CHAPTER VIII
THE SILVER RING
That night Merrylips hardly slept a wink. No doubt it was the thought of home that kept her wakeful, but she wondered why that thought should also make her head heavy and her throat dry.
As long as it was dark, she thought that when morning came she should have to tell her godmother that she was not feeling well. But when the day broke, she found so much to do that at first she forgot about herself. Later, when she remembered, thanks to the ache in her head, she was afraid that if she said a word about it, she should not be allowed to run to and fro and help her godmother, so she kept silent.
Indeed it was a busy day at Larkland,—so busy that Lady Sybil did not pay such close heed as usual to Merrylips, and so did not notice that she was not quite her brisk little self. There were boxes and bundles to pack for the journey upon the morrow. There were orders to give to the serving-folk about the care of the house. There were last visits to pay to good folk in Cuckstead village. Everything was done openly. That was the surest way, Lady Sybil told Merrylips, to keep people from guessing that she had any other reason for taking this journey than that she wished to leave a neighborhood that she disliked.
Yet at one time it seemed as if the secret of the jewels must have got out. Early in the afternoon old Roger came with a whispered word of danger. From an upper window of the house he had spied a little band of horsemen riding from the east, and in the east lay the lands of the Duke of Barrisden, and Will Lowry, and their Roundhead neighbors.
The moments of waiting that followed were hard to bear. It seemed an endless time before Roger came again to Lady Sybil's chamber. But now he brought good news, for he told her that the horsemen had turned southward over Cuckstead common, toward the next village, which was called Rofield.
"No doubt they are gone thither to plunder the loyal folk of their arms, even as they did by me," said Lady Sybil. "Indeed, our going hence is timed not an hour too soon."
Then she dismissed Roger. She bade him keep a sharp watch, and meantime to tell the other servants that she was not to be disturbed. Against the long journey on the morrow, she and her young goddaughter would rest that afternoon in her chamber.
But it was anything but rest that Lady Sybil and Merrylips were to have that day. As soon as Roger had gone, Lady Sybil bolted the door, and closed the shutters, as if she wished to keep the light from the eyes of a sleeper. Then she pressed a spring in a panel of the wainscot, near the chimneypiece. Behold! the panel swung open like a door, and Merrylips looked into the secret chamber of Larkland, of which she had so often heard.
Out from the dingy little recess Lady Sybil brought caskets and coffers of odd shapes and sizes. Some were of leather. Some were wrought of metal. All these she opened, in the rays of dusty sunlight that came through the heart-shaped openings, high up in the shutters, and at sight of what they held, Merrylips cried out softly. She thought that all the jewels in the world must be gathered in that room. She looked on blood-red rubies, and great emeralds, and fire-bright topazes, and milky pearls, and flawless diamonds, and all were set in a richness of chased silver and fine gold.
"Oh, surely," breathed Merrylips, "with such wealth to aid him, our king will soon put down his enemies!"
At first she scarcely dared to touch the precious things, but soon she found herself handling them as if they were no more than bits of colored glass. For it was her part to help Lady Sybil sew the jewels into the lining of the gowns and cloaks that they should wear upon the journey. Mighty proud Merrylips was that such a trust was placed in her, and glad, too, that she had learned to use a needle, so that she might be of service in such a need!
Hour after hour Merrylips sat at Lady Sybil's feet, in the darkened chamber, where the air was heavy with heat, and stitched and stitched. While the busy moments passed, the sunlight faded from the room. There came a rumbling of thunder in the sultry air, and then the beating of rain upon the roof.
It must be the thunder, thought Merrylips, that made her head ache. So languid did she feel that she was glad to lay her head against her godmother's knee. Thus she rested, and listened to the plash of rain, while through her half-closed eyelids she watched her godmother, with deft, white fingers, sew the last necklace into the bodice of her gown.
For a moment Merrylips must have dozed, but all at once she was awake again. She saw that her godmother had paused in her sewing, and wonderingly, she looked upon her. Then she saw that Lady Sybil sat with her eyes upon a ring that she had taken from the casket beside her—a ring wrought of dull old silver, in the shape of two hearts entwined.
