DEFEAT
'In one thing only failing of the best--
That he was not as happy as the rest.'
EDMUND SPENSER.
The court of Queen Elizabeth was well used to witness splendid shows and
passages-of-arms, masques, and other entertainments organised by the
noblemen chiefly, to whose houses--like Kenilworth--the Queen was often
pleased to make long visits.
The Queen always expected to be amused, and those who wished to court her
favour took care that no pains should be wanting on their part to please
her. Indeed, the courtiers vied with each other in their efforts to win the
greatest praise from their sovereign lady, who dearly liked to be
entertained in some novel manner.
This visit of the French Ambassadors to London, headed by Francis de
Bourbon, was considered a very important event. It was supposed that
Elizabeth was really in earnest about the marriage with the Duke of Anjou,
whose cause these Frenchmen had been commissioned by their Sovereign to
plead. They were also to have a careful eye to his interests in the treaty
they were to make with so shrewd a maiden lady as the Queen of England, who
was known always to have the great question of money prominently before her
in all her negotiations, matrimonial and otherwise.
The Earl of Arundel, Lord Windsor, Philip Sidney and Fulke Greville
undertook to impress the visitors with a magnificent display worthy of the
occasion which brought them to London.
In the tilt-yard at Whitehall, nearest to the Queen's windows, a 'Fortress
of Perfect Beauty' was erected, and the four knights were to win it by
force of arms.
All that the ingenuity of the artificers of the time could do was done. The
Fortress of Beauty was made of canvas stretched on wooden poles, gaily
painted with many quaint devices, and wreathed about with evergreens and
garlands, which were suspended from the roof. It was erected on an
artificial mound; and, as the day drew near, those who had to control the
admission of the hundreds who clamoured to be allowed to be spectators of
the tournament, were at their wit's end to gratify the aspirants for good
places.
The ladies about the Court were, of course, well provided with seats in the
temporary booths erected round the tilt-yard, and the Countess of Pembroke
and her following of gentlewomen in attendance occupied a prominent
position. Lady Mary Sidney and her youngest son, Thomas, were also present.
Robert was in his brother's train. Lady Rich, blazing with diamonds, was
the admired of many eyes--upon whose young, fair face might be seen the
trace of that unsatisfied longing and discontent with her lot, for which
the splendour of her jewels and richness of the lace of her embroidered
bodice were but a poor compensation. Amongst Lady Pembroke's attendants
there was one to whom all the show had the charm of novelty.
Lucy Forrester could scarcely believe that she was actually to be a witness
of all the magnificence of which she had dreamed on the hillside above
Penshurst. Her young heart throbbed with triumph as she saw Mistress
Ratcliffe and Dorothy vainly struggling to gain admittance at one of the
entrances, and at last, hustled and jostled, only allowed to stand on the
steps of one of the booths by Humphrey's help, who was awaiting the signal
from Philip's chief esquire to go and prepare his horse for the
passage-of-arms.
Lucy had gone through some troubles that morning with Mistress Crawley,
whom she did not find easy to please at any time, and who, seeing Lucy was
in favour with the Countess of Pembroke, did her best to prevent her from
taking too exalted a view of her own merits.
She had ordered that Lucy, as the youngest of the bower-women, should take
a back bench in the booth, where it was difficult to see or to be seen, but
Lady Pembroke had over-ruled this by saying,--
[Illustration: THE TILT YARD, WHITEHALL]
'There is room for all in the front row, good Crawley. Suffer Mistress
Lucy to come forward.'
And then Lucy, beaming with delight, had a full view of the fortress, and
found herself placed exactly opposite the window at which the Queen was to
sit with her favourites to watch the show.
'Tell me, I pray you, the name of that grand lady whose jewels are flashing
in the sunshine?'
Lucy said this to her companion, who bid her sit as close as she could, and
not squeeze her hoop, and take care not to lean over the edge of the booth
so as to obstruct her own view of the people who were rapidly filling up
the seats.
'And forsooth, Mistress Forrester, you must not speak in a loud voice. It's
country-bred manners to do so.'
Lucy pouted, but was presently consoled by a smile from Philip Sidney, who
came across the yard to exchange a word with his sister, and to ask if his
young brother was able to get a good view.
