IN THE PARK
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.--BEN JONSON.
The dew lay upon the grass the next morning, and the eastern rays of the
rising sun had but just shot across the slopes of Penshurst Park, when
Philip Sidney passed from under the great gateway of the noble house--or
castle, for it was embattled, by the king's leave, in the reign of Edward
IV,--and crossed the turf towards the avenue of beeches now clothed in the
tenderest hues of spring.
He was at this time in high favour at Court. The cloud which his brave
protest against the Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou had cast over
him had passed away, and he was again the favourite on whom Elizabeth
smiled, and from whom she expected and received due homage. But the
perpetual demands made by Elizabeth on her admiring courtiers was often
felt to be irksome.
The chains might be silken, but they were, nevertheless, binding, and it
was a relief to Philip Sidney to escape from the atmosphere of the Court at
times, to breathe the pure air of his home in the fair land of Kent.
Penshurst Place was, and is, one of the most beautiful of the stately homes
of England.
On this April morning the long _facade_ was smiling in the early rays of
the sun, and, as Philip crossed the Park he turned, and, looking back at
it, felt stirring within him that pride of race and home, which is perhaps
one of the strongest points in the character of a well-born Englishman.
'A fair inheritance, doubtless,' he said. 'All things are fair save where
sin and wrong enters. Why should my good Languet have grudged me my
retirement, and rejoice that I have again gone forth into the troublesome
world. 'Success at Court is dearly bought, and I must ever bear about with
me a burden which no mortal eye sees.'
As Philip Sidney paced under the shadow of the beeches, the deep bronze of
fallen leaves at his feet glowing here and there into living gold, as the
low rays of the eastern sun shone through the branches, thinly veiled, as
yet, with tender green, to any casual observer, he did not wear the
appearance of a man whose heart knew any bitterness or was weighted with
any burden.
His light figure, with its easy swing as he walked, the perfect symmetry of
every limb, the pose of his well-shaped head, from which he had removed the
small cap with its short plume, raising his face that the fresh air might
fan it, were all in harmony with the pride and glory of his young manhood.
Suddenly his eyes shone with a smile of welcome, as a lady came from under
the great chestnuts, which were already spreading their fan-like leaves
from every branch, and exclaimed,--
'Ah! sister mine, I little thought I should find you before me breathing
the soft pure air. It has brought the colour to your cheeks which I love to
see.'
'Methinks those who lie a-bed late lose the best of the day, Philip, and
how surpassingly lovely Penshurst is.'
'Wilton does not make it less dear, then, Mary.'
'Nay, both are beautiful, and,' she added, 'both are home now; but tender
thoughts ever cling to the place where childhood has been passed. And how
fares it with you, dear brother?' the Countess of Pembroke said, as she put
her hand within Philip's arm.
'But ill, Mary. I strive, God knoweth, to conquer, but I cannot, I cannot.'
'Nay, Philip, you shall not say so. You must conquer.'
'If I could free myself from the chain--if I could--but it maddens me,
Mary, to think she loved me, and that I was so blind, so blind. She is the
wife of a man she loathes, and I--I am to blame. I, who would have died for
her.'
'Live for her, Philip. Live to show her all that is noble and pure in your
life, and so do her good and not evil. Yes, dear brother, by nurturing this
love you do her a worse evil than you know of. Sure, you would not bring
her to a new misery, a worse misery.'
'No, no. I would not, yet I would. But the sting lies here; hearken, Mary,
to this sonnet, lately penned:--
'I might--unhappy word! O me! I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss
Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night,
I find how heavenly day--wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right.
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his;
No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight;
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is.
But to myself, myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me,
That I respects, for both our sakes, must show.
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near--O punished eyes!
That I had been more foolish, or more wise!'
_Astrophel and Stella_, Sonnet xxxiii.
'Dear brother,' the Countess of Pembroke said,--'these wild laments are not
worthy of you. You shall not make any man moan. You will conquer at last,
and come out of the fight a nobler man. The very beauty around us seems to
bid us rejoice to-day. Come, let us speak of happier themes. You will like
to see my little Will, and carry back good news of him to the Queen, whose
godson he is. Tell her she hath a brave knight in store in our little Will.
