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.