until the earth cried out for rain from its parched and cracking lips. Only near the red, marly banks of the river did the grass and herbage retain its vivid tint of green. As the days went by the air seemed to grow hotter; the cooks in the kitchen, piling fresh logs upon the fire, wished the guests gone and the wedding over. The falconer out on the moor in the glare with William Harpur and other squires, or the anglers by the streams, had scarcely the best of it, though Lady Bellamont wearied of her many cares, and censured the languor of her daughters and her maids.
Preparations had not ceased, they had only renewed; and there had been unwonted doles to the villagers of good things that would have spoiled.
At length, when even the weaving of tapestry or the twanging of the lute was a toil, there rose a cloud in the north-western sky. The cattle lowed, the leaves turned themselves over to welcome it, the hawks screamed in the mews. That was the morning of the 14th, when the very hush in the air was significant. The cloud spread, darkened, blackened, but in the distance.
“There is a storm somewhere over our northern hills!” exclaimed the prior, who had been up on the battlements. “The clouds hang black and low over Dovedale.”
“It seemeth such a day as heralded the great storm three years ago,” cried Lady Bellamont, in alarm. “And, ah! what a flash was that!”
The younger ladies gathered together in shrinking groups, as if the fears of the matron were infectious. Only Idonea kept at her word, and scorned to show timidity, whatever she might feel, as the mutterings of thunder rumbled over the hall.
It was high noon, but the sky was darkening overhead. The horn at the great gates was blown. A messenger in hot haste had come spurring from the ford and up the hill, glad to save himself a drenching, for the great drops were pattering on the leaves and leads like hail.
He had come at full speed from Oxford. King Henry had ratified the great charter of English liberty. His master, the earl, and his friends would be home ere nightfall. The bridal must be upon the morrow. He had, moreover, private messages and tokens for the ladies, Idonea and Avice, from their coming bridegrooms.
The messages were not for general ears; the love-tokens were a couple of golden crosses richly wrought and set with gems. Five rubies clustered in the centre of Sir Ralph’s gift to Idonea, five pearls in Sir Gilbert’s to Avice.
They were dainty trinkets, but Avice took hers shrinkingly. “They seem like crosses set with tears and drops of blood,” she whispered, with white lips, to Idonea, who started, and, if she said “Tut, tut! they are precious tokens,” was not altogether unaffected by her sister’s superstitious dread.