You scarce ever saw such tricks as he has, and is not yet one year old.'
Philip Sidney threw off his melancholy mood at his sister's bidding, and,
looking down at her, kissed her pure, fair forehead.
'Pembroke has reason to rejoice in possessing your love, Mary, and I doubt
not the boy is worthy of you, though he does not, or did not, when I saw
him, resemble you.'
'No, he is far handsomer; he has dark eyes and lashes; they lay curled upon
his fair cheeks, making the only shadow there. Will has not the
amber-coloured hair of us Sidneys.'
As this brother and sister stood together in the morning light under the
spreading boughs of the trees, they bore a striking similarity to each
other.
Theirs was not the mere beauty of form and feature, though that was in both
remarkable.
Intellectual power was seen in the wide, straight brow, and the light of
that inner fire we call genius shone in the eyes. It has been said by
contemporary records that Philip Sidney's beauty was too feminine in its
character; but, if in colouring of hair and complexion and delicate outline
of feature, this might be true; there was wonderful strength of purpose in
the mouth and upward curve of the chin which indicated resolution and
courage, and determination to conquer difficulties.
His sister's words were to come true, 'You will conquer at last, and come
out of the fight a nobler man.'
'We must turn homewards now. How long do you tarry here, Philip?'
'But two or three days. Shall we not journey to London in company with
Mary. This tournament needs much preparation; I did but snatch a few days
to speak on our father's affairs and to breathe freely for a short space,
and then I must return.'
Philip Sidney sighed.
'Nay, Philip, what hardship is there in being the favourite of the Queen,
save for the jealousy it may breed. Our good Uncle Leicester tells
marvellous tales of the manner in which the fair ladies of the Court are
ever ready to smile on you, to say nought of the Queen's own delight to
have you near her. She seems to have forgotten your former protest against
the Duke of Anjou, and to believe in your approval now.'
'It is scarce approval, Mary, but the Queen must do as she lists. She is of
an age to discern what is best for herself and her realm.'
'She is, indeed, of an age to do so,' Mary said, with a silvery laugh. 'But
queens never grow old, they leave the process to humbler folk, Philip.'
They had reached the house now, and passed under the gateway into the
quadrangle, just as the big bell was making a great clamour with its iron,
merciless tongue.
'Breakfast is served,' the Countess said, 'and our good mother will already
be on the dais awaiting us. Would that our father were here with her. He
will be present at the tournament, and I will do my utmost to persuade him
to take a month of summer here at Penshurst, and dismiss all care for the
time.'
Lady Mary welcomed her son and daughter with a glad smile. She had also
been astir early, looking into the affairs of her household, in the home
where the unbroken family so seldom met now. Lady Mary's life had been a
chequered one, and she had suffered much as a wife, from the unfair
treatment her brave, noble husband, Sir Henry Sidney, had received at the
Queen's hand.
He was poor in purse and wounded in heart for his service in Ireland, from
which he returned at last, losing everything but honour. He was also Lord
President of Wales, and received small thanks for all he did in the
interests of the Principality, and less gratitude. When breakfast was
concluded, Lady Mary Sidney summoned Philip to a conference with her in the
small ante-room, which was reached by a stone staircase at the upper end of
the large hall.
'You came hither, my son, as your good father's officer. How do you feel
towards this scheme? If my husband, your father, be sent for the fourth
time to Ireland, will you accompany him, and serve him with the wisdom you
ever show, Philip? It is time your father's services should gain some
reward. Speak, Philip; do not hang back, but let me hear your mind.'
'Ah, sweet mother,' Philip said, seating himself on a settle at his
mother's side, and taking her hand in his, 'do not think I slight my good
father, or disparage all his great service for Ireland, if I say I cannot
advise him to move in this matter. I was amazed when Molineux came charged
with this mission to Court, and I told him I disapproved the appeal being
made. For myself, I could not go thither to Ireland in the capacity my
father speaks of; and as to the Queen conferring on him a title of nobility
or large estates, she will never do it. I know this much, and I counsel my
father to let the matter rest. He is held in respect at Ludlow, he has our
own fair home of Penshurst as an inheritance, why, then, enfeebled in
health, should he seek to be embroiled for the fourth time in the affairs
of that unhappy country of Ireland? Misfortune followed his earlier
footsteps there, is it to be counted on that as a man prematurely old and
worn, he should have better success, say rather win more gratitude. Nay,
dearest and best of wives and mothers, let me beg of you to dissuade my
father from this project.'
