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

as haste in this matter. Our master is a gallant knight, and will have his sway at home and abroad, in wood and field, in hall and bower, as the saying is. Our Lady, my benison upon her, is also a noble person of long descent, and rightful heir of this place and barony, and she also loves her will; as for that matter, show me the woman who doth not. Now, she hath favoured, doth favour, and will favour, this jack-an-ape,—for what good part about him I know not, save that as one noble lady will love a messan dog, and another a screaming popinjay, and a third a Barbary ape, so doth it please our noble dame to set her affections upon this stray elf of a page, for nought that I can think of, save that she—was the cause of his being saved (the more's the pity) from drowning.” And here Master Wingate made a pause.

“I would have been his caution for a gray groat against salt water or fresh,” said Roland's adversary, the falconer; “marry, if he crack not a rope for stabbing or for snatching, I will be content never to hood hawk again.”

“Peace, Adam Woodcock,” said Wingate, waving his hand; “I prithee, peace man—Now, my Lady liking this springald, as aforesaid, differs therein from my Lord, who loves never a bone in his skin. Now, is it for me to stir up strife betwixt them, and put as'twere my finger betwixt the bark and the tree, on account of a pragmatical youngster, whom, nevertheless, I would willingly see whipped forth of the barony? Have patience, and this boil will break without our meddling. I have been in service since I wore a beard on my chin, till now that that beard is turned gray, and I have seldom known any one better themselves, even by taking the lady's part against the lord's; but never one who did not dirk himself, if he took the lord's against the lady's.”

“And so,” said Lilias, “we are to be crowed over, every one of us, men and women, cock and hen, by this little upstart?—I will try titles with him first, I promise you.—I fancy, Master Wingate, for as wise as you look, you will be pleased to tell what you have seen to-day, if my lady commands you?”

“To speak the truth when my lady commands me,” answered the prudential major-domo, “is in some measure my duty, Mistress Lilias; always providing for and excepting those cases in which it cannot be spoken without breeding mischief and inconvenience to myself or my fellow-servants; for the tongue of a tale-bearer breaketh bones as well as Jeddart-staff.” [Footnote: A species of battle-axe, so called as being in especial use in that ancient burgh, whose armorial bearing still represent an armed horseman brandishing such a weapon.]

“But this imp of Satan is none of your friends or fellow-servants,” said Lilias; “and I trust you mean not to stand up for him against the whole family besides?”

“Credit me, Mrs. Lilias,” replied the senior, “should I see the time fitting, I would, with right good-will give him a lick with the rough side of my tongue.”

“Enough said, Master Wingate,” answered Lilias; “then trust me his song shall soon be laid. If my mistress does not ask me what is the matter below stairs before she be ten minutes of time older, she is no born woman, and my name is not Lilias Bradbourne.”

In pursuance of her plan, Mistress Lilias failed not to present herself before her mistress with all the exterior of one who is possessed of an important secret,—that is, she had the corners of her mouth turned down, her eyes raised up, her lips pressed as fast together as if they had been sewed up, to prevent her babbling, and an air of prim mystical importance diffused over her whole person and demeanour, which seemed to intimate, “I know something which I am resolved not to tell you!”

Lilias had rightly read her mistress's temper, who, wise and good as she was, was yet a daughter of grandame Eve, and could not witness this mysterious bearing on the part of her waiting-woman without longing to ascertain the secret cause. For a space, Mrs. Lilias was obdurate to all inquiries, sighed, turned her eyes up higher yet to heaven, hoped for the best, but had nothing particular to communicate. All this, as was most natural and proper, only stimulated the Lady's curiosity; neither was her importunity to be parried with,—“Thank God, I am no makebate—no tale-bearer,—thank God, I never envied any one's favour, or was anxious to propale their misdemeanour-only, thank God, there has been no bloodshed and murder in the house—that is all.”

“Bloodshed and murder!” exclaimed the Lady, “what does the quean mean?—if you speak not plain out, you shall have something you will scarce be thankful for.”

“Nay, my Lady,” answered Lilias, eager to disburden her mind, or, in, Chaucer's phrase, to “unbuckle her mail,” “if you bid me speak out the truth, you must not be moved with what might displease you—Roland Graeme has dirked Adam Woodstock—that is all.”

“Good Heaven!” said the Lady, turning pale as ashes, “is the man slain?”

“No, madam,” replied Lilias, “but slain he would have been, if there had not been ready help; but may be, it is your Ladyship's pleasure that this young esquire shall poniard the servants, as well as switch and baton them.”

“Go to, minion,” said the Lady, “you are saucy-tell the master of the household to attend me instantly.”

Lilias hastened to seek out Mr. Wingate, and hurry him to his lady's presence, speaking as a word in season to him on the way, “I have set the stone a-trowling, look that you do not let it stand still.”

The steward, too prudential a person to commit himself otherwise, answered by a sly look and a nod of intelligence, and presently after stood in the presence of the Lady of Avenel, with a look of great respect for his lady, partly real, partly affected, and an air of great sagacity, which inferred no ordinary conceit of himself.

“How is this, Wingate,” said the Lady, “and what rule do you keep in the castle, that the domestics of Sir Halbert Glendinning draw the dagger on each other, as in a cavern of thieves and murderers?—is the wounded man much hurt? and what—what hath become of the unhappy boy?”

“There is no one wounded as yet, madam,” replied he of the golden chain; “it passes my poor skill to say how many may be wounded before Pasche, [Footnote: Easter.] if some rule be not taken with this youth—not but the youth is a fair youth,” he added, correcting himself, “and able at his exercise; but somewhat too ready with the ends of his fingers, the butt of his riding-switch, and the point of his dagger.”

“And whose fault is that,” said the Lady, “but yours, who should have taught him better discipline, than to brawl or to draw his dagger.”

“If it please your Ladyship so to impose the blame on me,” answered the steward, “it is my part, doubtless, to bear it—only I submit to your consideration, that unless I nailed his weapon to the scabbard, I could no more keep it still, than I could fix quicksilver, which defied even the skill of Raymond Lullius.”

“Tell me not of Raymond Lullius,” said the Lady, losing patience, “but send me the chaplain hither. You grow all of you too wise for me, during