Her chamber, which Cuthbert Ridley's exertions had compelled the
women to prepare for her, was--as seen in the light of the long
evening--a desolate place, within a turret, opening from the solar,
or chamber of her parents and Bernard, the loophole window devoid of
glass, though a shutter could be closed in bad weather, the walls
circular and of rough, untouched, unconcealed stone, a pallet bed--
the only attempt at furniture, except one chest--and Grisell's own
mails tumbled down anyhow, and all pervaded by an ancient and fishy
smell. She felt too downhearted even to creep out and ask for a
pitcher of water. She took a long look over the gray, heaving sea,
and tired as she was, it was long before she could pray and cry
herself to sleep, and accustomed as she was to convent beds, this one
appeared to be stuffed with raw apples, and she awoke with aching
bones.
Her request for a pitcher or pail of water was treated as southland
finery, for those who washed at all used the horse trough, but
fortunately for her Cuthbert Ridley heard the request. He had been
enough in the south in attendance on his master to know how young
damsels lived, and what treatment they met with, and he was soon
rating the women in no measured terms for the disrespect they had
presumed to show to the Lady Grisell, encouraged by the neglect of
her parents
The Lord of Whitburn, appearing on the scene at the moment, backed up
his retainer, and made it plain that he intended his daughter to be
respected and obeyed, and the grumbling women had to submit.
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