"I've seen that ring ere now," said Merrylips, drowsily. "Godmother, when did I see that ring?"
Lady Sybil made no answer, and when Merrylips looked up into her face, she saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"I remember me," said Merrylips. "'Twas in the portrait that I saw it—the miniature of your fair sister, Lady Venetia. She wore that ring."
"Nay, not this ring, my darling, but its mate," Lady Sybil answered. "'Tis the crest of our house, of the Fernefoulds of Barrisden. The two rings were wrought for us, two sisters, and given us by our father. 'Twas the last token ever he gave unto us, while love was still amongst us three."
Merrylips took the ring from the fingers that yielded it, and caressed it with her hand and with her lips.
"Poor Lady Venetia!" she whispered. "And poor godmother!"
The storm had now passed over Larkland. On the roof the rain pattered softly, and from the garden rose the keen scent of drenched herbs. In the hush Lady Sybil's voice sank almost to a whisper.
"I said that one day thou shouldst hear her story—my poor, pretty sister! We were our father's only children, Venetia and I, and sorely he grudged that we should both be daughters. He was a stern man, and wont to have his will in all things. He was fain to make great marriages for us, since he had no sons, but in that purpose he was thwarted. He who should have been my husband died a month before the wedding day. When thou art older, thou mayst understand.
"My father was angered for that I would not take another mate, and he vowed that he would bring his younger daughter to do his will. But she—my poor Venetia!—had given her heart already out of her keeping. His name was Edward Lucas, a gentleman of good birth and no fortune, who was master of horse in our father's household. When she found that our father would force her to a marriage with one whom she loathed, she did madly, yet I cannot think her all to blame. By stealth she was wedded to Edward Lucas, and with him she left the kingdom."
"And did you never see her more?" asked Merrylips.
She felt that she must not look upon her godmother's face, so she bent her eyes upon the ring. She had now slipped it upon her own finger.
"Nay, sweetheart," said Lady Sybil. "I never saw my sister again in this world. My father forbade me to go unto her, or even to receive her letters. I was ill and broken in those days. 'Twas then that my hair grew gray as thou dost see it. But by secret ways, ofttimes through writings to thy father, who had been a friend to Ned Lucas, I had tidings of my sister.
"She went with her husband into the Low Countries, where he served in the army of the States General and proved himself an able soldier. Thence they went into far Germany, where great wars have raged these many weary years. Two children were born unto them, and taken from them, and then at last, in a great fever that swept through the camp, they died in one same week, my sister and her husband. And thou knowest now, sweetheart, the story of her who wore the ring that was mate to the one which thou dost fondle."
In the dim light Merrylips crept closer, and laid her cheek against her godmother's hand.
"Poor godmother!" she whispered. "I be right sorry."
"Dear little heart!" said Lady Sybil, and sat for a moment with her hand on Merrylips' cheek.
Then suddenly, as if she returned to herself, she exclaimed aloud:—
"Why, child, thy cheek is fever-hot. I have done ill to vex thee with sad tales, on a day of such alarums and with such a morrow before us. Now in very truth, I shall clap thee straightway into thy bed to rest against our journey."
Oddly enough, Merrylips felt no wish to cry out at such an order. So though it was not yet sunset she soon found herself tucked snugly into her own little bed, between sheets that smelled of lavender, and she found her godmother bending over her, to give her a good night kiss.
"Why, my Merrylips!" said Lady Sybil, in a voice that seemed to come from a drowsy distance. "If thou hast not here my ring upon thy finger! Let me bestow it safely."
But Merrylips, for once, was disobedient.
"Let me keep it by me!" she begged, in a fretful voice. "I'll not lose it. Only let me wear it till I come unto Walsover! Prithee, let me, dear godmother!"
All unlike her brave little self, Merrylips was fairly crying, and with those tears she won her way. When she fell at last into a restless and broken sleep, she still wore on her finger the silver ring that was the mate of the one that had belonged to poor, pretty Lady Venetia.