Lucy was much elated by that recognition, and her companion said in a low
voice,--
'You ask who yonder lady is? Watch, now, and I'll tell you.' For Philip
had, in returning, stopped before the booth where Lady Rich sat, and she
had bent forward to speak to him. Only a few words passed, but when Philip
had moved away there was a change in Lady Rich's face, and the lines of
discontent and the restless glance of her dark eyes, seeking for
admiration, were exchanged for a satisfied smile, which had something also
of sadness in it.
'That lady is Lord Rich's wife, and Mr Sidney's love. He will never look
with favour on anyone besides. The pity of it! And,' she added in a low
voice, 'the shame too!'
'But, hush!' as Lucy was about to respond. 'We may be heard, and that would
anger my lady, who has no cause to love my Lady Rich, and would not care to
hear her spoken of in the same breath as Mr Sidney.'
The waiting time for spectacles is apt to grow wearisome; and some of the
spectators were yawning, and a few of the elder ladies resigning themselves
to a quiet nap, their heads heavy with the ale of the morning meal, swaying
from side to side, and endangering the stiff folds of the ruffs, which made
a sort of cradle for their cheeks and chins. Lucy, however, knew nothing of
fatigue; she was too much elated with her position, too earnestly employed
in scanning the dresses of the ladies, and admiring the grand equipments of
the gentlemen, to feel tired.
At length the blast of trumpets announced the coming of the Queen to the
balcony before the window whence she was to see the pageant. A burst of
applause and loud cries of 'God save the Queen' greeted Elizabeth, who,
gorgeously arrayed, smiled and bowed graciously to the assembled people.
Behind her was the Earl of Leicester, and Lord Burleigh and the French
Ambassador at either side, with a bevy of ladies-in-waiting in the
background. The large window had a temporary balcony erected before it, and
those who occupied it were for a few minutes the centre of observation.
Lucy Forrester had never before had so good a view of the Queen, and her
astonishment was great when she saw, with the critical eye of youth, the
lady about whose beauty and charms so many sonnets and verses had been
written by every rhymester in the land, as well as by the chief poets of
the day. It was a generally accepted fact throughout the country, that the
Queen was as beautiful as she was wise, and that her charms led captive
many a noble suitor, who pined, perhaps in vain, for her favours.
Lucy whispered to her companion,--
'I thought to see a young and fair Queen, and she is old and--'
'Peace, I tell you!' said her companion sharply. 'You are a little fool to
dare to say that! You had best hold your tongue!'
Lucy ventured at no further remark, and very soon the heralds came riding
into the tilt-yard and proclaimed the coming of the four knights who were
to carry the Fortress of Beauty by their prowess against those who defended
it; and summoned the Queen to surrender her Fortress to the Four Foster
Children of Desire.
The Earl of Arundel led the way with Lord Windsor, both magnificently
attired, with a large following of attendant esquires. But Lucy's eyes
dilated with an admiration that was too deep for words, as Philip Sidney
rode into the yard in blue and gilt armour, seated on a splendid horse, on
which he sat with graceful ease as it curveted and pranced, perfectly
controlled by the skill of its rider. Four spare horses, richly
caparisoned, were led behind him by pages, and thirty gentlemen and yeomen,
amongst whom were Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, with four trumpeters
dressed in cassock coats and caps, Venetian hose of yellow velvet adorned
with silver lace, and white buskins. A silver band passing like a scarf
over the shoulder and under the arm bore the motto--_Sic nos non nobis_.
Lucy had no eyes for anyone but her ideal knight, and Fulke Greville, in
his gilded armour, with his followers in gorgeous array, had passed by
almost unheeded.
Speeches were made, and songs sung, and then the challengers marched up and
down the yard, and at last proceeded to 'run tilt,' each in his turn,
against an opponent, each running six times. The opponents were numerous,
and the four, before nightfall, were seriously discomfited.
The show was over for that day, and the Queen commanded that the tilt
should be run again on the following morning, which was Whit-Tuesday. After
a great many more speeches and confessions of weariness, the four knights
fell to work with such renewed energy that, we are told, what with
shivering swords and lusty blows, it was as if the Greeks were alive
again, and the Trojan war renewed--ending in the defeat of the Four Foster
Children of Desire, who were, as was only probable, beaten in the unequal
contest.
