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

that old crocodile of the lake will be presently back to shed her hypocritical tears over our dying agonies.—Lady Fleming, what shall we do?”

“Our Lady help us in our need!” she replied; “how should I tell?—unless we were to make our plaint to the Regent.”

“Make our plaint to the devil,” said Catherine impatiently, “and accuse his dam at the foot of his burning throne!—The Queen still sleeps—we must gain time. The poisoning hag must not know her scheme has miscarried; the old envenomed spider has but too many ways of mending her broken web. The jar of succory-water,” said she—“Roland, if thou be'st a man, help me—empty the jar on the chimney or from the window—make such waste among the viands as if we had made our usual meal, and leave the fragments on cup and porringer, but taste nothing as thou lovest thy life. I will sit by the Queen, and tell her at her waking, in what a fearful pass we stand. Her sharp wit and ready spirit will teach us what is best to be done. Meanwhile, till farther notice, observe, Roland, that the Queen is in a state of torpor—that Lady Fleming is indisposed—that character” (speaking in a lower tone) “will suit her best, and save her wits some labour in vain. I am not so much indisposed, thou understandest.”

“And I?” said the page—

“You?” replied Catherine, “you are quite well—who thinks it worth while to poison puppy-dogs or pages?”

“Does this levity become the time?” asked the page.

“It does, it does,” answered Catherine Seyton; “if the Queen approves, I see plainly how this disconcerted attempt may do us good service.”

She went to work while she spoke, eagerly assisted by Roland. The breakfast table soon displayed the appearance as if the meal had been eaten as usual; and the ladies retired as softly as possible into the Queen's sleeping apartment. At a new summons of the Lady Lochleven, the page undid the door, and admitted her into the anteroom, asking her pardon for having withstood her, alleging in excuse, that the Queen had fallen into a heavy slumber since she had broken her fast.

“She has eaten and drunken, then?” said the Lady of Lochleven.

“Surely,” replied the page, “according to her Grace's ordinary custom, unless upon the fasts of the church.”

“The jar,” she said, hastily examining it, “it is empty—drank the Lady Mary the whole of this water?”

“A large part, madam; and I heard the Lady Catherine Seyton jestingly upbraid the Lady Mary Fleming with having taken more than a just share of what remained, so that but little fell to her own lot.”

“And are they well in health?” said the Lady of Lochleven.

“Lady Fleming,” said the page, “complains of lethargy, and looks duller than usual; and the Lady Catherine of Seyton feels her head somewhat more giddy than is her wont.”

He raised his voice a little as he said these words, to apprise the ladies of the part assigned to each of them, and not, perhaps, without the wish of conveying to the ears of Catherine the page-like jest which lurked in the allotment.

“I will enter the Queen's bedchamber,” said the Lady of Lochleven; “my business is express.”

As she advanced to the door, the voice of Catherine Seyton was heard from within—“No one can enter here—the Queen sleeps.”

“I will not be controlled, young lady,” replied the Lady of Lochleven; “there is, I wot, no inner bar, and I will enter in your despite.”

“There is, indeed, no inner bar,” answered Catherine, firmly, “but there are the staples where that bar should be; and into those staples have I thrust mine arm, like an ancestress of your own, when, better employed than the Douglasses of our days, she thus defended the bedchamber of her sovereign against murderers. Try your force, then, and see whether a Seyton cannot rival in courage a maiden of the house of Douglas.”

“I dare not attempt the pass at such risk,” said the Lady of Lochleven: “Strange, that this Princess, with all that justly attaches to her as blameworthy, should preserve such empire over the minds of her attendants.—Damsel, I give thee my honour that I come for the Queen's safety and advantage. Awaken her, if thou lovest her, and pray her leave that I may enter—I will retire from the door the whilst.”

“Thou wilt not awaken the Queen?” said the Lady Fleming.

“What choice have we?” said the ready-witted maiden, “unless you deem it better to wait till the Lady Lochleven herself plays lady of the bedchamber. Her fit of patience will not last long, and the Queen must be prepared to meet her.”

“But thou wilt bring back her Grace's fit by thus disturbing her.”

“Heaven forbid!” replied Catherine; “but if so, it must pass for an effect of the poison. I hope better things, and that the Queen will be able when she wakes to form her own judgment in this terrible crisis. Meanwhile, do thou, dear Lady Fleming, practise to look as dull and heavy as the alertness of thy spirit will permit.”

Catherine kneeled by the side of the Queen's bed, and, kissing her hand repeatedly, succeeded at last in awakening without alarming her. She seemed surprised to find that she was ready dressed, but sate up in her bed, and appeared so perfectly composed, that Catherine Seyton, without farther preamble, judged it safe to inform her of the predicament in which they were placed. Mary turned pale, and crossed herself again and again, when she heard the imminent danger in which she had stood. But, like the Ulysses of Homer,

—Hardly waking yet, Sprung in her mind the momentary wit,

and she at once understood her situation, with the dangers and advantages that attended it.

“We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty conference with Catherine, pressing her at the same time to her bosom, and kissing her forehead; “we cannot do better than to follow the scheme so happily devised by thy quick wit and bold affection. Undo the door to the Lady Lochleven—She shall meet her match in art, though not in perfidy. Fleming, draw close the curtain, and get thee behind it—thou art a better tire-woman than an actress; do but breathe heavily, and, if thou wilt, groan slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark! they come. Now, Catherine of Medicis, may thy spirit inspire me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this scene!”

Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as light as she could, the Lady Lochleven was shown into the twilight apartment, and conducted to the side of the couch, where Mary, pallid and exhausted from a sleepless night, and the subsequent agitation of the morning, lay extended so listlessly as might well confirm the worst fears of her hostess.

“Now, God forgive us our sins!” said the Lady of Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing herself on her knees by the side of the bed; “It is too true—she is murdered!”

“Who is in the chamber?” said Mary, as if awaking from a heavy sleep. “Seyton, Fleming, where are you? I heard a strange voice. Who waits?—Call