'Philip,' Lady Sidney replied, with some heat, 'my heart throbs with
indignation when I think of the treatment your noble father has received at
the hands of the royal mistress he has served with honest devotion. He is
no smooth-tongued courtier, Philip; he has taken no lessons in the school
of flattery, and for this he is cast aside and misused. Think,' Lady Sidney
said, 'think, Philip, of the scant and mean allowance of twenty pounds
weekly he receives as President of Wales. Forsooth, to keep up any fitting
dignity in our mansion it costs us thrice that sum. And if it is complained
that I am with my dear spouse, and so add to the cost, sure I am worth my
meat, of which my poor scarred face is a token. Scarce ever do I see these
scars but I remember how I caught that baleful disease, from which God keep
you, my son. Should He visit you with it, may you be tended with the care
wherewith I tended the Queen's highness, when most of her attendants stood
far off. Nay, Philip, I fear you are in danger of forgetting the past
service your parents have rendered, in the glamour of the present favour
shown to you at Court.'
Lady Mary Sidney's voice trembled, and tears sprang to her eyes.
Philip could never brook the sight of his mother's distress; and he knew
all she said was perfectly true and could not be contradicted.
'I will confer with my father on this matter,' he said. 'Dear mother, do
not, I pray you, deem me hard and indifferent. As soon as this
entertainment of the Ambassadors from France is over, I will set about
inquiring into the aspect of affairs, and find out my Lord Burleigh's
views. If I see cause to change my mind, I will not be too proud to own
it.'
'That is like my noble Philip,' his mother said. 'Ah, my son, this heavy
money trouble as to debts and ceaseless claims, makes of me an old woman,
far more than the scars of the dire disease which snatched away my beauty
twenty years ago. You were but a little fellow then, but then, as now, wise
beyond your years. It was hard for me to meet your inquiring gaze, and to
hear the smothered sigh as you looked on your mother's changed face. While
little Mary drew back from my offered kiss, and cried out, "It is not my
pretty mother," you put your arms round me, saying to her, "It is our own
dear mother, Mary. Fie then, for shame," as she struggled to get away from
the woman who tried to force her to kiss me.' Then with the swift change of
mood which characterised Lady Sidney she stroked Philip's cheek, and said
laughing,--'How many fair ladies are sighing for your favour, my son? Truly
the hearts of many must be in danger of capture. Wit, wisdom, learning and
beauty such as yours do not often go hand in hand.'
'Nay; now, mother mine, I shall say you have taken lessons in the school of
flattery, for which you were ready to take me to task not long ago. But I
must away to look round the stables, and see to the proper equipment of the
men who will ride with me to the tourney at Whitehall next month.'
* * * * *
Lucy Forrester found her household duties irksome the next morning.
A wrangle with her stepmother had ended in a stormy scene, when Mrs
Forrester gave Lucy a sudden box on the ear for neglecting to replenish the
fire on the open hearth with wood, so that when it was time to hang up the
kettle to boil the meat for the dinner, served at eleven o'clock to the
family, there were only a few smouldering white ashes left.
'As if I cared a groat for you! Box the other ear if you like, and kindle
your own fire, for me.'
'You shall not have bite or sup in this house to-day,' Mrs Forrester
screamed, as Lucy darted out of the kitchen, answering,--
'I don't want your food. I know where I shall be better served.'
With flashing eyes and heightened colour, Lucy found herself face to face,
on the strip of rough ground before the house, with Humphrey Ratcliffe.
'Mistress Lucy,' he exclaimed, 'whether are you rushing like a whirlwind?'
'Anywhere, to get out of hearing of that tongue. Hark, now, it is still
wagging like the clapper of a bell.'
'Where is Mistress Gifford?' Humphrey asked, without taking any notice of
Lucy's reference to the quarrel which he guessed had been raging.
