“Will Mistress Pomona favor the Lady Julia Majendie with her company at the castle?”
This was the message carried to the farmhouse by a mounted servant. He had a pillion behind him on the stout palfrey, and his orders were, he said, to bring Mistress Pomona back with him.
Pomona came running out, with the harvest sunshine on her copper hair; her cheek was drained of blood.
“Is my lord ill again?” she queried, breathlessly.
The man shook his head; either he was dull or well drilled.
Pomona mounted behind him without a second’s more delay, just as she was, bareheaded, her apron stained with apple juice, and her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. She had no thought for herself, and only spoke to bid the servant hurry.
For a fortnight she had heard no word of her patient. In her simple heart she could conceive no other reason for being summoned now than because he needed her nursing.
But when she reached the castle and was passed with mocking ceremony from servant to servant, the anxious questions died on her lips; and when she was ushered, at length, into a vast bedchamber, hung with green silk, gold fringed, and was greeted by Lady Julia, all in green herself, like a mermaid, smiling sweetly at her from between her pale ringlets, she was so bewildered that she forgot even to courtesy. She never heeded how the tire-woman, who had last received her, tittered as she closed the door.
“A fair morning to you, mistress,” said Lady Julia. “I am sensible of your kindness in coming to my hasty invitation.”
“Madam,” faltered Pomona, and remembered her révérence; “I am ever at your service, honorable madam. I hope my lord is not sick again.”