The Queen was loud in her praise of the 'pleasant sport,' which had
delighted the gentlemen in whose honour it had been all arranged; and she
called up Philip Sidney for especial thanks, and, tapping him on the
shoulder, bid him repair to the banqueting-hall and discourse some sweet
music on his mandoline, and converse with the French Ambassadors. For, she
said, speaking herself in fluent and excellent French,--
'This good Mr Philip Sidney, I would have you to know, has the command of
many foreign tongues, and there are few to match him in Latin and Greek, as
well as those languages spoken in our own time in divers countries.'
'Ah, madam!' Philip said, 'there is one who surpasses not only my poor self
in learning, but surpasses also the finest scholars that the world can
produce. Need I name that one, gentlemen,' he said, with a courtly bow and
kneeling as he kissed the Queen's hand, 'for she it is who has to-day been
pleased to give, even to us, Four Children of Desire--defeated as we
are--the meed of praise, which is, from her, a priceless dower.'
This flattery was precisely what Elizabeth hoped for, and she was well
pleased that it should be offered in the hearing of those ambassadors, who
would, doubtless, repeat it in the ears of the Duke of Anjou.
In reply, one of the soft-spoken Frenchmen said,--
'Mr Sidney's fame has reached our ears, Madam. We know him to be what you
are pleased to call him; nor will we for a moment dispute his assertion
that, learned as he is, he must yield the palm to his gracious Sovereign.'
A few more flattering speeches were tendered; but a keen observer might
have noticed that there was a touch of irony, even of distrust, in the
tone, if not in the words, of the ambassadors' chief spokesman.
For if Philip Sidney's fame as a scholar and a statesman had reached
France, his fame also as a staunch defender of the Reformed Faith had also
reached it, with the report that he had been, a few years before, bold
enough to remonstrate with the Queen when the proposal of her marriage with
the Duke had been formally made, and that his opposition had been strong
enough to turn the scale against it, at the time.
* * * * *
The silence of night had fallen over Whitehall, and those who had won, and
those who had been beaten in the tourney were resting their tired, and, in
many cases, their bruised limbs, in profound repose, when the porter of the
quarters assigned to Philip Sidney's gentlemen and esquires was roused from
his nap by loud and continued knocking at the gate.
The porter was very wrathful at being disturbed, and looking out at the
small iron grating by the side of the gate, he asked,--
'Who goes there?'
'One who wants speech with Master Humphrey Ratcliffe.'
'It will keep till morning, be off; you may bide my time,' and with that
the porter shambled back to his seat in a recess of the entrance, and
composed himself to sleep again. But the man who sought admittance was not
to be so easily discouraged. He began to knock again with the staff in his
hand, more loudly than before.
The porter in vain tried to take no further notice, and finding it
impossible to resume his sleep, heavy as it was with the strong potations
of the previous night, he rose once more, and, going to the grating, poured
out a volley of oaths upon the would-be intruder, which was enough to scare
away the boldest suitor for admission.
His loud voice, combined with the thundering rap on the heavy oaken gate or
door which still continued, roused Humphrey Ratcliffe from his dreams, on
the upper floor, and he presently appeared on the stone staircase which led
into the outer hall, where the porter kept guard, and said,--
'What is all this commotion about? Who demands admission? Open the gate,
and let us see.'
'Open the gate, Master, yourself,' was the rough reply, 'and let in a
parcel of murderers or thieves, for all I care. You're welcome.'
'Hold your tongue, you knave,' Humphrey said; 'you are half-drunk now, I
warrant,' and Humphrey, going to the grating, asked,--
'Who craves admission at this hour of the night?'
'An it please you, Master, it is near cock-crow,' was the answer, 'and day
is breaking. I have ill news for Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and must
deliver my message to his ear.'
'Ill news!' Humphrey repeated the words. His thoughts went first to his
mother, and then he remembered that she was safe in lodgings with Dorothy
and George.
'I am one, Ned Barton, cowherd to one Mistress Forrester. I've trudged many
a mile at the bidding of Mistress Gifford, who is in a sore plight.'
Humphrey did not hesitate now, he drew back the heavy bolts, and turned the
huge, rusty key in the lock, and threw open one side of the gate.
