ACROSS THE FORD
'Farewell to you! my hopes, my wonted waking dreams,
Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams.
Farewell self-pleasing thoughts! which quietness brings forth,
And farewell friendship's sacred league! uniting minds of worth.'
SIR F. GREVILLE, 1591.
Lucy Forrester was mending the lace of one of Lady Pembroke's ruffs which
had been torn at the edge on the previous day, when a page brought in
Humphrey's letter, saying, 'For Mistress Forrester.'
'Hand it hither,' Mistress Crawley said. 'It will keep till that lace is
mended, and I'd have you to know, Mistress Lucy, my lady is very careful
that there should be no billets passing between the young gentlewomen of
her household and idle gallants about the Court. A pack of rubbish is in
that letter, I'll warrant; some rhymes about your bright eyes and cherry
cheeks, or some such stuff.'
'If you please, Madam, I desire to have my letter, and, if you will not
give it to me, I will go to my lady and tell her you refuse to let me have
it.'
'You little sauce-box! Do you think my lady has nought to do but attend to
the whimsies of chits like you? Go on with your work. Do you hear?'
Lucy was burning with indignation, and, moreover, her curiosity was
awakened to know who had written to her, and what were the contents of the
letter.
The spirit which had rebelled against her stepmother now asserted itself,
and she pushed back the stool on which she was sitting with such violence
that it fell with a crash on the floor, and, as it fell, knocked against
the spindle at which another of the maidens was sitting, and the thread
snapped in two.
In the confusion which ensued Lucy escaped, and went into the gallery which
ran round the house, and meeting Mr Sidney, she stopped short.
'Whither away, Mistress Lucy? My sister wishes to see you.'
'And I wish to see my lady,' Lucy said, her breast heaving with suppressed
excitement. 'I was running to seek her.'
Mistress Crawley now appeared, and, seizing Lucy by the shoulder,
exclaimed,--
'You impudent child! How dare you stop Mr Sidney? Return at once, or I'll
have you dismissed.'
'Gently, good Mistress Crawley,' Philip Sidney said. 'It was I who was
seeking Mistress Lucy. Allow me to take her to the Countess's apartment,
where I fear ill news awaits her concerning her family at Penshurst.'
Philip Sidney's voice and manner had almost a magic power.
Mistress Crawley begged his pardon, nor would she wish to interfere with
her lady's orders. She would take another opportunity of reporting Mistress
Forrester's conduct to her. And, with a profound curtsey to Philip, and an
angry glance at Lucy, she retreated from the field to renew her attack at a
more convenient season.
'Oh! sir,' Lucy began, 'a letter was brought for me, and Mistress Crawley
would not suffer me to have it. I was angry--' and Lucy cast down her eyes,
the long lashes wet with tears; she could not meet the calm, grave face
looking down on her.
Yet through all, there was the sense of infinite delight that Mr Sidney was
her friend, and that Mistress Crawley was discomfited.
'My poor child,' he said, 'I am sorry for you, if, as I think, the letter
contains news of your sister's illness and of her great trouble.'
'Mary, is it Mary who is sick, sir?'
'Yes, and worse than that, her boy has been stolen from her.'
'Then I know who has done it,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I know it was that dreadful
man with the cruel eyes who scared me almost to death a month ago. He said
he wanted to see Ambrose, and now he has stolen him.'
They were at the door of Lady Pembroke's room by this time, and Philip
Sidney drew aside the over arras hanging on it to let Lucy pass in. To her
disappointment he said,--
'I will leave you now to the Countess for comfort and counsel,' and then
the arras fell, and Lucy was called by Lady Pembroke to the further end of
the room, where she was sitting with parchment and pen before her.
'Is that you, Mistress Forrester?' she said. 'Come hither. Mr Sidney has
brought tidings of Mistress Gifford, which are very grievous. Master
Humphrey Ratcliffe has gone to Penshurst, and will use every effort to
recover the boy, who--may God help her--has been stolen from his mother.
