She had no longer
the consolation of the society of her old friend father Michael:
the little fat friar of Rubygill was substituted as the castle confessor,
not without some misgivings in his ghostly bosom; but he was more
allured by the sweet savour of the good things of this world at
Arlingford Castle, than deterred by his awe of the lady Matilda,
which nevertheless was so excessive, from his recollection of the twang
of the bow-string, that he never ventured to find her in the wrong,
much less to enjoin any thing in the shape of penance, as was
the occasional practice of holy confessors, with or without cause,
for the sake of pious discipline, and what was in those days
called social order, namely, the preservation of the privileges
of the few who happened to have any, at the expense of the swinish
multitude who happened to have none, except that of working and
being shot at for the benefit of their betters, which is obviously
not the meaning of social order in our more enlightened times:
let us therefore be grateful to Providence, and sing Te Deum laudamus
in chorus with the Holy Alliance.
The little friar, however, though he found the lady spotless,
found the butler a great sinner: at least so it was conjectured,
from the length of time he always took to confess him in the buttery.
Matilda became every day more pale and dejected: her spirit,
which could have contended against any strenuous affliction,
pined in the monotonous inaction to which she was condemned.
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