'Come in,' he said, 'and deliver your message.'
Ned, in his coarse smock, which was much travel-stained and worn, pulled
the lock of red hair which shadowed his forehead, in token of respect, and
shambled into the hall.
He was footsore and weary, and said,--
'By your leave, Master, I would be glad to rest, for I warrant my bones
ache.'
Humphrey pointed to a bench which was but dimly discernible in the dark
hall, lighted only by a thin wick floating in a small pan of oil, and bid
Ned seat himself, while he drew a mugful of ale from the barrel, which was
supposed to keep up the porter's strength and spirits during the
night-watch, and put it to Ned's lips.
He drank eagerly, and then said,--
'I've a letter for you, Master, in my pouch, but I was to say you were to
keep it to yourself. Mistress Gifford could scarce write it, for she is
sick, and no wonder. Look here, Master, I'd tramp twice twenty miles to
serve her, and find the boy.'
'Find the boy! You speak in riddles.'
Ned nodded till his abundant red hair fell in more than one stray lock over
his sunburnt, freckled face.
'Are there eavesdroppers at hand?' he asked.
The porter was snoring loudly, but Humphrey felt uncertain whether he was
feigning sleep, or had really resumed his broken slumber. He therefore bid
the boy follow him upstairs, first replacing bolt and bar, to make all
secure till the morning.
When he reached his room, which was up more than one flight of the winding
stone stairs, Ned stumbling after him, he struck a light with a flint and
kindled a small lamp, which hung from an iron hook in the roof.
'Throw yourself on that settle, my good fellow; but give me the letter
first. When I have read it, you shall tell me all you know.'
The letter was written on thin parchment, and was scarcely legible,
blotted, as it was, with tears, and the penmanship irregular and feeble.
* * * * *
'To Master Humphrey Ratcliffe--My Good Friend,--This comes from one nearly
distraught with grief of mind and sickness of body. My boy, my boy! They
have stolen him from me. Can you find him for me? He is in the hands of
Jesuits--it may be at Douay--I dare say no more. I cannot say more. Good
Ned, Heaven bless him, will find you out, and give you this. Pray to God
for me. He alone can bind the broken heart of one who is yours, in sore
need.
'M. G.
'I lost him this day se'nnight; it is as a hundred years to me. Tears are
my meat. God's hand is heavy upon me.'
* * * * *
Humphrey read and re-read the letter, and again and again pressed it
passionately to his lips.
'Find him! Find her boy; yes, God helping me, I will track him out, alive
or dead.'
Then he turned to Ned,--
'Now, tell me all you know of this calamity.'
Ned told the story in a few simple words. The black man had been skulking
about Penshurst for some time. He had scared Mistress Lucy, and the boy had
seen him near the house. Mistress Gifford had gone out early to look after
the shepherd, who was seeking a lost lamb, and the black man had come out
of a hollow. Then Mistress Gifford had run with all her might, and, worse
luck, she stumbled and fell in a swoon, and when Jenkyns found her she had
come out of it, but was moaning with pain, and grieving for the boy.
'And no wonder,' Ned said; 'there's not a soul at the farm that didn't
think a mighty deal of that child. He was a plague sometimes, I'll warrant,
but--' and Ned drew his sleeve across his eyes, and his low guttural voice
faltered, as he said,--'Folks must be made of stone if they don't feel fit
to thrash that popish devil for kidnapping him, and going near to break
Madam Gifford's heart, who is a saint on earth.'
'You are a good fellow,' Humphrey said fervently. 'Now, take off those
heavy boots and rest, while I tax my brains, till I decide what is best to
do.'
With a mighty kick Ned sent his rough boots flying, one after the other,
across the room, and then, without more ado, curled up his ungainly figure
on the settle, and before Humphrey could have believed it possible, he was
snoring loudly, his arm thrown under his head, and his tawny red locks in a
tangled mass, spread upon the softest cushion on which the cowboy had ever
rested.
Humphrey Ratcliffe paced the chamber at intervals till daybreak, and was
only longing for action, to be able to do something to relieve Mary's
distress--to scour the country till he found a trace of the villain, and
rescue the boy from his clutches.
This must be his immediate aim; but to do this he must gain leave from his
chief.