She is, I fear, very sick in body as well as mind, and I am debating
whether it would not be well for you to return to Penshurst under care of
some of the servants, who will be sent thither on the morrow. It would be a
comfort, surely, to your sister to have your presence.'
Poor Lucy! This unexpected end to her bright hopes was too much for her.
Tears coursed each other down her cheeks, as much for her own
disappointment as sorrow for her sister. She stood before Lady Pembroke,
unable to utter a word.
'Sit down, poor child,' Lady Pembroke said kindly. 'Yes, Crawley, what is
it?'
For Mistress Crawley now appeared with the letter in her hand, and, with a
low curtsey, presented it to Lady Pembroke.
'An' it please you, Madam, I cannot put up with Mistress Lucy's impudence.
There'll be no law and order amongst the young gentlewomen, over whom you
are pleased to set me, if this young woman is to put me at defiance. Vanity
and thinking of nought but gew-gaws and finery and looking out for
admiration, don't go to make a bower-woman such as a noble lady like
yourself might wish to have in her household. I would humbly say to you, my
lady, that I am not the one to put up with sauce and impudence from a
little country-bred maid you are pleased to take under your patronage.'
'Dear Crawley,' Lady Pembroke said, 'Mistress Forrester is ill at ease at
this moment; the news from her home may well cause her dismay and grief;
leave her to me, and I will let you hear later to what conclusion I have
arrived.'
Mistress Crawley curtseyed again even more profoundly than before, and, as
she left the room, murmured something about 'favourite,' which did not
reach Lady Pembroke's ear, or, if it did, passed unheeded.
Lady Pembroke was sweet and gentle in her manner to all who served her, but
she was not weakly indulgent. Although her heart went out in pity towards
poor Lucy, whom she had watched on the previous day, in the full flush of
delight at her first taste of Court pageantry, and had seen, with some
uneasiness, that her beauty had attracted many eyes, she said gravely,--
'Try to stop weeping, Lucy, and let us think what it will be best to do.
It is well always to look at duty first, and strive after its performance,
with God's help; and I think it will be your duty to return to your sister
in her distress.'
'And leave you for ever, Madam!' Lucy exclaimed passionately.
'Nay, I did not say as much; but, my child, if you return to my household,
it must be understood that you be submissive to Mistress Crawley--an old
and tried friend and servant--who commands respect, and must have it
rendered her.'
'Oh, Madam, I will, I will be submissive, only do not send me quite away.'
It did not escape Lady Pembroke's notice that Lucy's tears and distress
were more for herself and her disappointment than for her sister. Lucy had
never learned a lesson of unselfishness, and she had thought chiefly of her
own pleasure, and how she could escape from the life at Ford Manor. And now
that she had escaped, now that a bright future had opened before her,
suddenly that future was clouded, and she was to return whence she came,
and would, doubtless, have to bear the gibes of her stepmother, who had, at
parting, said, 'She would be back in a trice, like a bad penny, returned as
worthless.'
A prophecy fulfilled sooner than she had expected.
All this time Humphrey's letter had not been opened, and Lady Pembroke
said,--
'Let us know Master Ratcliffe's wishes; he is, as I know, a good friend to
your sister.'
'He will sure tell me to go back, but I cannot find little Ambrose; and I
am not skilled in nursing the sick, Madam, I know. Goody Pearse, in the
village, would tend Mary better. I love Mary. I love her dearly; and I
grieve about Ambrose, but--'
'But you love yourself better than either your sister or her boy,' Lady
Pembroke said. 'Now, cut the string of that letter and let me know its
contents.'
Lucy did as she was bid. Something in Lady Pembroke's grave manner made her
feel that she was not pleased with her, and, of all things, she longed to
win favour with her--Mr Sidney's sister!
There were only a few words on the piece of folded parchment.
