Chapter Three.
Coming events cast their shadows before.
“Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road.
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The guests departed about seven o’clock, and Dame Lovell got to bed a little before nine—an hour which was in her eyes most untimely. Margery, though she had not slept on the previous night, was unable to close her eyes for some time. The unwonted excitement kept her awake, and another idea, too, mingled with her thoughts. The book! How should she copy it? It must be at stolen hours—probably in the night. And what material should she use? Not vellum, for Sir Geoffrey might ask what she was doing if she requested more of that precious article than was necessary for her Breviary. He had allowed her some paper for the rough draft of her illuminations, and she had a little of this left. She determined to make use of this paper so far as it would go, and to trust to circumstances for the remainder.
Thinking and contriving, Margery sank to sleep, and dreamed that Sir Geoffrey was reading the book to Lord Marnell, who, by that curious mixture which often takes place in dreams, was also Richard Pynson. From this dream, about ten minutes after she fell asleep, as it appeared to her, Margery suddenly sprang up to the conviction that broad daylight was streaming in at the window. She rose and dressed herself hurriedly, and, running down into the kitchen, was surprised to find nobody there but Joan, the drudge of the household, who moreover was rubbing her eyes, and apparently only half awake.
“Why, Mistress Margery!” said the girl, in astonishment, “your good mistress-ship is early, considering our late hours. The Dame is not yet risen.”
“In good sooth?” inquired Margery, looking at the clock, when she found to her surprise that it was barely five o’clock; and receiving from Joan the information that Dame Lovell had told Cicely overnight that she did not intend to appear until six, she returned to her own room, and, drawing the book from its hiding-place, commenced her task of copying. Margery worked quickly, and had copied nearly a page in the hour. So absorbed was she in her task, that she never heard the door open, and started like a guilty thing when the well-known voice of her mother sounded close by her.
“Eh, Madge! Up and at work? Thou wilt work thy fingers to the bone, child! Is that thy mass-book? Nay, it is paper, I see, and that, I wis, is on vellum. What art doing, damsel?”
Pale and red, red and pale, went Margery by turns at this string of questions.