"Sup—oh, no!"
"Bethink you, lady; the whole day hath passed, and you have tasted nothing but a posset of milk with a little sack. Still weeping! 'Twas so with me once; but I shall never weep again, until I have wrung tears of blood from my betrayer."
"Now you are going to frighten me again. A light, if it please you, good woman; I will retire. Another night under his roof! My poor aunt Grisel.... how bad, how wicked is this!"
"My lord desired me to ask if you wished to read a little: it may compose your mind."
"Oh, yes!—a thousand thanks, kind Beatrix. Bring me a Bible, if you have one."
Beatrix laughed.
"A Bible! when was one last seen in the tower of Clermiston? Not since the days of auld Mess John, I warrant; and his was torn up by the troopers for cartridges. There is nothing here but a rowth of evil play and jest books, and some anent hawking, hunting, and farriery, and others, my bairn, that suit only—women like me."
"Poor Beatrix!" said Lilian kindly, touching her hand, for the exceeding humility of her manner raised all her pity. Beatrix surveyed her for a moment, with a troubled and dubious expression. Seldom was it that a word of compassion or commiseration fell upon her ear. Her heart was touched; a moisture suffused her eyes; but, fearing to betray her feelings through the outward aspect of moroseness and misanthropy she had assumed, she set a light upon the cabinet of the bedchamber, and hurried away.
Again, as on the preceding night, Lilian fastened the door; and though the number and complication of its ancient iron locks somewhat reassured her, her heart sank when she surveyed the great gloomy tester-bed, with its dais, its solemn plumage and festooned canopy—the sombre wainscotting, and well-barred window, past which the changing clouds were hurrying in scudding masses, alternately obscuring and revealing stars. Kneeling at a chair near the fire, she prayed long and fervently, and, with innocent confidence, arose more assured and courageous, though aware that, by anxiety, want of food and rest, her natural strength and spirit were greatly impaired. A folio volume lay upon the cabinet; it was covered with purple velvet, on which a coat of arms and these words were exquisitely embroidered:—"Alison, Lady Clermistonlee, on her marriage day, ye penult Maij, 1668."
The hand of her tormentor's unhappy wife had probably worked these words; all the dark and mysterious stories concerning her misfortunes and her fate came crowding upon the mind of Lilian, and filled her with melancholy forebodings. Perhaps, thought she, this was her chamber, and that her bed, where often she had wept away the dreary night in unseen and unregarded sorrow. Full of mournful interest, she unclasped and opened the volume. It was the "Bentivolio and Urania" of Nathaniel Ingelo, one of the prosy and metaphorical romances of the seventeenth century. The first words arrested her, and she read on.