* * * * *
'Mistress Lucy, you must crave leave of my lady, the Countess of Pembroke,
to return to Ford Manor. Your sister is in sore distress--her boy lost, and
she is lying sick and sad. Hasten to get leave to return on the morrow with
the gentlewomen and esquires, who are to reach Penshurst with my Lady
Sidney and Master Thomas. I am now, by leave of Mr Sidney, starting on the
quest for your nephew Ambrose Gifford. Pray God I may find him.
'Yours to command, and in haste.
'HUMPHREY RATCLIFFE.'
* * * * *
'This letter from so wise a gentleman leaves no alternative,' Lady Pembroke
said, as she scanned its contents, and then handed it back to Lucy.
'Orders shall be given for your joining the retinue which sets off for
Penshurst the morrow. Meantime, Lucy, return to your duties, and crave
pardon of Mistress Crawley for your insubordination.'
'And I may return? Oh! Madam, I pray you, say I may return to you. Do not
cast me off.'
'I shall be at Wilton for some months, and thither I may send for you, if,
as I trust, you will not be needed at Ford Manor.'
Lucy still lingered.
'Forgive me, Madam; do not dismiss me without forgiveness.'
'Nay, surely, dear child,' Lady Pembroke said. 'I would fain see you happy,
and content with the lot appointed you by God. There are manifold
temptations in this world for us all. We need grasp the hand of One who
will not fail to lead us safely in prosperity, and by the waters of comfort
in adversity. Seek Him, Lucy, with your whole heart, and I pray God to
bless you.'
Lucy kissed the hand held out to her with passionate fervour, and then went
back to do Lady Pembroke's bidding.
The expedition to Hampton Court was the topic of conversation amongst the
ladies of the household.
Several of the elder ones were to accompany Lady Pembroke in the earl's
barge; and Lucy heard the glowing accounts of the splendour of the
entertainment there, related in triumphant tones by those who were
fortunate enough to be selected to accompany the Countess.
They dilated on the theme with some satisfaction, as poor Lucy sat at her
lace-mending, too proud to show her mortification, and yet inwardly chafing
against the hard fate, which had prevented her from being one of the party.
'Better never to have tasted the sweets of a bright, gay life, than be so
suddenly snatched from it,' she thought. But her better self asserted
itself as she thought of Mary's distress in the loss of Ambrose.
For Lucy had a better self, and she was not without higher aims. She
possessed natural gifts which, though perhaps inferior to her sister's,
only wanted cultivation. She eagerly devoured any books that came in her
way; and she had a keen perception of all that was beautiful--perhaps it is
safer to say, all that was grand and imposing.
She loved to dream of herself as the lady of some fine house, surrounded by
all that wealth and rank could give.
The ideal knight who was to endow her with this splendour was partly ideal,
but he took the form of Mr Sidney. She dare scarcely acknowledge this to
herself. He was set on high, so far above her, it is true; yet he was never
too high above her to forget her presence. His smile was a guerdon which
she craved to win; the glance of his grave, beautiful eyes thrilled through
her; the sound of his voice was music, stirring within her an answering
chord, the echo of which was ever sweet and sweeter every time it was
awakened.
It was, she felt sure, by his kind offices she had been placed in Lady
Pembroke's household. And did he not seem sad--sorry for her--when Mistress
Crawley pursued her in the gallery? Did he not call her 'My poor child!'
looking down at her with that light of sympathy in his eyes which seemed at
the moment to compensate for all else?
Perhaps unconsciously to himself, Philip Sydney touched the hearts of many
a fair dame and youthful beauty about the Court of Queen Elizabeth. Indeed,
we know it to have been so, and that the charm he exercised was as subtle
as it was irresistible. This charm increased year by year, and perhaps
never was greater than at the time of which we are writing, when the
struggle within--a struggle in which he was to come out the victor--gave a
pathetic earnestness to his manner, and quickened his sympathies for every
kind and degree of sorrow or disappointment.
It was as poor little Lucy said: 'He was not too high to stoop to care for
her, or for others.'
