Вальтер Скотт
The Abbot
This distinguished statesman, for as such his worst enemies acknowledged him, possessed all the external dignity, as well as almost all the noble qualities, which could grace the power that he enjoyed; and had he succeeded to the throne as his legitimate inheritance, it is probable he would have been recorded as one of Scotland’s wisest and greatest kings. But that he held his authority by the deposition and imprisonment of his sister and benefactress, was a crime which those only can excuse who think ambition an apology for ingratitude. He was dressed plainly in black velvet, after the Flemish fashion, and wore in his high-crowned hat a jewelled clasp, which looped it up on one side, and formed the only ornament of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his sword lay on the council table.
Such was the personage before whom Roland Graeme now presented himself, with a feeling of breathless awe, very different from the usual boldness and vivacity of his temper. In fact, he was, from education and nature, forward, but not impudent, and was much more easily controlled by the moral superiority, arising from the elevated talents and renown of those with whom he conversed, than by pretensions founded only on rank or external show. He might have braved with indifference the presence of an earl, merely distinguished by his belt and coronet; but he felt overawed in that of the eminent soldier and statesman, the wielder of a nation’s power, and the leader of her armies. – The greatest and wisest are flattered by the deference of youth – so graceful and becoming in itself; and Murray took, with much courtesy, the letter from the hands of the abashed and blushing page, and answered with complaisance to the imperfect and half-muttered greeting, which he endeavoured to deliver to him on the part of Sir Halbert of Avenel. He even paused a moment ere he broke the silk with which the letter was secured, to ask the page his name – so much he was struck with his very handsome features and form.
“Roland Graeme,” he said, repeating the words after the hesitating page. “What! of the Grahams of the Lennox?”
“No, my lord,” replied Roland; “my parents dwelt in the Debateable Land.”
Murray made no further inquiry, but proceeded to read his dispatches; during the perusal of which his brow began to assume a stern expression of displeasure, as that of one who found something which at once surprised and disturbed him. He sat down on the nearest seat, frowned till his eyebrows almost met together, read the letter twice over, and was then silent for several minutes. At length, raising his head, his eye encountered that of the usher, who in vain endeavoured to exchange the look of eager and curious observation with which he had been perusing the Regent’s features, for that open and unnoticing expression of countenance, which, in looking at all, seems as if it saw and marked nothing – a cast of look which may be practised with advantage by all those, of whatever degree, who are admitted to witness the familiar and unguarded hours of their superiors. Great men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife of King Candaules was of her charms, and will as readily punish those who have, however involuntarily, beheld them in mental deshabille and exposure.
“Leave the apartment, Hyndman,” said the Regent, sternly, “and carry your observation elsewhere. You are too knowing, sir, for your post, which, by special order, is destined for men of blunter capacity. So! now you look more like a fool than you did,” – (for Hyndman, as may easily be supposed, was not a little disconcerted by this rebuke) – “keep that confused stare, and it may keep your office. Begone, sir!”
The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to register, amongst his other causes of dislike to Roland Graeme, that he had been the witness of this disgraceful chiding. When he had left the apartment, the Regent again addressed the page.
“Your name, you say, is Armstrong?”
“No,” replied Roland, “my name is Graeme, so please you – Roland Graeme, whose forbears were designated of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land.”
“Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable Land. Hast thou any acquaintance in Edinburgh?”
“My lord,” replied Roland, willing rather to evade this question than to answer it directly, for the prudence of being silent with respect to Lord Seyton’s adventure immediately struck him, “I have been in Edinburgh scarce an hour, and that for the first time in my life.”
“What! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s page?” said the Regent.
“I was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the youth, “and left Avenel Castle for the first time in my life – at least since my childhood – only three days since.”
“My Lady’s page!” repeated the Earl of Murray, as if speaking to himself; “it was strange to send his Lady’s page on a matter of such deep concernment – Morton will say it is of a piece with the nomination of his brother to be Abbot; and yet in some sort an inexperienced youth will best serve the turn. – What hast thou been taught, young man, in thy doughty apprenticeship?”
“To hunt, my lord, and to hawk,” said Roland Graeme.
“To hunt coneys, and to hawk at ouzels!” said the Regent, smiling; “for such are the sports of ladies and their followers.”
Graeme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, not without some emphasis, “To hunt red-deer of the first head, and to strike down herons of the highest soar, my lord, which, in Lothian speech, may be termed, for aught I know, coneys and ouzels; – also I can wield a brand and couch a lance, according to our Border meaning; in inland speech these may be termed water-flags and bulrushes.”
