knight’s service, and take the black jack9 and the lance?”
“Indeed,” replied Roland Graeme, “I am not — I am now leaving the service of Avenel for ever.”
“And whither are you going, then?” said the young peasant.
“Nay, that is a question which it craves10 time to answer — I have that matter to determine yet,” replied the disgraced favourite.
“Nay, nay,” said Ralph, “I warrant you it is the same to you which way you go — my Lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining11 into the pouches13 of your doublet.”
“Sordid14 slave!” said Roland Graeme, “dost thou think I would have accepted a boon15 from one who was giving me over a prey16 to detraction17 and to ruin, at the instigation of a canting priest and a meddling18 serving-woman? The bread that I had bought with such an alms would have choked me at the first mouthful.”
Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air of wonder not unmixed with contempt. “Well,” he said, at length, “no occasion for passion — each man knows his own stomach best — but, were I on a black moor19 at this time of day, not knowing whither I was going, I should be glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch12, come by them as I could.— But perhaps you will go with me to my father’s — that is, for a night, for tomorrow we expect my uncle Menelaus and all his folk; but, as I said, for one night ——”
The cold-blooded limitation of the offered shelter to one night only, and that tendered most unwillingly20, offended the pride of the discarded favourite.
“I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have done many a night on less occasion,” said Roland Graeme, “than in the smoky garret of your father, that smells of peat smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander’s plaid.”
“You may choose, my master, if you are so nice,” replied Ralph Fisher; “you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you journey long in the fashion you propose. You might have said God-a-mercy for your proffer21, though — it is not every one that will put themselves in the way of ill-will by harbouring a discarded serving-man.”
“Ralph,” said Roland Graeme, “I would pray you to remember that I have switched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you have tasted.”
Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full strength, and conscious of the most complete personal superiority, laughed contemptuously at the threats of the slight-made stripling.
“It may be the same wand,” he said, “but not the same hand; and that is as good rhyme as if it were in a ballad22. Look you, my Lady’s page that was, when your switch was up, it was no fear of you, but of your betters, that kept mine down — and I wot not what hinders me from clearing old scores with this hazel rung, and showing you it was your Lady’s livery-coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood, Master Roland.”
In the midst of his rage, Roland Graeme was just wise enough to see, that by continuing this altercation23, he would subject himself to very rude treatment from the boor24, who was so much older and stronger than himself; and while his antagonist25, with a sort of jeering26 laugh of defiance27, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness of his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion of tears, which he in vain endeavoured to conceal28 with both his hands.
Even the rough churl29 was moved with the distress30 of his quondam companion.
“Nay, Master Roland,” he said, “I did but as ’twere jest with thee — I would not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance sake. But ever look to a man’s inches ere you talk of switching — why, thine arm, man, is but like a spindle compared to mine.— But hark, I hear old Adam Woodcock hollowing to his hawk — Come along, man, we will have a merry afternoon, and go jollily to my father’s in spite of the peat-smoke and usquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some honest way of winning your bread, though it’s hard to come by in these broken times.”
The unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands from his face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable tone of comfort.
“Why, man, when you were my Lady’s minion32, men held you proud, and some thought you a Papist, and I wot not what; and so, now that you have no one to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty33, and wait on the minister’s examinations, and put these things out of folk’s head; and if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the stream; and if a gentleman, or a gentleman’s gentleman, give you a rough word, or a light blow, you must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, or the like, as I have done by you.— But hark to Woodcock’s whistle again. Come, and I will teach you all the trick on’t as we go on.”
“I thank you,” said Roland Graeme, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference34 and of superiority; “but I have another path before me, and were it otherwise, I could not tread in yours.”
“Very true, Master Roland,” replied the clown; “and every man knows his own matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you say. Give us a grip of your hand, man, for auld35 lang syne36.— What! not clap palms ere we part?— well, so be it — a wilful37 man will have his way, and so farewell, and the blessing38 of the morning to you.”
“Good-morrow — good-morrow,” said Roland, hastily; and the clown walked lightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently39, to be rid of an acquaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no longer the means to be serviceable to him.