In the early morning of the next day Lucy stood disconsolately in the
courtyard of Lord Pembroke's city house watching the packing of the
baggage, and awaiting the orders of the gentleman who was Master Thomas
Sydney's tutor, and was in command for the journey.
All was in the bustle of departure, and Lucy felt that no one cared on
which pillion she was to ride, nor where her own modest packages were to be
stowed.
She wore a scarlet riding-robe, with a hood which was lined with white
taffeta. It fell back, and made a background to her shining hair, and
defined the outline of her small, well-shaped head as she leaned against
the doorway in listless dejection, which was a contrast indeed to her
bright, sparkling mood as she bent over the edge of the booth at the
tournament.
A sharp altercation was going on between two of the servants, each wishing
to have the honour of taking Lady Mary Sidney's youngest son on his
pillion.
Presently the boy himself appeared in his black velvet riding suit, booted
and spurred, his red-gold locks--the true Sidney badge--falling over his
shoulders from under the stiff, pointed cap which shaded his forehead.
'I am to ride alongside of you, not on the pillion like a babe. Peace! I
tell you, Mr Philip saith so. I am to ride Joan, the black mare, Master
Paynter saith it is Mr Philip's order.'
'Philip,' the boy said, springing towards his brother who now came into the
yard, 'Philip, do not let them treat me as an infant.'
Thomas Sidney was very small for his age, and was treated as youngest
children often are treated by the elders of a family, as if he were much
younger than his years.
His delicacy appealed particularly to his brother Philip, who was always
ready to stand his friend, when his elder brother Robin was inclined to
exercise a boyish tyranny over him.
'Yes, forsooth, Thomas, you shall ride old Joan. Come, let me see you
mount. That is it, spring into the saddle; nay, do not take the rein so
slackly, and settle firmly in the saddle, nor use the stirrup for support.
A man should be able to ride with nothing but himself to trust to for a
safe seat.'
Thomas was triumphant, and resisted his governess's attempts to throw a
cape over his shoulders, saying,--
'The wind was in the east, and would be like to bite their heads off when
they turned into the country.'
But Thomas threw off the wrap with an impatient gesture, and, in falling,
it hit the good woman on the face.
'Ask pardon at once, Thomas,' Philip said sternly; 'nor forget the manners
of a gentleman, while you aspire to ride as one.'
The colour rose to the boy's fair face, and, stooping from the saddle, he
said,--
'I am sorry I was rude, Mistress Margery, but oh! I hate to be treated as a
babe.'
Mistress Margery was easily mollified. She conspired with the rest of the
family to spoil the boy, of whom it was said that he resembled his sister
Ambrosia, who died of wasting sickness and was buried at Ludlow.
But Thomas had a brave spirit if his body was weak, and to all the
refinement of his race he added indomitable courage and a perseverance
which surmounted what seemed insuperable barriers.
When the avant-couriers had ridden off, Philip turned to Lucy.
'On which horse are you to ride, Mistress Forrester? Let me lift you to
your place.'
Lucy was trembling with joy that Mr Sidney should care for her comfort,
and, as we all know, joy lies very near the fount of tears.
She dare scarcely trust herself to speak, as she heard Mr Sidney call a
groom to bring up the grey horse, Prince, for Mistress Forrester.
'Poor old Prince!' Philip said, stroking the horse's neck, who knew his
hand and bowed his head in acknowledgment, 'he has been a trusty servant,
and will carry you safely, I know. But bring hither another cushion for the
pillion,' he called to an attendant, 'and put a package below, for Mistress
Forrester's feet to rest upon.'
Then he lifted Lucy to her place, saying, as he did so,--
'Methinks Prince will not complain of the burden he has to carry to-day, it
is but a feather's weight. See, place your feet on this roll, and let me
cover them with the haircloth--so; does that suit you?'
