"'Tis a marvel if he answers you at all," replied the monk; "for he's as silent as a frog; but, I pray you, let me hear what you think of him."
"Ay, that I will," rejoined the stranger; "but you must keep away while we talk together, lest the presence of another might close his lips. I will seek you out afterwards, brother; I think your name is Clement? so the porter told me."
"The same, the same," replied the monk. "I will go to the refectory." But, before he went, he paused for a minute or two, and watched the pilgrim crossing the nave, and addressing brother Martin. At first, he seemed to receive no answer but a monosyllable. The next instant, however, much to his surprise, Clement saw the silent brother turn round, gaze intently upon the pilgrim's face, and then enter into an eager conversation with him. What was the subject of which they spoke he could not divine, or, rather, what was the secret by which the pilgrim had contrived to break the charmed taciturnity of silent brother Martin; and his curiosity was so much excited, that he thought fit to cross over also, though with a slow and solemn step, in order to benefit by this rare accident. The small, clear, grey eye of brother Martin, however, caught Clement's movements in a moment, and laying his hand upon the sleeve of the pilgrim's gown, he led him, with a quick step, through a small side door that opened into the cloister, and thence to his own cell, leaving the inquisitive monk, who did not choose to discompose his dignity, or shake his fat sides by rapid motion, behind them in the church.
What turn their communications took, and whether the pilgrim discovered or not that brother Martin was addicted to the black art, Clement never learned--for the faithless visitor of the abbey totally forgot to fulfil his promise; and when, at the end of about two hours, he took his departure, it was by the back door leading from the cloister over the fields. The high road was at no great distance, and along it he trudged with a much more light and active step than that which had borne him into the village on his first appearance; so that, had good Dame Julian, the reeve's wife, seen him as he went back, she might have been inclined to think that brother Martin had employed upon him some magical device, to change age into youth.
About half a mile from Andover, the pilgrim turned a little from the road, and, sitting down in a neighbouring field, took out of his wallet a large kerchief, and an ordinary hood,--then stripped off his brown gown and hat, laying them deliberately in the kerchief, and next divested himself of a quantity of white hair, which left him with a shock head of a lightish brown hue, a short tabard of blue cloth, a stout pair of riding boots, and a dagger at his girdle.
"So ends my pilgrimage!" said Ned Dyram, as he packed up his disguise in the napkin; "and, by my faith, I have brought home my wallet well stored. Out upon it!--am I to labour thus always for others? No, by my faith! I will at least keep some of the crusts I have got for myself; and if others want them they must pay for them. Let me see;--we will divide them fairly. Dame Julian and brother Clement in one lot; brother Martin in the other. That will do; and if aught be said about it hereafter, I will speak the truth, and avow that, had I been paid, I would have spoken. Alchemy is a great thing;--without its aid I could never have transmuted brother Martin's leaden silence into such golden loquacity. Why, I have taught the old man more in an hour than he has learned in his life before; and he has given wheat for rye; so that we are even."
With these sage reflections, Ned Dyram put his packet under his arm and walked on to Andover--where, at a little hostelry by the side of the river, he paused and called for his horse, which was soon brought. A cup of ale sufficed him for refreshment, and after he had drained it to the dregs, he trotted off upon the road to London, still meditating over all that he had learned at Abbot's Ann and Dunbury Abbey, and somewhat hesitating as to the course which he had to pursue.
It would afford little either of instruction or amusement, were I to trace all the reflections of a cunning but wayward mind--for such was that of Edward Dyram. Naturally possessed of considerable abilities, quick in acquirements, retentive in memory, keen, observing, dexterous, he might have risen to wealth, and perhaps distinction; for his were not talents of that kind which led some of the best scholars of that day to beg from door to door, with a certificate of their profound science from the chancellors of their universities, but of a much more serviceable and worthy kind. A certain degree of waywardness of mind and inconstancy of disposition--often approaching that touch of insanity, which affected, or was affected by, those wise men the court fools of almost all epochs--and an unscrupulousness in matters of principle, which left his conduct often in very doubtful balance between honesty and knavery, had barred his advancement in all the many walks he had tried. He had strong, and even ungovernable animal impulses also, which had more than once led him into situations of difficulty, and between which and his natural ambition, there was the same struggle that frequently took place between his good sense and his folly. He laboured hard, not perhaps to govern his passions, but rather to keep their gratification within safe limits; and he felt a sort of ill-will towards himself when they overcame him, which generated a cynical bitterness towards others. That bitterness was also increased by a consciousness of not having succeeded in any course as much as the talents he knew himself to possess might have ensured; but it must not be supposed for one moment that Ned Dyram ever attributed the failure of his efforts for advancement to himself. The injustice or folly of others, he thought, or the concurrence of untoward circumstances, had alone kept him in an inferior situation. Though the King, on his accession to the throne, had extended to him greater favour than to any other of those who had participated in the wild exploits of his youth, simply because Ned Dyram had never prompted or led in any unjustifiable act, and had not withheld the bitterness of his tongue even from the youthful follies of the Prince, yet he felt a rankling disappointment at not having been promoted and honoured, without ever suspecting that Henry might have seen in him faults or failings that would have rendered him a more dangerous servant to a sovereign than to a private individual. Yet such was the case; for that great prince's eyes were clear-sighted and keen; and though he had not troubled himself to study all the intricacies of the man's character, he had perceived many qualities which he believed might be amended by mingling with the world in an inferior station, but which unfitted the possessor at the time for close attendance upon a monarch.
Ned Dyram, however, though affecting that bluntness which is so often mistaken for sincerity, was not without sufficient pliancy to conceal his mortification, and to perform eagerly whatever task the King imposed upon him. I do not say, indeed, that he proposed to perform it well, unless it suited his own views and wishes. He did the monarch's bidding with alacrity, because on that he thought his future fortune might depend; but he did not make up his mind to ensure success by diligence, activity, and zeal--satisfying himself by saying, that "the result must ever depend upon circumstances;" and one of those circumstances was always, in this case, Ned Dyram's own good will.
He had some hesitation, however, and some fear; for there was but one man in England whose displeasure he dreaded, and that man was the King. But yet I would not imply that it was his power he feared alone: he feared offending the man rather than the monarch, for Henry had acquired over him that influence which can be obtained only by a great and superior mind over one less large and comprehensive. It was the majesty of that great prince's intellect of which he stood in awe, not the splendour of his throne; and perhaps he might have yielded to the impression in the present instance, and done all that he ought to have done, had he not perceived too clearly the feelings which prompted him to do so; for as soon as he was conscious that dread of the King was operating to drive him in a certain direction, the dogged perversity of his nature rose up and dragged him to the contrary side. He called himself "a cowed hound;" and, with all the obstinate vanity of a wrong-headed man, he resolved to prove to himself that he had no fear, by acting in direct opposition to the dread of which he was conscious.