The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and MarvelsIngoldsby, Thomas
General
The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels
Ingoldsby, Thomas
English fiction -- 19th century; English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the Lady Rohesia:
she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds issued from her
lips,--inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those
of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could
be more distinct than the words, "A thousand marks to the priory of St.
Mary Rouncival."
Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her husband broad lands
and large possessions; much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own
disposal; and nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished by Act of
Parliament.
"Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. "A thousand marks, she said--"
"If she did, I'll be shot!" said Guy de Montgomeri.
"--A thousand marks!" continued the Confessor, fixing his cold grey
eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless of the interruption;--"a
thousand marks! and as many _Aves_ and _Paters_ shall be duly said--as
soon as the money is paid down."
Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and
muttered to himself something that sounded like "Don't you wish you may
get it?"
* * * * *
The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room, taking
with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for Extreme
Unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down stairs.
"A thousand thanks!" said the latter.
"A thousand marks!" said the friar.
"A thousand devils!" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri, from the top of the
landing-place.
But his accents fell unheeded; his brother-in-law and the friar were
gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Grey.
Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed: his arms
were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his breast; his
eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watch-light
gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint
to the little bald patch on the top of his head,--for Sir Guy was a
middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend
in his shoulders, but that not much: his complexion was somewhat
florid,--especially about the nose; but his lady was _in extremis_, and
at this particular moment he was paler than usual.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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