The tournament was over, but the Queen would most certainly require Mr
Sidney's attendance at Hampton Court Palace, whither it was rumoured she
was shortly to go in state, in the royal barge, with the French Ambassador.
Humphrey grew feverishly anxious for the time when he could see Mr Sidney,
and hailed the noises in the courtyard and the voices of the grooms, who
were rubbing down the tired horses after the conflicts of the previous day,
and examining their hurts received in the fray, which were in some cases
very severe.
Mr Sidney's rooms were reached by another staircase, and as the big clock
of the palace struck five, Humphrey went down into the porter's hall and
inquired of one of the attendants if Mr Sidney was stirring.
'He isn't stirring, for he hasn't been a-bed,' was the answer.
'Then I shall gain admittance?'
'Most like,' was the reply, with a prolonged yawn.
'Those are lucky who can slumber undisturbed, whether a-bed or up.
Yesterday's show fell hard on those who had to work at it.'
'I hear you let in a vagrant last night, Master Ratcliffe. The porter saith
if harm comes of it he won't take the blame. Most like a rascally Jesuit
come to spy out some ways to brew mischief.'
'A harmless country lout is not likely to brew mischief,' Humphrey said
sharply. 'The man came on urgent business, in which none here but myself
have concern,' and then he crossed to the door leading to the apartments
occupied by Mr Sydney and Sir Fulke Greville.
Humphrey Ratcliffe had not to wait for admittance to Philip Sidney's room.
He answered the tap at the door with a ready 'Enter,' and Humphrey found
him seated before a table covered with papers, the morning light upon his
gold-coloured hair, and on his beautiful face.
Humphrey Ratcliffe stopped short on the threshold of the door before
closing it behind him, and how often, in the years that were to come, did
Philip Sidney's figure, as he saw it then, return to him as a vivid reality
from which time had no power to steal its charm.
Philip looked up with a smile, saying,--
'Well, my good Humphrey, you are astir early.'
'And you, sir, have been astir all night!'
'Sleep would not come at my bidding, Humphrey, and it is in vain to court
her. She is a coy mistress, who will not be caught by any wiles till she
comes of her own sweet will. But is aught amiss, Humphrey, that you seek me
so soon? Hero, my good horse, came out of the fray untouched. I assured
myself of that ere I came hither last night.'
'There is nothing wrong with Hero, sir, that I know of. I dare to seek you
for counsel in a matter which causes me great distress.'
Philip Sidney had many great gifts, but perhaps none bound his friends and
dependants more closely to him, nor won their allegiance more fully, than
the sympathy with which he entered into all their cares and joys, their
sorrows or their pleasures.
Immediately, as Humphrey told his story, he was listening with profound
attention, and Humphrey's burden seemed to grow lighter as he felt it
shared with his chief.
'You know her, sir! You can believe how sore my heart is for her. In all
the sorrows which have well nigh crushed her, this boy has been her one
consolation and joy, and he is stolen from her.'
'Yes,' Philip Sidney said, 'I do know Mistress Gifford, and have always
pleased myself with the thought that she would put aside the weeds of
widowhood and make you happy some day, good Humphrey.'
'Nay, sir; she has given me too plainly to understand this is impossible.
She is as a saint in Heaven to me. I love her with my whole heart, and
yet--yet--I feel she is too far above me, and that I shall never call her
mine.'
'Well, well, let us hope you may yet attain unto your heart's desire, nor
have it ever denied, as is God's will for me. But now, as to the boy--it
puzzles me why any man should kidnap a child of these tender years. What
can be the motive?'
'I know not, sir, unless it be the greedy desire of the Papists to gain
over, and educate in their false doctrines and evil practices, children
likely to serve their ends. Mistress Gifford's husband was, so it is said,
a Papist from the first moment that he married her, but hid it from her,
and played his part well.'
'I do not doubt it. While in the service of my Uncle Leicester, it was his
policy to profess the Reformed Faith. Failing to obtain what he wanted, he
threw off disguise, and, as I understand, after an intrigue with another
man's wife, had a fierce fight with the injured husband, so deadly that
both lost their lives in the fray.'
'Some said this Gifford, fearing disgrace, had left the country, others
that he died. Mistress Gifford must believe the last to be true or she
would not, methinks, have clothed herself in the weeds of widowhood.'