Roland Graeme compelled himself to walk on while they were within sight of each other that his former intimate might not augur40 any vacillation41 of purpose, or uncertainty42 of object, from his remaining on the same spot; but the effort was a painful one. He seemed stunned43, as it were, and giddy; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and quaking under his feet like the surface of a bog44; and he had once or twice nearly fallen, though the path he trode was of firm greensward. He kept resolutely45 moving forward, in spite of the internal agitation46 to which these symptoms belonged, until the distant form of his acquaintance disappeared behind the slope of a hill, when his heart failed at once; and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken31, he gave way to the natural expressions of wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept with unrestrained profusion47 and unqualified bitterness.
When the first violent paroxysm of his feelings had subsided48, the deserted49 and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usually follows such discharges of sorrow. The tears continued to chase each other down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the same sense of desolation; an afflicting50 yet milder sentiment was awakened51 in his mind, by the recollection of his benefactress, of the unwearied kindness which had attached her to him, in spite of many acts of provoking petulance52, now recollected53 as offences of a deep dye, which had protected him against the machinations of others, as well as against the consequences of his own folly54, and would have continued to do so, had not the excess of his presumption55 compelled her to withdraw her protection.
“Whatever indignity56 I have borne,” he said, “has been the just reward of my own ingratitude57. And have I done well to accept the hospitality, the more than maternal59 kindness, of my protectress, yet to detain from her the knowledge of my religion?— but she shall know that a Catholic has as much gratitude58 as a Puritan — that I have been thoughtless, but not wicked — that in my wildest moments I have loved, respected, and honoured her — and that the orphan60 boy might indeed be heedless, but was never ungrateful!”
He turned, as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began hastily to retread his footsteps towards the castle. But he checked the first eagerness of his repentant61 haste, when he reflected on the scorn and contempt with which the family were likely to see the return of the fugitive62, humbled63, as they must necessarily suppose him, into a supplicant64, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to return to his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still.
“I care not,” he resolutely determined65; “let them wink66, point, nod, sneer67, speak of the conceit68 which is humbled, of the pride which has had a fall — I care not; it is a penance69 due to my folly, and I will endure it with patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also should think me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her pardon alone, but for a renewal70 of the advantages which I derived71 from her favour — her suspicion of my meanness I cannot — I will not brook72.”
He stood still, and his pride rallying with constitutional obstinacy73 against his more just feeling, urged that he would incur74 the scorn of the Lady of Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by following the course which the first ardour of his repentant feelings had dictated75 to him.
“If I had but some plausible76 pretext,” he thought, “some ostensible77 reason for my return, some excuse to allege78 which might show I came not as a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go thither79 — but as I am, I cannot — my heart would leap from its place and burst.”
As these thoughts swept through his mind, something passed in the air so near him as to dazzle his eyes, and almost to brush the plume80 in his cap. He looked up — it was the favourite falcon81 of Sir Halbert, which, flying around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that of a well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the accustomed whoop82, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist, and began to prune83 itself, glancing at the youth from time to time an acute and brilliant beam of its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed84 it not with his usual fondness.
“Ah, Diamond!” he said, as if the bird understood him, “thou and I must be strangers henceforward. Many a gallant85 stoop have I seen thee make, and many a brave heron strike down; but that is all gone and over, and there is no hawking86 more for me!”
“And why not, Master Roland,” said Adam Woodcock the falconer, who came at that instant from behind a few alder87 bushes which had concealed88 him from view, “why should there be no more hawking for you? Why, man, what were our life without our sports?— thou know’st the jolly old song —
“And rather would Allan in dungeon89 lie,
Than live at large where the falcon cannot fly;
And Allan would rather lie in Sexton’s pound,
Than live where he followed not the merry hawk and hound.”
The voice of the falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in which he half-sung half-recited his rude ballad, implied honest frankness and cordiality. But remembrance of their quarrel, and its consequences, embarrassed Roland, and prevented his reply. The falconer saw his hesitation90, and guessed the cause.
“What now,” said he, “Master Roland? do you, who are half an Englishman, think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger against you, and you in distress? That were like some of the Scots, (my master’s reverence91 always excepted,) who can be fair and false, and wait their time, and keep their mind, as they say, to themselves, and touch pot and flagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, after all, when time serves, pay off some old feud92 with the point of the dagger93. Canny94 Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken it from you, than a rough word from another; for you have a good notion of falconry, though you stand up for washing the meat for the eyases. So give us your hand, man, and bear no malice95.”
Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity of honest Adam’s address, could not resist its downright frankness. Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to the falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp.
“Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock; “I always said you had a kind heart, though you have a spice of the devil in your disposition96, that is certain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find you, and yon half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You ever thought too much of that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he knows nought97 of sport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw how it had been betwixt you, and I sent him out of my company with a wanion — I would rather have a rifler on my perch98 than a false knave99 at my elbow — and now, Master Roland, tell me what way wing ye?”
“That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with a sigh which he could not suppress.
“Nay, man, never droop100 a feather for being cast off,” said the falconer; “who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for all this yet?— Look at Diamond there, ’tis a noble bird, and shows gallantly101 with his hood102, and bells, and jesses; but there is many a wild falcon in Norway that would not change properties with him — And that is what I would say of you. You are no longer my Lady’s page, and you will not clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or show so gallant — What of all that? if you are not her page, you are your own man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or whistle. The worst is the loss of the sport, but who knows what you may come to? They say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad to be the Abbot’s forester, and now he has hounds and hawks103 of his own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the boot.”
“You are right, and say well, Adam,” answered the youth, the blood mantling104 in his cheeks, “the falcon will soar higher without his bells than with them, though the bells be made of silver.”
“That is cheerily spoken,” replied the falconer; “and whither now?”
“I thought of going to the Abbey of Kennaquhair,” answered Roland Graeme, “to ask the counsel of Father Ambrose.”
“And joy go with you,” said the falconer, “though it is likely you may find the old monks105 in some sorrow; they say the commons are threatening to turn them out of their cells, and make a devil’s mass of it in the old church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long; and troth I am clear of the same opinion.”
“Then will Father Ambrose be the better of having a friend beside him!” said the page, manfully.
“Ay, but, my young fearnought,” replied the falconer, “the friend will scarce be the better of being beside Father Ambrose — he may come by the redder’s lick, and that is ever the worst of the battle.”
“I care not for that,” said the page, “the dread106 of a lick should not hold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers by visiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert’s cell, where the old priest will give me a night’s shelter; and I will send to Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the convent.”
“By Our Lady,” said the falconer, “and that is a likely plan — and now,” he continued, exchanging his frankness of manner for a sort of awkward embarrassment107, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready means to bring out —“and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawk’s meat, 7 and so forth108; but wot you what it is lined with, Master Roland?”
“With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, somewhat surprised at the hesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question apparently so simple.
“With leather, lad?” said Woodcock; “ay, and with silver to the boot of that. See here,” he said, showing a secret slit109 in the lining of his bag of office —“here they are, thirty good Harry110 groats as ever were struck in bluff111 old Hal’s time, and ten of them are right heartily112 at your service; and now the murder is out.”
Roland’s first idea was to refuse his assistance; but he recollected the vows113 of humility114 which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred that this was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolution to the test. Assuming a strong command of himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with as much frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing what was so contrary to his inclinations115, that he accepted thankfully of his kind offer, while, to soothe116 his own reviving pride, he could not help adding, “he hoped soon to requite117 the obligation.”
“That as you list — that as you list, young man,” said the falconer, with glee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply he had so generously offered, and then adding, with great cheerfulness,—“Now you may go through the world; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn, hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword and buckler, with a whole pair of shoes, a green jacket, and ten lily-white groats in his pouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. Farewell, and God be with you!”
So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks of his companion, he turned hastily round, and left Roland Graeme to pursue his journey alone.
收听单词发音 |
1
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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2
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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3
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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4
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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5
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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6
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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7
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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9
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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13
pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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14
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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20
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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21
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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22
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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23
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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24
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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25
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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26
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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30
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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31
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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32
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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33
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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37
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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41
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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42
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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43
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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44
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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45
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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46
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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47
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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48
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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49
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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50
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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51
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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52
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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53
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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55
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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56
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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59
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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supplicant
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| adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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66
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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67
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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68
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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69
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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70
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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71
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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73
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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82
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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84
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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86
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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87
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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88
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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99
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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100
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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101
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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102
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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103
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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104
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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105
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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106
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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107
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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110
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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111
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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112
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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113
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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114
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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115
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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116
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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117
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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