Richie Moniplies was as good as his word. Two or three mornings after the young lord had possessed himself of his new lodgings, he appeared before Nigel, as he was preparing to dress, having left his pillow at an hour much later than had formerly been his custom.
As Nigel looked upon his attendant, he observed there was a gathering gloom upon his solemn features, which expressed either additional importance, or superadded discontent, or a portion of both.
“How now,” he said, “what is the matter this morning, Richie, that you have made your face so like the grotesque mask on one of the spouts yonder?” pointing to the Temple Church, of which Gothic building they had a view from the window.
Richie swivelled his head a little to the right with as little alacrity as if he had the crick in his neck, and instantly resuming his posture, replied,—“Mask here, mask there—it were nae such matters that I have to speak anent.”
“And what matters have you to speak anent, then?” said his master, whom circumstances had inured to tolerate a good deal of freedom from his attendant.
“My lord,”—said Richie, and then stopped to cough and hem, as if what he had to say stuck somewhat in his throat.
“I guess the mystery,” said Nigel, “you want a little money, Richie; will five pieces serve the present turn?”
“My lord,” said Richie, “I may, it is like, want a trifle of money; and I am glad at the same time, and sorry, that it is mair plenty with your lordship than formerly.”
“Glad and sorry, man!” said Lord Nigel, “why, you are reading riddles to me, Richie.”
“My riddle will be briefly read,” said Richie; “I come to crave of your lordship your commands for Scotland.”