The groom was about to take his place on the side of the pillion nearest
the horse's head, when he remembered he had forgotten to fill the powder
flask, for no horseman ever ventured on the Queen's highway without
abundant supply for the musket, which lay across the saddle bow.
The delay caused by this gave Mr Sidney time to say,--
'Heaven grant you may find Mistress Gifford in better case than we fear.
You do well to go to her, and comfort her; commend me to her, and say
Humphrey Ratcliffe has my freely-given permission to scour the country to
find her lost boy. He will do so if he is to be found, and it will be a
double grace if he does, for we may be able to unearth some of these foxy
Jesuits who are lying in wait in every hole and corner.'
Then, as Lucy did not speak, Philip laid his hand gently on hers as he
leaned against the horse, with one arm caressing his old favourite's neck.
'Smile on me before you set off, Mistress Lucy, nor look so doleful. The
clouds will clear away, I doubt not, and you will return to my sister, the
Countess, to be blythe and happy in learning all Mistress Crawley would
fain teach you of handicraft, and still more, all my sister can instruct
you in, for she is ever ready to give out the treasures which she has
stored up in her brain and heart.'
And now the groom appeared, and mounted to his place, and still Lucy could
not find any words.
'God speed you in your journey,' was Philip's good-bye, and Lucy could only
murmur a few half-inaudible words, as she looked down on the true knight
who filled her girlish dreams, and to whom there never was, and never could
be, any rival.
And as the steady-going Prince footed it with even steps over the stones,
and trotted along the somewhat rugged roads on the way to Tunbridge, Lucy
tormented herself with her folly in never telling Mr Sidney in so many
words how grateful she was to him.
'Fool that I was!' she thought. 'And he so tender and careful for my
comfort. What a poor idiot I must have seemed! Yet, sure, I must find
favour in his eyes, or he would not have wrapt the cloth so deftly round my
feet. Oh, is he not noble and beautiful beyond all men who ever lived? I
hear them say the Queen calls him "her Philip" and "her bright gem," and
that he is the wisest statesman, and grandest poet and finest scholar of
the age, and yet he is not too great to be good to me--little Lucy
Forrester. And it may be I shall never see him again--never return to Lady
Pembroke--live up on that hill all my days, and get as stupid and dull as
the old brindled cow that stares with big, dull eyes straight before her,
and sees nought, nor cares for nought but to chew her food.
'Alack! I am right sorry for Mary's grief. But I wish, if Ambrose was to be
stolen, she had not fallen sick, so that I must needs go and tend her. I am
a selfish hussy to feel this--selfish and hard-hearted! But, oh, was ever
anyone more grievously disappointed than I am. A few short, bright days,
and then back, back to the old, dreary life. Still, I am young; yes, and I
am fair too. I know it, and I may yet be happy.'
Lucy's meditations continued in this strain, in alternate fears and hopes,
for some time.
The cavalcade stopped at intervals at wayside hostels to bait the horses,
and to refresh the travellers with draughts of ale and cider. One of these
potations had a soporific effect on Lucy, and, after drinking it, she
became oblivious of jolts and stoppages, of the fair country through which
she passed, and was wrapped in profound slumber, her head resting against
the broad back of the servant who held the reins, and urged on old Prince's
somewhat slow steps by a succession of monotonous sounds, which now and
again broke into the refrain of a song, one of the ballads familiar to
Kentish men, and handed down from father to son for many generations.
* * * * *
Humphrey had reached Ford Manor late on the previous evening. He had ridden
hard and fast to Tunbridge, and had heard from Dorothy Ratcliffe's father
that the Papists' colony was supposed to be broken up, and that they had
escaped to Southampton, and taken ship for France.
Two priests had been seized and thrown into prison at Canterbury, and this
was supposed to have caused the dispersion of their followers, who had
evaded pursuit, and were now thought to be beyond the reach of their
persecutors. But neither from his old uncle, Edgar Ratcliffe, nor from any
other source could Humphrey glean any information which might throw light
on the disappearance of little Ambrose Gifford.
