Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Abbot by Walter Scott (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📖
- Author: Walter Scott
Book online «The Abbot by Walter Scott (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📖». Author Walter Scott
“Um!” said the steward, making that inarticulate sound which expresses surprise mingled with displeasure. “Nay, then, even fly where ye list; for, giddy-pated as ye may be, you know how to bear you in the world.”
“I will show you my esteem is less selfish than ye think for,” said the page; “for I hold truth and mirth to be better than gravity and cunning—ay, and in the end to be a match for them.—You never loved me less, Sir Steward, than you do at this moment. I know you will give me no real confidence, and I am resolved to accept no false protestations as current coin. Resume your old course—suspect me as much and watch me as closely as you will, I bid you defiance—you have met with your match.”
“By Heaven, young man,” said the steward, with a look of bitter malignity, “if thou darest to attempt any treachery towards the House of Lochleven, thy head shall blacken in the sun from the warder's turret!”
“He cannot commit treachery who refuses trust,” said the page; “and for my head, it stands as securely on my shoulders, as on any turret that ever mason built.”
“Farewell, thou prating and speckled pie,” said Dryfesdale, “that art so vain of thine idle tongue and variegated coat! Beware trap and lime-twig.”
“And fare thee well, thou hoarse old raven,” answered the page; “thy solemn flight, sable hue, and deep croak, are no charms against bird-bolt or hail-shot, and that thou mayst find—it is open war betwixt us, each for the cause of our mistress, and God show the right!”
“Amen, and defend his own people!” said the steward. “I will let my mistress know what addition thou hast made to this mess of traitors. Good night, Monsieur Featherpate.”
“Good-night, Seignior Sowersby,” replied the page; and, when the old man departed, he betook himself to rest.
Chapter the Thirty-First. Poison'd—ill fare!—dead, forsook, cast off!— KING JOHN.
However weary Roland Graeme might be of the Castle of Lochleven—however much he might wish that the plan for Mary's escape had been perfected, I question if he ever awoke with more pleasing feelings than on the morning after George Douglas's plan for accomplishing her deliverance had been frustrated. In the first place, he had the clearest conviction that he had misunderstood the innuendo of the Abbot, and that the affections of Douglas were fixed, not on Catherine Seyton, but on the Queen; and in the second place, from the sort of explanation which had taken place betwixt the steward and him, he felt himself at liberty, without any breach of honour towards the family of Lochleven, to contribute his best aid to any scheme which should in future be formed for the Queen's escape; and, independently of the good-will which he himself had to the enterprise, he knew he could find no surer road to the favour of Catherine Seyton. He now sought but an opportunity to inform her that he had dedicated himself to this task, and fortune was propitious in affording him one which was unusually favourable.
At the ordinary hour of breakfast, it was introduced by the steward with his usual forms, who, as soon as it was placed on the board in the inner apartment, said to Roland Graeme, with a glance of sarcastic import, “I leave you, my young sir, to do the office of sewer—it has been too long rendered to the Lady Mary by one belonging to the house of Douglas.”
“Were it the prime and principal who ever bore the name,” said Roland, “the office were an honour to him.”
The steward departed without replying to this bravade, otherwise than by a dark look of scorn. Graeme, thus left alone, busied himself as one engaged in a labour of love, to imitate, as well as he could, the grace and courtesy with which George of Douglas was wont to render his ceremonial service at meals to the Queen of Scotland. There was more than youthful vanity—there was a generous devotion in the feeling with which he took up the task, as a brave soldier assumes the place of a comrade who has fallen in the front of battle. “I am now,” he said, “their only champion: and, come weal, come wo, I will be, to the best of my skill and power, as faithful, as trustworthy, as brave, as any Douglas of them all could have been.”
At this moment Catherine Seyton entered alone, contrary to her custom; and not less contrary to her custom, she entered with her kerchief at her eyes. Roland Graeme approached her with beating heart and with down-cast eyes, and asked her, in a low and hesitating voice, whether the Queen were well?
“Can you suppose it?” said Catherine. “Think you her heart and body are framed of steel and iron, to endure the cruel disappointment of yester even, and the infamous taunts of yonder puritanic hag?—Would to God that I were a man, to aid her more effectually!”
“If those who carry pistols, and batons, and poniards,” said the page, “are not men, they are at least Amazons; and that is as formidable.”
“You are welcome to the flash of your wit, sir,” replied the damsel; “I am neither in spirits to enjoy, nor to reply to it.”
“Well, then,” said the page, “list to me in all serious truth. And, first, let me say, that the gear last night had been smoother, had you taken me into your counsels.”
“And so we meant; but who could have guessed that Master Page should choose to pass all night in the garden, like some moon-stricken knight in a Spanish romance—instead of being in his bed-room, when Douglas came to hold communication with him on our project.”
“And why,” said the page, “defer to so late a moment so important a confidence?”
“Because your communications with Henderson, and—with pardon—the natural impetuosity and fickleness of your disposition, made us dread to entrust you with a secret of such consequence, till the last moment.”
“And why at the last moment?” said the page, offended at this frank avowal; “why at that, or any other moment, since I had the misfortune to incur so much suspicion?”
“Nay—now you are angry again,” said Catherine; “and to serve you aright I should break off this talk; but I will be magnanimous, and answer your question. Know, then, our reason for trusting you was twofold. In the first place, we could scarce avoid it, since you slept in the room through which we had to pass. In the second place——”
“Nay,” said the page, “you may dispense with a second reason, when the
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