“Thy speech rings like metal,” said the Regent, “and I pardon the sharpness of it for the truth. – Thou knowest, then, what belongs to the duty of a man-at-arms?”
“So far as exercise can teach – it without real service in the field,” answered Roland Graeme; “but our Knight permitted none of his household to make raids, and I never had the good fortune to see a stricken field.”
“The good fortune!” repeated the Regent, smiling somewhat sorrowfully, “take my word, young man, war is the only game from which both parties rise losers.”
“Not always, my lord!” answered the page, with his characteristic audacity, “if fame speaks truth.”
“How, sir?” said the Regent, colouring in his turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion to the height which he himself had attained by the hap of civil war.
“Because, my lord,” said Roland Graeme, without change of tone, “he who fights well, must have fame in life, or honour in death; and so war is a game from which no one can rise a loser.”
The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton presented himself.
“I come somewhat hastily,” he said, “and I enter unannounced because my news are of weight – It is as I said; Edward Glendinning is named Abbot, and – ”
“Hush, my lord!” said the Regent, “I know it, but – ”
“And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord of Murray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow growing darker and redder as he spoke.
“Morton,” said Murray, “suspect me not – touch not mine honour – I have to suffer enough from the calumnies of foes, let me not have to contend with the unjust suspicions of my friends. – We are not alone,” said he, recollecting himself, “or I could tell you more.”
He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which the windows formed in the massive wall, and which afforded a retiring place for their conversing apart. In this recess, Roland observed them speak together with much earnestness, Murray appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton having a jealous and offended air, which seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the Regent.
As their conversation grew more earnest, they became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the presence of the page, the more readily as his position in the apartment placed him put of sight, so that he found himself unwillingly privy to more of their discourse than he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity after the secrets of others had never been numbered amongst Roland’s failings; and moreover, with all his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety of becoming privy to the secret discourse of these powerful and dreaded men. Still he could neither stop his ears, nor with propriety leave the apartment; and while he thought of some means of signifying his presence, he had already heard so much, that, to have produced himself suddenly would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dangerous, as in quiet to abide the end of their conference. What he overheard, however, was but an imperfect part of their communication; and although an expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances of the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Roland Graeme could only form very general and vague conjectures as to the import of their discourse.
“All is prepared,” said Murray, “and Lindsay is setting forward – She must hesitate no longer – thou seest I act by thy counsel, and harden myself against softer considerations.”
“True, my lord,” replied Morton, “in what is necessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go boldly to the mark. But are you as careful to defend and preserve what you have won? – Why this establishment of domestics around her? – has not your sister men and maidens enough to tend her, but you must consent to this superfluous and dangerous retinue?”
“For shame, Morton! – a Princess, and my sister, could I do less than allow her due attendance?”
“Ay,” replied Morton, “even thus fly all your shafts – smartly enough loosened from the bow, and not unskilfully aimed – but a breath of foolish affection ever crosses in the mid volley, and sways the arrow from the mark.”
“Say not so, Morton,” replied Murray, “I have both dared and done – ”
“Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep – reckon not that she will think and act thus – you have wounded her deeply, both in pride and in power – it signifies nought, that you would tent now the wound with unavailing salves – as matters stand with you, you must forfeit the title of an affectionate brother, to hold that of a bold and determined statesman.”
“Morton!” said Murray, with some impatience, “I brook not these taunts – what I have done I have done – what I must farther do, I must and will – but I am not made of iron like thee, and I cannot but remember – Enough of this-my purpose holds.”
“And I warrant me,” said Morton, “the choice of these domestic consolations will rest with – ”
Here he whispered names which escaped Roland Graeme’s ear. Murray replied in a similar tone, but so much raised towards the conclusion, of the sentence, that the page heard these words – “And of him I hold myself secure, by Glendinning’s recommendation.”
“Ay, which may be as much trustworthy as his late conduct at the Abbey of Saint Mary’s – you have heard that his brother’s election has taken place. Your favourite Sir Halbert, my Lord of Murray, has as much fraternal affection as yourself.”
“By heaven, Morton, that taunt demanded an unfriendly answer, but I pardon it, for your brother also is concerned; but this election shall be annulled. I tell you, Earl of Morton, while I hold the sword of state in my royal nephew’s name, neither Lord nor Knight in Scotland shall dispute my authority; and if I bear – with insults from my friends, it is only while I know them to be such, and forgive their follies for their faithfulness.”
Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, and the Regent answered him in a milder tone, and then subjoined, “Besides, I have another pledge than Glendinning’s recommendation, for this youth’s fidelity – his nearest relative has placed herself in my hands as his security, to be dealt withal as his doings shall deserve.”
“That is something,” replied Morton; “but yet in fair love and goodwill, I must still pray you to keep on your guard. The foes are stirring again, as horse-flies and hornets become busy so soon as the storm-blast is over. George of Seyton was crossing the causeway this morning with a score of men at his back, and had a ruffle with my friends of the house of Leslie – they met at the Tron, and were fighting hard, when the provost, with his guard of partisans, came in thirdsman, and staved them asunder with their halberds, as men part dog and bear.”
“He hath my order for such interference,” said the Regent – “Has any one been hurt?”
“George of Seyton himself, by black Ralph Leslie – the devil take the rapier that ran not through from side to side! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb, by a blow from a messan-page whom nobody knew – Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants of the Leslies have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel; but a yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and ears chopped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the only losers by their miscarriage, have dragged the knaves off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach over them.”
“You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent; “these broils and feuds would shame the capital of the great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended; and men shall say, when they read my story, that if it were my cruel hap to rise to power by the dethronement of a sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit of the commonweal.”
“And of your friends,” replied Morton; “wherefore I trust for your instant order annulling the election of this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.”
“You shall be presently satisfied.” said the Regent; and stepping forward, he began to call, “So ho, Hyndman!” when suddenly his eye lighted on Roland Graeme – “By my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “here have been three at counsel!”
“Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton; “the galliard must be disposed of.”
“For shame, Morton – an orphan boy! – Hearken thee, my child – Thou hast told me some of thy accomplishments – canst thou speak truth?” “Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied Graeme.
“It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent; “and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How much hast thou heard or understood of what we two have spoken together?”
“But little, my lord,” replied Roland Graeme boldly, “which met my apprehension, saving that it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured.”
“And what hast thou to say on that point, young man?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon him with a keen and strong expression of observation.
“That,” said the page, “depends on the quality of those who speak against his honour whose bread I have long eaten. If they be my inferiors, I say they lie, and will maintain what I say with my baton; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my sword; if my superiors” – he paused.
“Proceed boldly,” said the Regent – “What if thy superiors said aught that nearly touched your master’s honour?”
“I would say,” replied Graeme, “that he did ill to slander the absent, and that my master was a man who could render an account of his actions to any one who should manfully demand it of him to his face.”
“And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent – “what thinkest thou, my Lord of Morton?”
“I think,” replied Morton, “that if the young galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much in the craft of his disposition as he does in eye and in brow, there may be a wide difference betwixt what he means and what he speaks.”
“And whom meanest thou that he resembles so closely?” said Murray.
“Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied Morton.
“But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Murray.
“It may be so; but Julian was an outlaying striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.”
“Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk – Here, thou Hyndman – thou curiosity,” calling to the usher, who now entered, – “conduct this youth to his companion – You will both,” he said to Graeme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.” – And then motioning to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up the interview.
Chapter the Nineteenth
It is and is not – ‘tis the thing I sought for,
Have kneel’d for, pray’d for, risk’d my fame and life for,
And yet it is not – no more than the shadow
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polished mirror,
Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance
Which it presents in form and lineament.
OLD PLAY.
The usher, with gravity which ill concealed a jealous scowl, conducted Roland Graeme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly acquainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace’s farther orders; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station, – instructions which Adam Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand – “For your beds,” he said, “you must go to the hostelry of Saint Michael’s, in respect the palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.”
No sooner was the usher’s back turned than Adam exclaimed with all the glee of eager curiosity, “And now, Master Roland, the news – the news – come unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings – What says the Regent? asks he for Adam Woodcock? – and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?”
“All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “and for the rest – But, hey-day, what! have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet?”
“And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced rogue that he is, began to inquire what Popish trangam you were wearing. – By the mass, the metal would have been confiscated for conscience-sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mistress Lilias bears about on her shoes in the guise of a pair of shoe-buckles – This comes of carrying Popish nicknackets about you.”
“The jade!” exclaimed Roland Graeme, “has she melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, which will set off such a garnish nearly as well as a cow’s might? – But, hang her, let her keep them – many a dog’s trick have I played old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a remembrance. Do you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, when old Wingate and she were to breakfast together on Easter morning?”
