The Fortunes of Nigel by Walter Scott (good summer reads txt) 📕

eye on the writing, exclaimed—“Body of ourselves, it is our royal sign-manual for the money which was so long out of sight!—How came you by it, Mistress Bride?”

“It is a secret,” said Martha, dryly.

“A secret which my tongue shall never utter,” said Richie, resolutely,—“unless the king commands me on my allegiance.”

“I do—I do command you,” said James, trembling and stammering with the impatient curiosity of a gossip; while Sir Mungo, with more malicious anxiety to get at the bottom of the mystery, stooped his long thin form forward like a bent fishing-rod, raised his thin grey locks from his ear, and curved his hand behind it to collect every vibration of the expected intelligence. Martha in the meantime frowned most ominously on Richie, who went on undauntedly to inform the king, “that his deceased father-in-law, a good careful man in the main, had a' touch of worldly wisdom about him, that at times marred the uprightness of his walk; he liked to dabble among his neighbour's gear, and some of it would at times stick to his fingers in the handling.”

“For shame, man, for shame!” said Martha; “since the infamy of the deed must be told, be it at least briefly.—Yes, my lord,” she added, addressing Glenvarloch, “the piece of gold was not the sole bait which brought the miserable old man to your chamber that dreadful night—his object, and he accomplished it, was to purloin this paper. The wretched scrivener was with him that morning, and, I doubt not, urged the doting old man to this villainy, to offer another bar to the ransom of your estate. If there was a yet more powerful agent at the bottom of this conspiracy, God forgive it to him at this moment, for he is now where the crime must be answered!”

“Amen!” said Lord Glenvarloch, and it was echoed by all present.

“For my father,” continued she, with her stern features twitched by an involuntary and convulsive movement, “his guilt and folly cost him his life; and my belief is constant, that the wretch, who counselled him that morning to purloin the paper, left open the window for the entrance of the murderers.”

Every body was silent for an instant; the king was first to speak, commanding search instantly to be made for the guilty scrivener. “I, lictor,” he concluded, “colliga manus—caput obnubito-infelici suspendite arbori.”

Lowestoffe answered with due respect, that the scrivener had absconded at the time of Lord Dalgarno's murder, and had not been heard of since.

“Let him be sought for,” said the king. “And now let us change the discourse—these stories make one's very blood grew, and are altogether unfit for bridal festivity. Hymen, O Hymenee!” added he, snapping his fingers, “Lord Glenvarloch, what say you to Mistress Moniplies, this bonny bride, that has brought you back your father's estate on your bridal day?”

“Let him say nothing, my liege,” said Martha; “that will best suit his feelings and mine.”

“There is redemption-money, at the least, to be repaid,” said Lord Glenvarloch; “in that I cannot remain debtor.”

“We will speak of it hereafter,” said Martha; “my debtor you cannot be.” And she shut her mouth as if determined to say nothing more on the subject.

Sir Mungo, however, resolved not to part with the topic, and availing himself of the freedom of the moment, said to Richie—“A queer story that of your father-in-law, honest man; methinks your bride thanked you little for ripping it up.”

“I make it a rule, Sir Mungo,” replied Richie, “always to speak any evil I know about my family myself, having observed, that if I do not, it is sure to be told by ither folks.”

“But, Richie,” said Sir Mungo, “it seems to me that this bride of yours is like to be master and mair in the conjugal state.”

“If she abides by words, Sir Mungo,” answered Richie, “I thank heaven I can be as deaf as any one; and if she comes to dunts, I have twa hands to paik her with.”

“Weel said, Richie, again,” said the king; “you have gotten it on baith haffits, Sir Mungo.—Troth, Mistress Bride, for a fule, your gudeman has a pretty turn of wit.”

“There are fools, sire,” replied she, “who have wit, and fools who have courage—aye, and fools who have learning, and are great fools notwithstanding.—I chose this man because he was my protector when I was desolate, and neither for his wit nor his wisdom. He is truly honest, and has a heart and hand that make amends for some folly. Since I was condemned to seek a protector through the world, which is to me a wilderness, I may thank God that I have come by no worse.”

“And that is sae sensibly said,” replied the king, “that, by my saul, I'll try whether I canna make him better. Kneel down, Richie—somebody lend me a rapier—yours, Mr. Langstaff, (that's a brave name for a lawyer,)—ye need not flash it out that gate, Templar fashion, as if ye were about to pink a bailiff!”

He took the drawn sword, and with averted eyes, for it was a sight he loved not to look on, endeavoured to lay it on Richie's shoulder, but nearly stuck it into his eye. Richie, starting back, attempted to rise, but was held down by Lowestoffe, while Sir Mungo, guiding the royal weapon, the honour-bestowing blow was given and received: “Surge, carnifex—Rise up, Sir Richard Moniplies, of Castle-Collop!—And, my lords and lieges, let us all to our dinner, for the cock-a-leekie is cooling.”