'But now, my good Humphrey, you would fain have leave to prosecute your
inquiries. God speed you in them, and may they be successful. Mistress
Gifford's reference to Douay makes me think she may have some notion, to
connect this centre of the Papists with the disappearance of her boy. At
any rate, see her, and, if it is advisable for you to repair to Douay, go,
but beware you are not entrapped by any of those Jesuits' snares.'
'I am loth to leave you, sir,' Humphrey said, 'yet I feel bound to do what
in me lies to rescue this boy. A goodly child he is, full of spirit, and,
though wild at times as a young colt, obedient to his mother. Alack!'
Humphrey continued, 'his poor bereft mother. Would to God I knew how to
comfort her.'
It was then arranged that Humphrey should set off, without loss of time,
for Penshurst, stopping at Tunbridge on the road to institute inquiries
there.
George Ratcliffe was also returning home with several horses which had been
over-strained in the tourney of the day before, and both brothers left
London together, with Ned on the baggage horse with the serving-man, before
noon, George scarcely less heavy-hearted than Humphrey, and too much
absorbed in his own troubles to be alive to his brother's. What was the
loss of little Ambrose when compared with the utter hopelessness he felt
about Lucy.
George rode moodily by his brother's side, scarcely heeding what he saw,
and torturing himself with the careless indifference with which Lucy had
treated him.
He had asked her to come to his mother's lodgings, and she had refused,
saying,--
'You have Mistress Dorothy here, you cannot want me. Besides, I am under
orders, and Crawley must be obeyed.'
Then, in the intervals of the tournament, George had seen the eyes of
several gallants directed towards Lady Pembroke's booth, and heard one man
say,--
'There is a pretty maiden in the Countess's following. I lay a wager I will
get a smile from her.'
'Not you,' was the reply; 'she has eyes for no one but Mr Sidney. She
follows him with admiring glances; no one else has a chance.'
While George was inwardly fuming against the two men, one rode up to the
booth, and bowing low, till his head nearly swept his horse's neck, he
presented a posy, tied with a blue riband, to Lucy, who smiled and blushed
with delight, quite indifferent to the scowl on George's face, as he sat
grimly on his horse at the further end of the tilting-yard, where he was
stationed, with several others, with a relay of horses in case fresh ones
should be wanted by the combatants.
Unversed in the ways of the Court, George did not know that it was the
habit of gallants to present posies, as they would have said, at the shrine
of beauty. From the Maiden Queen upon the throne to the pretty bower-woman
at her needle, this homage was expected, and received almost as a matter of
course. But George, like many other men of his age, had his special
divinity, and could not endure to see other worshippers at her feet.
All these memories of the two days' tournament occupied George Ratcliffe
during his ride by his brother's side, and kept up a sort of accompaniment
to the measured trot of the horses as they were brought up in the rear by
the servants in charge of them. After a long silence, George said,--
'Did you see Mistress Lucy ere we started, Humphrey, to let her know of her
sister's trouble.'
'No,' was the answer. 'No; I could not get permission to do so, but I sent
a letter by the hand of one of Lord Pembroke's esquires, which would tell
her of her sister's trouble.'
'It was an ill day for me,' George said, 'when Lucy Ratcliffe came to the
Court. I have lost her now.'
'Nay now, George, do not be a craven and lose heart. You may win yet. There
is time, and to spare, before you.'
Thereupon George gave his sturdy roan steed a sharp cut with the whip,
which surprised him greatly. He resented the indignity by plunging from
side to side of the rugged road, and by his heavy gambols sending the other
horses off in a variety of antics.
When the horses were quieted down again, Humphrey said, laughing,--
'Poor old fellow! he doesn't understand why his master should punish him
for the offences of Mistress Lucy Ratcliffe.' Then, more seriously, 'My own
heart is heavy within me, but I try to ease the burden by doing what I can
to relieve the pain of her whom I love. Action is the best cure for heart
sickness.'