“In troth do I, Master Roland – the major-domo’s mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for the whole morning afterwards, and any other page in your room would have tasted the discipline of the porter’s lodge for it. But my Lady’s favour stood between your skin and many a jerking – Lord send you may be the better for her protection in such matters!”
“I am least grateful for it, Adam! and I am glad you put me in mind of it.”
“Well, but the news, my young master,” said Woodcock, “spell me the tidings – what are we to fly at next? – what did the Regent say to you?”
“Nothing that I am to repeat again,” said Roland Graeme, shaking his head.
“Why, hey-day,” said Adam, “how prudent we are become all of a sudden! You have advanced rarely in brief space, Master Roland. You have well nigh had your head broken, and you have gained your gold chain, and you have made an enemy, Master Usher to wit, with his two legs like hawks’ perches, and you have had audience of the first man in the realm, and bear as much mystery in your brow, as if you had flown in the court-sky ever since you were hatched. I believe, in my soul, you would run with a piece of the egg-shell on your head like the curlews, which (I would we were after them again) we used to call whaups in the Halidome and its neighbourhood. But sit thee down, boy; Adam Woodcock was never the lad to seek to enter into forbidden secrets – sit thee down, and I will go and fetch the vivers – I know the butler and the pantler of old.”
The good-natured falconer set forth upon his errand, busying himself about procuring their refreshment; and, during his absence, Roland Graeme abandoned himself to the strange, complicated, and yet heart-stirring reflections, to which the events of the morning had given rise. Yesterday he was of neither mark nor likelihood; a vagrant boy, the attendant on a relative, of whose sane judgment he himself had not the highest opinion; but now he had become, he knew not why, or wherefore, or to what extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, of some important state secret, in the safe keeping of which the Regent himself was concerned. It did not diminish from, but rather added to the interest of a situation so unexpected, that Roland himself did not perfectly understand wherein he stood committed by the state secrets, in which he had unwittingly become participator. On the contrary, he felt like one who looks on a romantic landscape, of which he sees the features for the first time, and then obscured with mist and driving tempest. The imperfect glimpse which the eye catches of rocks, trees, and other objects around him, adds double dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are left to imagination.
But mortals, especially at the well-appetized age which precedes twenty years, are seldom so much engaged either by real or conjectural subjects of speculation, but that their earthly wants claim their hour of attention. And with many a smile did our hero, so the reader may term him if he will, hail the re-appearance of his friend Adam Woodcock, bearing on one platter a tremendous portion of boiled beef, and on another a plentiful allowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call lang-kale. A groom followed with bread, salt, and the other means of setting forth a meal; and when they had both placed on the oaken table what they bore in their hands, the falconer observed, that since he knew the court, it had got harder and harder every day to the poor gentlemen and yeoman retainers, but that now it was an absolute flaying of a flea for the hide and tallow. Such thronging to the wicket, and such churlish answers, and such bare beef-bones, such a shouldering at the buttery-hatch and cellarage, and nought to be gained beyond small insufficient single ale, or at best with a single straike of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of water – “By the mass, though, my young friend,” said he, while he saw the food disappearing fast under Roland’s active exertions, “it is not so to well to lament for former times as to take the advantage of the present, else we are like to lose on both sides.”
So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair towards the table, unsheathed his knife, (for every one carried that minister of festive distribution for himself,) and imitated his young companion’s example, who for the moment had lost his anxiety for the future in the eager satisfaction of an appetite sharpened by youth and abstinence.
In truth, they made, though the materials were sufficiently simple, a very respectable meal, at the expense of the royal allowance; and Adam Woodcock, notwithstanding the deliberate censure which he had passed on the household beer of the palace, had taken the fourth deep draught of the black jack ere he remembered him that he had spoken in its dispraise. Flinging himself jollily and luxuriously back in an old danske elbow-chair, and looking with careless glee towards the page, extending at the same time his right leg, and stretching the other easily over it, he reminded his companion that he had not yet heard the ballad which he had made for the Abbot of Unreason’s revel. And accordingly he struck merrily up with
“The Pope, that pagan full of pride,
Has blinded us full lang.” —
Roland Graeme, who felt no great delight, as may be supposed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its subject, began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it around his shoulders, an action which instantly interrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock.
“Where the vengeance are you going now,” he said, “thou restless boy? – Thou hast quicksilver in the veins of thee to a certainty, and canst no more abide any douce and sensible communing, than a hoodless hawk would keep perched on my wrist!”
“Why, Adam,” replied the page, “if you must needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at this fair city. One may as well be still mewed up in the old castle of the lake, if one is to sit the live-long night between four walls, and hearken to old ballads.”
