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.
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