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?”