The Abbot by Walter Scott (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

Chapter the Thirty-Second. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant To break into the bloody house of life, And on the winking of authority To understand a law. KING JOHN.

The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, endeavouring with sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix her eyes and her attention on the black-lettered Bible which lay before her, bound in velvet and embroidery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind from the resentful recollection of what had last night passed betwixt her and the Queen, in which the latter had with such bitter taunt reminded her of her early and long-repented transgression.

“Why,” she said, “should I resent so deeply that another reproaches me with that which I have never ceased to make matter of blushing to myself? and yet, why should this woman, who reaps—at least, has reaped—the fruits of my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the throne, why should she, in the face of all my domestics, and of her own, dare to upbraid me with my shame? Is she not in my power? Does she not fear me? Ha! wily tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and with better suggestions than my own evil heart can supply!”

She again took up the sacred volume, and was endeavouring to fix her attention on its contents, when she was disturbed by a tap at the door of the room. It opened at her command, and the steward Dryfesdale entered, and stood before her with a gloomy and perturbed expression on his brow.

“What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou lookest thus?” said his mistress—“Have there been evil tidings of my son, or of my grandchildren?”

“No, Lady,” replied Dryfesdale, “but you were deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art as deeply avenged this morning—Where is the chaplain?”

“What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so sudden? The chaplain, as you well know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly of the brethren.”

“I care not,” answered the steward; “he is but a priest of Baal.”

“Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “what meanest thou? I have ever heard, that in the Low Countries thou didst herd with the Anabaptist preachers, those boars which tear up the vintage—But the ministry which suits me and my house must content my retainers.”

“I would I had good ghostly counsel, though,” replied the steward, not attending to his mistress's rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself. “This woman of Moab——”

“Speak of her with reverence,” said the Lady; “she is a king's daughter.”

“Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale; “she goes where there is little difference betwixt her and a beggar's child—Mary of Scotland is dying.”

“Dying, and in my castle!” said the Lady, starting up in alarm; “of what disease, or by what accident?”

“Bear patience, Lady. The ministry was mine.”

“Thine, villain and traitor!—how didst thou dare——”

“I heard you insulted, Lady—I heard you demand vengeance—I promised you should have it, and I now bring tidings of it.”

“Dryfesdale, I trust thou ravest?” said the Lady.

“I rave not,” replied the steward. “That which was written of me a million of years ere I saw the light, must be executed by me. She hath that in her veins that, I fear me, will soon stop the springs of life.” “Cruel villain,” exclaimed the Lady, “thou hast not poisoned her?” “And if I had,” said Dryfesdale, “what does it so greatly merit? Men bane vermin—why not rid them of their enemies so? in Italy they will do it for a cruizuedor.”

“Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight!”

“Think better of my zeal, Lady,” said the steward, “and judge not without looking around you. Lindesay, Ruthven, and your kinsman Morton, poniarded Rizzio, and yet you now see no blood on their embroidery—the Lord Semple stabbed the Lord of Sanquhar—does his bonnet sit a jot more awry on his brow? What noble lives in Scotland who has not had a share, for policy or revenge, in some such dealing?—and who imputes it to them? Be not cheated with names—a dagger or a draught work to the same end, and are little unlike—a glass phial imprisons the one, and a leathern sheath the other—one deals with the brain, the other sluices the blood—Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady.”

“What dost thou mean by thus dallying with me?” said the Lady; “as thou wouldst save thy neck from the rope it merits, tell me the whole truth of this story-thou hast long been known a dangerous man.”

“Ay, in my master's service I can be cold and sharp as my sword. Be it known to you, that when last on shore, I consulted with a woman of skill and power, called Nicneven, of whom the country has rung for some brief time past. Fools asked her for charms to make them beloved, misers for means to increase their store; some demanded to know the future—an idle wish, since it cannot be altered; others would have an explanation of the past—idler still, since it cannot be recalled. I heard their queries with scorn, and demanded the means of avenging myself of a deadly enemy, for I grow old, and may trust no longer to Bilboa blade. She gave me a packet—`Mix that,' said she, `with any liquid, and thy vengeance is complete.'”

“Villain! and you mixed it with the food of this imprisoned Lady, to the dishonour of thy master's house?”

“To redeem the insulted honour of my master's house, I mixed the contents of the packet with the jar of succory-water: They seldom fail to drain it, and the woman loves it over all.”

“It was a work of hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, “both the asking and the granting.—Away, wretched man, let us see if aid be yet too late!”

“They will not admit us, madam, save we enter by force—I have been. twice at the door, but can obtain no entrance.”

“We will beat it level with the ground, if needful—And, hold—summon Randal hither instantly.—Randal, here is a foul and evil chance befallen—send off a boat instantly to Kinross, the Chamberlain Luke Lundin is said to have skill—Fetch off, too, that foul witch Nicneven; she shall first counteract her own spell, and then be burned to ashes in the island of Saint Serf. Away, away—Tell them to hoist sail and ply oar, as ever they would have good of the Douglas's hand!”

“Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found, or fetched hither on these conditions,” answered Dryfesdale.

“Then grant her full assurance of safety—Look to it, for thine own life must answer for this lady's recovery.”

“I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale, sullenly; “but it is my comfort I have avenged mine own cause, as well as yours. She hath scoffed and scripped at me, and encouraged her saucy minion of a page to ridicule my stiff gait and slow speech. I felt it borne in upon me that I was to be