'Oh, it's Mary you want to see, not me,' Lucy said. 'Well, she is gone up
to the shepherd's hut to look after a sick child there. She has got the boy
with her, and I promised to see to the fire on the hearth, but I didn't,
and that is the cause of the uproar. But good Master Humphrey, help me to
get to London to see the great tourney. Oh!' clasping her her hands in
entreaty, 'I pray you help me to get there. I am so sick of this place. Why
should I be kept here till I am old?'
'That is a-far off day, Mistress Lucy,' Humphrey said. 'But I have a plan
which, if it succeeds, may give you your desire.'
'Oh, you are good, Master Humphrey, so good!'
'My mother wishes to see London again, and I can provide her with lodgings
not far from Whitehall. It may be there will be a corner found for you,
that is to say, if Mistress Gifford approves.'
'I'll make her approve, I warrant. I am to sup with Mistress Ratcliffe this
evening, and I will be as meek as a lamb and curtsey my lowest to her, and
call her madam, and be ever so smiling to Master George. I'll win favour
for once.'
Humphrey discreetly forbore to let Lucy know that it was at George's
earnest desire he had determined to make this proposal to their mother.
'Tell me, Master Humphrey, will Mr Sidney be coming this way to-day?'
'It may be; he had to choose two extra horses from George's stalls for the
journey. George himself is, of course, to be in attendance, and one of our
serving men as groom. It is possible that Mr Sidney may be coming either
to-day or on the morrow.'
'He will not pass without seeing Mary. I wish--'
But Lucy had not time to say what the wish was, for Mary Gifford and her
little son were now seen coming along a field path which led down the
hillside from the open country beyond.
Humphrey stepped forward quickly to meet them, and lifted Ambrose over the
stile, in spite of his declaration that he could get over by himself.
Humphrey tossed the child high in the air before he set him on his legs
again, and then said to Mary,--
'Out on a mission of mercy, as is your wont, Mistress Gifford.'
Mary's colour rose as she said,--
'The sick and poor are always in the world.'
'And the sad also,' Humphrey said, with an appealing look, which Mary
understood only too well.
'Come and see the little chickies, Master Humphrey,' Ambrose said. 'There's
three little ducks amongst them. Aunt Lou put the eggs under the old mother
for fun. Grannie does not know, and when the little ducklings waddle off to
the pond, she'll be in a fright, and think they'll all be drowned, and so
will the hen.'
But Humphrey scarcely heeded the child's chatter, he was earnestly looking
at Mary Gifford's face.
Surely there must be some fresh cause of trouble there, for he thought he
saw traces of recent tears.
Little Ambrose, finding his appeal to Humphrey took no effect, scampered
off to the poultry yard, Lucy following. She thought it would be wiser to
leave Humphrey to plead her cause, and persuade Mary that if his mother
would consent to her journey to London, she was better out of the way when
Mary raised objections to the fulfilment of her wishes.
'Is there any new cause of trouble, Mistress Gifford,' Humphrey asked.
'Nothing new--as you take the word.'
'Nought in which I can be of help?'
Mary hesitated, and Humphrey said,--
'The wrangles and quarrels yonder are on the increase. Is that so?' he
asked. 'I heard loud voices when I came up to the house a short time ago,
and Lucy rushed out with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes.'
'Poor child,' Mary said, 'I will not say there is not blame on both sides,
but the life we lead yonder becomes more and more hard. It is ill training
for my little son to see angry passions raging, and to hear loud
reproaches.'
'I know it! I know it!' Humphrey exclaimed. 'End it, Mary--end it for ever,
and come and bless me with your love.'
'Nay, Humphrey, do not urge me to do what is impossible. It cannot be.'
Humphrey Ratcliffe turned away with an impatient gesture, saying,--
'I see no glory in self-martyrdom. I offer you a home, and I swear to
protect you from all evil, and keep your boy from evil, train him to be a
noble gentleman, and, forsooth, you turn away and will have none of me.'
'Dear friend,' Mary began in a low voice, 'trust me so far as to believe
that I have a reason--a good reason--for refusing what would be, I doubt
not, a haven of calm after the troubled waters of my life. Trust me, kind
Master Ratcliffe, nor think ill of me. I pray you.'
