The Abbot by Walter Scott (mobi reader .txt) 📕

Chapter the Sixth. Thou hast each secret of the household, Francis. I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery, Steeping thy curious humour in fat ale, And in thy butler's tattle—ay, or chatting With the glib waiting-woman o'er her comfits— These bear the key to each domestic mystery. OLD PLAY.

Upon the morrow succeeding the scene we have described, the disgraced favourite left the castle; and at breakfast-time the cautious old steward and Mrs. Lilias sat in the apartment of the latter personage, holding grave converse on the important event of the day, sweetened by a small treat of comfits, to which the providence of Mr. Wingate had added a little flask of racy canary.

“He is gone at last,” said the abigail, sipping her glass; “and here is to his good journey.”

“Amen,” answered the steward, gravely; “I wish the poor deserted lad no ill.”

“And he is gone like a wild-duck, as he came,” continued Mrs. Lilias; “no lowering of drawbridges, or pacing along causeways, for him. My master has pushed off in the boat which they call the little Herod, (more shame to them for giving the name of a Christian to wood and iron,) and has rowed himself by himself to the farther side of the loch, and off and away with himself, and left all his finery strewed about his room. I wonder who is to clean his trumpery out after him—though the things are worth lifting, too.”

“Doubtless, Mistress Lilias,” answered the master of the household, “in the which case, I am free to think, they will not long cumber the floor.”

“And now tell me, Master Wingate,” continued the damsel, “do not the very cockles of your heart rejoice at the house being rid of this upstart whelp, that flung us all into shadow?”

“Why, Mistress Lilias,” replied Wingate, “as to rejoicing—those who have lived as long in great families as has been my lot, will be in no hurry to rejoice at any thing. And for Roland Graeme, though he may be a good riddance in the main, yet what says the very sooth proverb, 'Seldom comes a better.'”

“Seldom comes a better, indeed!” echoed Mrs. Lilias. “I say, never can come a worse, or one half so bad. He might have been the ruin of our poor dear mistress,” (here she used her kerchief,) “body and soul, and estate too; for she spent more coin on his apparel than on any four servants about the house.”

“Mistress Lilias,” said the sage steward, “I do opine that our mistress requireth not this pity at your hands, being in all respects competent to take care of her own body, soul, and estate into the bargain.”

“You would not mayhap have said so,” answered the waiting-woman, “had you seen how like Lot's wife she looked when young master took his leave. My mistress is a good lady, and a virtuous, and a well-doing lady, and a well-spoken of—but I would not Sir Halbert had seen her last evening for two and a plack.”

“Oh, foy! foy! foy!” reiterated the steward; “servants should hear and see, and say nothing. Besides that, my lady is utterly devoted to Sir Halbert, as well she may, being, as he is, the most renowned knight in these parts.”

“Well, well,” said the abigail, “I mean no more harm; but they that seek least renown abroad, are most apt to find quiet at home, that's all; and my Lady's lonesome situation is to be considered, that made her fain to take up with the first beggar's brat that a dog brought her out of the loch.”

“And, therefore,” said the steward, “I say, rejoice not too much, or too hastily, Mistress Lilias; for if your Lady wished a favourite to pass away the time, depend upon it, the time will not pass lighter now that he is gone. So she will have another favourite to choose for herself; and be assured, if she wishes such a toy, she will not lack one.”

“And where should she choose one, but among her own tried and faithful servants,” said Mrs. Lilias, “who have broken her bread, and drunk her drink, for so many years? I have known many a lady as high as she is, that never thought either of a friend or favourite beyond their own waiting-woman—always having a proper respect, at the same time, for their old and faithful master of the household, Master Wingate.”

“Truly, Mistress Lilias,” replied the steward, “I do partly see the mark at which you shoot, but I doubt your bolt will fall short. Matters being with our Lady as it likes you to suppose, it will neither be your crimped pinners, Mrs. Lilias, (speaking of them with due respect,) nor my silver hair, or golden chain, that will fill up the void which Roland Graeme must needs leave in our Lady's leisure. There will be a learned young divine with some new doctrine—a learned leech with some new drug—a bold cavalier, who will not be refused the favour of wearing her colours at a running at the ring—a cunning harper that could harp the heart out of woman's breast, as they say Signer David Rizzio did to our poor Queen;—these are the sort of folk who supply the loss of a well-favoured favourite, and not an old steward, or a middle-aged waiting-woman.”

“Well,” replied Lilias, “you have experience, Master Wingate, and truly I would my master would leave off his picking hither and thither, and look better after the affairs of his household. There will be a papestrie among us next, for what should I see among master's clothes but a string of gold beads! I promise you, aves and credos both!—I seized on them like a falcon.”

“I doubt it not, I doubt it not,” said the steward, sagaciously nodding his head; “I have often noticed that the boy had strange observances which savoured of popery, and that he was very jealous to conceal them. But you will find the Catholic under the Presbyterian cloak as often as the knave under the Friar's hood—what then? we are all mortal—Right proper beads they are,” he added, looking attentively at them, “and may weigh four ounces of fine gold.”

“And I will have them melted down presently,” she said, “before they be the misguiding of some poor blinded soul.”

“Very cautious, indeed, Mistress Lilias,” said the steward, nodding his head in assent.

“I will have them made,” said Mrs. Lilias, “into a pair of shoe-buckles; I would not wear the Pope's trinkets, or whatever has once borne the shape of them, one inch above my instep, were they diamonds instead of gold.—But this is what has come of Father Ambrose coming about the castle, as demure as a cat that is about to steal cream.”

“Father Ambrose is our master's brother,” said the steward gravely.

“Very true, Master Wingate,” answered the Dame; “but is that a good reason why he should pervert the king's liege subjects to papistrie?”

“Heaven forbid, Mistress Lilias,” answered the sententious major-domo; “but yet there are worse folk than the Papists.”

“I wonder where they are