Nor did the intelligence of his loss seem greatly to affect the old man,
nor indeed to be of any interest to the few people at Tunbridge of whom
Humphrey made inquiries.
They were far more anxious to hear news from the Court, and of the
tournament, and whether Mr Sidney had won fresh laurels, and if the Queen
was really going to wed with a Popish prince. This was what the Papists
built their hopes upon, and then it would be their turn to trample on the
Protestants.
As Humphrey rode through Penshurst, the village was wrapt in profound
repose, for in those times people went to bed and rose with the sun.
Artificial light was scarcely known in the farms and homesteads of country
districts, and there was only one twinkling light in the window of the
hostel in the street to show belated travellers that if they desired
shelter and rest they might find it there.
Humphrey rode slowly as he got nearer his destination, feeling reluctance
to be the bearer of no good news to one, who he knew was eagerly looking
for him.
The waters of the little Medway were low, for the season had been unusually
dry, and Humphrey's horse knew the ford well, and easily stepped over it,
his hoofs making a dull splash in the rippling stream.
The stars were bright overhead and a crescent moon gave a silvery light.
The stillness was profound. At the entrance of the lane leading to Ford
Manor the horse stopped short; he evidently wanted to go to his own stable
on the crest of the hill.
In that momentary pause Humphrey turned in the saddle, and, looking back,
saw the dark outline of the grand old home of the Sidneys and the dark
masses of the stately trees which surround it, clear cut against the sky,
in which the moon hung like a silver lamp.
The peace which reigned seemed to strike him as a sharp contrast with the
turmoil and noise of the city he had lately left. The Court, so full of
heart-burnings and jealousies and strivings to win a higher place in the
favour of those who were in favour with the Queen. The image of him who
was, perhaps, at that time Elizabeth's chief favourite rose before him, and
he thought how far happier he would be to live, apart from Court favour and
rivalries, in the stately home which was the pride, not only of the Sidneys
themselves, but of everyone of their tenants and dependents on their
wide-stretching domain. For Humphrey could not hide from himself that his
chief was often sad at heart, and that sometimes, in uncontrollable
weariness, he would say that he would fain lead a retired life in his
beloved Penshurst. His moods were, it is true, variable, and at times he
was the centre of everything that was bright and gay at Court, sought after
as one who could discourse sweetest music, the most graceful figure in the
dance, the most accomplished poet who could quickly improvise a verse in
praise of his Queen, or a rhyme to commemorate some feat of arms at joust
or tourney, like that of the preceding day.
Humphrey Ratcliffe thought that he held the solution of his Master's
alternations of sadness and cheerfulness, and, as he rode up to the Manor,
he sighed as he remembered Philip Sidney's words.
'Let us hope you may attain your heart's desire, nor have it ever denied
you, as is God's will for me.'
'Denied to me also, but yet I have a hope, Mr Sidney cannot have; no
impassable barrier rises between me and Mary. If I find her boy I may reap
my reward.'
At the sound of the horse's feet the casement above the porch was opened,
and a woman's head was thrust out.
'Who goes there?'
'It is I, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I have an errand to Mistress Gifford.'
'She is sick, and can't hear aught to-night. It is near midnight. Go your
way, and return in the morning, Master Ratcliffe.'
Then there was a pause, the woman's head was withdrawn, and Humphrey's
ear, quickened by love, heard Mary's voice in pathetic pleading. Presently
the head re-appeared.
'Mistress Gifford says, "Do you bring news?"'
'I would fain see her, if possible. I cannot speak of such matters here.'
'Then you must wait till the morrow, nor parley any longer.'
The casement was shut with a sharp click, and there was nothing left for
Humphrey but to pursue his way to his own home, whither George--who had
parted from him at Tunbridge--and his servants had preceded him earlier in
the day.