'Ill of you! nay, Mary, you know no saint in heaven is ever more devoutly
worshipped than I worship you.' But, seeing her distress as he said these
words, he went on,--'I will wait, I will bide my time, and, meanwhile,
serve you in all ways I can. Here is this child, your young sister, chafing
against the life she leads here. I will do my best to persuade my mother to
take her in her company to London for the grand show, and it may be that
some great lady may take a fancy for her, and she may win a place as
waiting-woman about the person of some Court dame. Do you consent? Do you
give me permission to try?'
'But Lucy is not in favour with your mother; she disdains us as beneath her
notice.'
'Not you--not Lucy; it is your father's widow whom she mislikes. Her
Puritan whims and fancies are a cause of offence, and no aversions are so
strong as those begotten by religious difference.'
'That is so, alas!' Mary Gifford said. 'Persecution for diversity of faith,
rather for diversity in the form of worship: it is this that tears this
country into baleful divisions, and pierces it with wounds which are slow
to heal.'
'That is true,' Humphrey said; 'and the law, condemning all Papists to
suffer extreme penalty, if found worshipping God after their own manner,
has a cruel significance. But we must not forget the fires of Smithfield,
nor the horrors to which this country was subjected when Spanish influence
was at work with a Papist queen on the throne.'
'No,' Mary said in a low voice. 'Nor can we forget the grey head of that
queen's dearest friend, which was brought to the block, and stirred the
bitterness of revenge in Queen Mary's heart.'
'Well,' Humphrey said, 'I am vowed to resist, with all possible might, the
encroachments of Spain,--which means the plotting of Philip to force the
religion of the Pope upon an unwilling people--in the Low Countries first,
and then, believe me, he will not stop there. Mr Sidney's protest against
the Queen's marriage with the Duc of Anjou was founded on the horror he
felt of seeing this realm given over once more to the power of the Pope. Mr
Sidney saw, with his own eyes, the Massacre of St Bartholomew; and what
security could there be if any of this crafty Medici race should be set on
high in this country?'
'Mr Sidney has changed somewhat in his views. Is it not so?' Mary asked.
'He has submitted to the inevitable--that is to say, finding the Queen
determined, he, with Lord Burleigh and others in high office, will confer
with the ambassadors who come from France for the purpose--praying
secretly, however, that the whole matter may fall to pieces. And, indeed,
this is likely. The Queen's highness is loth to lose her supremacy, and
there are favourites at Court who would ill brook to be displaced by a
rival power. My lord the Earl of Leicester is one, though he hides his real
feeling from his nephew, my noble master.'
Mary Gifford was silent for a few moments, then she said,--
'If you can aid my poor little sister to get her heart's desire, do so. I
consent, for life here is not to be desired for many reasons. Ah! Master
Ratcliffe,' Mary said, 'how fair is this world, and is there a fairer spot
in it than these our native hills and valleys over which we look every day?
See the wooded heights yonder, in all the varied colours of the early
spring; see the sloping pastures, where the flowers make a carpet! Often as
I look on it, and see the tower of the church rising amongst the red-tiled
roofs of the cottages, and beyond, the stately pile of Penshurst Castle, I
think if only sin were absent, and truth and righteousness reigned, this
village would find no rival save in the Eden before the serpent entered,
and the ruin came with sin!'
Humphrey Ratcliffe liked to watch Mary's face as she spoke; but, as he left
her, a few minutes later, he felt there was something which divided them
and made his suit hopeless. What was it?
He knew but little of the history of her short married life. Her suitor had
come in the train of the Earl of Leicester in one of his visits to
Penshurst.
That she had been cruelly deceived was known, and that she had come back to
her old home of Ford Manor with her child, clad in the weeds of widowhood,
but saying nothing of what had really happened. Rumour had been busy, and
Ambrose Gifford had been supposed to have been slain in a disgraceful
fight; but nothing was absolutely certain; and Humphrey Ratcliffe, who had
known Mary from her girlhood, now discovered that he had loved her always,
and that he had failed to win her in her early youth because he had never
tried to do so, and now that he loved her passionately, he was to find his
suit was hopeless.
Perhaps it was the similarity between his own case and that of his master's
that made the tie between them stronger than is often the case between an
esquire and his chief.