“It is a new ballad – the Lord help thee!” replied Adam, “and that one of the best that ever was matched with a rousing chorus.”
“Be it so,” said the page, “I will hear it another day, when the rain is dashing against the windows, and there is neither steed stamping, nor spur jingling, nor feather waving in the neighbourhood to mar my marking it well. But, even now, I want to be in the world, and to look about me.”
“But the never a stride shall you go without me,” said the falconer, “until the Regent shall take you whole and sound off my hand; and so, if you will, we may go to the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, and there you will see company enough, but through the casement, mark you me; for as to rambling through the street to seek Seytons and Leslies, and having a dozen holes drilled in your new jacket with rapier and poniard, I will yield no way to it.”
“To the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, then, with all my heart,” said the page; and they left the palace accordingly, rendered to the sentinels at the gate, who had now taken their posts for the evening, a strict account of their names and business, were dismissed through a small wicket of the close-barred portal, and soon reached the inn or hostelrie of Saint Michael, which stood in a large court-yard, off the main street, close under the descent of the Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and uncomfortable, resembled rather an Eastern caravansary, where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged to supply themselves with every thing else, than one of our modern inns;
Where not one comfort shall to those be lost,
Who never ask, or never feel, the cost.
But still, to the inexperienced eye of Roland Graeme, the bustle and confusion of this place of public resort, furnished excitement and amusement. In the large room, into which they had rather found their own way than been ushered by mine host, travellers and natives of the city entered and departed, met and greeted, gamed or drank together, forming the strongest contrast to the stern and monotonous order and silence with which matters were conducted in the well-ordered household of the Knight of Avenel. Altercation of every kind, from brawling to jesting, was going on amongst the groups around them, and yet the noise and mingled voices seemed to disturb no one and indeed to be noticed by no others than by those who composed the group to which the speaker belonged.
The falconer passed through the apartment to a projecting latticed window, which formed a sort of recess from the room itself; and having here ensconced himself and his companion, he called for some refreshments; and a tapster, after he had shouted for the twentieth time, accommodated him with the remains of a cold capon and a neat’s tongue, together with a pewter stoup of weak French vin-de-pays. “Fetch a stoup of brandy-wine, thou knave – We will be jolly to-night, Master Roland,” said he, when he saw himself thus accommodated, “and let care come to-morrow.”
But Roland had eaten too lately to enjoy the good cheer; and feeling his curiosity much sharper than his appetite, he made it his choice to look out of the lattice, which overhung a large yard, surrounded by the stables of the hostelrie, and fed his eyes on the busy sight beneath, while Adam Woodcock, after he had compared his companion to the “Laird of Macfarlane’s geese, who liked their play better than their meat,” disposed of his time with the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally humming the burden of his birth-strangled ballad, and beating time to it with his fingers on the little round table. In this exercise he was frequently interrupted by the exclamations of his companion, as he saw something new in the yard beneath, to attract and interest him.
It was a busy scene, for the number of gentlemen and nobles who were now crowded into the city, had filled all spare stables and places of public reception with their horses and military attendants. There were some score of yeomen, dressing their own or their masters’ horses in the yard, whistling, singing, laughing, and upbraiding each other, in a style of wit which the good order of Avenel Castle rendered strange to Roland Graeme’s ears. Others were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning those of their masters. One fellow, having just bought a bundle of twenty spears, was sitting in a corner, employed in painting the white staves of the weapons with yellow and vermillion. Other lacqueys led large stag-hounds, or wolf-dogs, of noble race, carefully muzzled to prevent accidents to passengers. All came and went, mixed together and separated, under the delighted eye of the page, whose imagination had not even conceived a scene so gaily diversified with the objects he had most pleasure in beholding; so that he was perpetually breaking the quiet reverie of honest Woodcock, and the mental progress which he was making in his ditty, by exclaiming, “Look here, Adam – look at the bonny bay horse – Saint Anthony, what, a gallant forehand he hath got! – and see the goodly gray, which yonder fellow in the frieze-jacket is dressing as awkwardly as if he had never touched aught but a cow – I would I were nigh him to teach him his trade! – And lo you, Adam, the gay Milan armour that the yeoman is scouring, all steel and silver, like our Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate makes such account – And see to yonder pretty wench, Adam, who comes tripping through them all with her milk-pail – I warrant me she has had a long walk from the loaning; she has a stammel waistcoat, like your favourite Cicely Sunderland, Master Adam!”