'But action is impossible for me, Humphrey. I have only to endure. Here am
I, riding back to our home to eat the bread of disappointment, leaving her,
for whom I would gladly die, to the temptations of the Court. She will
listen to the wooing of some gallant, and my Lady Pembroke will abet it,
and then--'
'Then bear it like a man, George; nor break your heart for a maiden, when
there are, I doubt not, many who are worthier and--'
'That's fine talking,' poor George said wrathfully. 'What if I were to tell
you there are many worthier than the widow of Ambrose Gifford. There are
some who say that she was not--'
Humphrey's eyes had an angry light in them as he turned them full on his
brother.
'Not a word more, George, of _her_. I will not brook it; her name is sacred
to me as the name of any saint in Heaven.'
George felt he dare say no more, and, after another silence, Humphrey
asked,--
'When does our mother propose to return?'
'Not for a month. She has made friends with a draper in the Chepe, who is a
relation of our father's. He has a little, ill-favoured son, and I think I
saw signs of his wishing to win Dorothy Ratcliffe's favour. I would to
Heaven he may do so, and then I shall at any rate have peace and quiet, and
be free from hearing my mother lay plans of what she will do when I bring
Dorothy as mistress of Hillside. Marry Dorothy, forsooth! I pity any man
who is tied to that shrew for life.'
'Even the ill-favoured cousin you speak of in the Chepe,' Humphrey said,
laughing in spite of himself. 'Nay, George, bear yourself as a man, and I
dare to say little Mistress Lucy will come round to your wishes.'
'I would that I could hope, but despair has seized me ever since the day of
that tourney. Did you ever see anyone look fairer than she did that day
seated amongst all the grand folks? There was not one to compare with her,
and I caught words in several quarters which showed me I am not wrong in
my estimate of her.'
'Ah, George,' his brother said, 'we are all wont to think our own idols are
beyond compare; it is a common illusion--or delusion. But we are nearing
Tunbridge. Here we must part, for I must tarry here to pursue inquiries,
while you proceed homewards. The horses must be baited, and we must get
some refreshments at the hostel. It may be that in the inn kitchen I may
pick up some information that may be of service. I shall not ride to
Penshurst till nightfall, or may be the morrow, but I must confide a letter
to the care of that trusty Ned who I see coming up behind us but slowly on
yonder sturdy steed.'
Humphrey dismounted in the yard of the hostel and gave orders to his groom,
while George went into the kitchen and bid the hostess spread a good meal
for the whole party.
Humphrey waited outside till the baggage horse, on which Ned was seated
came up.
Poor Ned was entirely unused to travel on horseback, and had found jolting
and bumping on the sturdy mare's back over the rough road far more painful
than his long march of the previous day and night. He was the butt of the
other servants, who laughed more loudly than politely as he was set on his
legs in the yard.
He was so stiff from the confined position, that he staggered and would
have fallen, amidst the boisterous jeers of the spectators, had not
Humphrey caught him, and, trying to steady him, said,--
'Peace, ye varlets; this good fellow has done me a real service, and
deserves better at your hands than gibes and scoffs. Come hither, Ned. I
have yet something further for you to do for me.'
Ned followed Humphrey with halting steps, shaking first one leg and then
another, as if to assure himself that they still belonged to him.
'I'll do all you ask, Master,' Ned said, 'but ride a-horseback. I will walk
fifty miles sooner. My legs are full of pins and needles, and it will take
a deal of shaking and rubbing before I can call 'em my own again.'
Humphrey could not resist laughing, for Ned's face was comical in its
contortions, as he stamped his feet and rubbed his shins with muttered
exclamations that, as long as his name was Ned, he would never get upon a
horse's back again.
'You've got a fit of the cramp,' Humphrey said, 'it will soon pass. Now,
after you have had a good meal, take this letter which is tied and sealed,
and put it into the hands of Mistress Gifford. It will tell her all I can
yet tell her in answer to the letter you brought me. At least she will know
by it that I will do my utmost to serve her, and find her son.'
Ned took the letter with his large brown fingers, and, putting it into the
pouch in the breast of his smock, he said,--
'I'll carry it safe, Master, and I'll be off at once.'
'Not till you have broken your long fast in the kitchen of the hostel.'
'An it please you, Master, I would sooner be off, if I get a cake to eat on
the way, and a draft of ale before I start; that will serve me. Do not
order me, I pray you, to sit down with those gibing villains--no, nor order
me, kind sir, to mount a horse again. If I live to be three score, I pray
Heaven I may never sit a-horseback again.'