Mary Gifford lay sleepless and restless all through the long hours of the
night, watching for the dawn. She longed, and yet half dreaded her meeting
with Humphrey. She felt so utterly weak and broken-hearted, so forlorn and
deserted--what if he again urged his suit!--what if she had now to tell him
what had been at their last interview only a probability, and was now a
certainty! Her husband was no vague, shadowy personality; he was alive and
strong, to work for her the greatest evil that could befall her in stealing
her boy from her.
When Mistress Forrester came in, on her way to the dairy, to see how it
fared with Mary, she found her, to her surprise, dressed, while Goody
Pearse was snoring peacefully on the pallet bed, where Ambrose had slept
near his mother.
'Dear heart! Mary Gifford, what do you mean by getting up like this? I
thought, forsooth, you were so sick you had need of a nurse, to take a few
more shillings out of my pocket, and here you are at five o'clock, up and
spry. Well-a-day, I never did come to the bottom of you. Deep waters, they
say, make no noise.'
Mary had braced herself to bear anything and everything, and was strangely
unmoved by her stepmother's innuendoes, of which she took no notice, and
only said, in a gentle voice,--
'Is Ned astir yet?'
'I don't know. He came hobbling in after his goose-chase to London on your
account, losing a couple of days' work; and I warrant he will have to be
shaken before he gets about his business.'
'I can get downstairs,' Mary said, 'if Ned will help to carry me. I fear I
cannot put my leg to the ground yet.'
'No; and you may give up the notion. If you come down, you may as lief do
without a nurse, and take to your lawful business. It is a pretty
thing!--one of you gadding off to town and thinking herself a fine lady,
and t'other laming herself and wanting to be tended by a paid woman.'
At this juncture Goody Pearse awoke, bewildered and much alarmed by the
presence of Mistress Forrester. She expected a sharp reprimand, but
Mistress Forrester left the room without another word either to nurse or
patient.
'Dear heart! what made you get up afore I was ready? You'll have raging
pain in your foot again, sure as fate.'
'I must get downstairs to-day to see Master Humphrey Ratcliffe. Ned will
help me.'
Mary's resolution did not falter. Her humble and faithful admirer, Ned,
appeared at the attic door, when summoned by Goody Pearse, to help her
downstairs. Ned made short work of it; he lifted Mary in his arms, and
trudged down the creaking steps with her without a single halt, and placed
her by her desire on the settle, where her leg could rest. Mary's smile was
a sufficient reward for Ned. But when Mary held out her hand, and said she
owed him more than tongue could tell for going to London, Ned was
speechless with emotion. At last he blurted out,--
'I'd walk a hundred miles to serve you, Mistress; I'd even ride 'em for
your sake. But, oh, Lord! I am sore to-day with the cramp I got
a-horseback. Here is a letter from Master Ratcliffe; he bid me put into
your hands and into none other, and I have kept to the order. Take it,
Mistress.'
Mary held out her hand, and took the much crumpled and soiled letter from
Ned's large, brown fingers. But she had not opened it when Humphrey
Ratcliffe himself came up to the porch, and stopped short on the threshold
as if struck by some sudden blow.
He was not prepared to see so great a change in Mary in so short a time.
Pain of body, however severe, nor the deep cut in her forehead, could
hardly have left such traces of suffering on her face--still, in
Humphrey's eyes, beautiful, though with lines of sorrow round her mouth and
eyes.
'Enter, my kind friend,' Mary said, in a low, sweet voice, holding out her
hand to him. 'This good Ned,' she said, 'has faithfully performed his
errand, and deserves our thanks.' Ned, bashful and awkward, made for the
door and disappeared. 'But what news? Is there aught to tell me of my
child?'
Humphrey had by this time advanced to the settle, and, kneeling by it, he
took Mary's hand in his, and kissed it gently and reverently.
'I could find no trace of the boy in Tunbridge. The whole colony of Papists
has broken up and fled. Some of their number have been thrown into prison,
awaiting judgment for conspiracy. I did not tarry, therefore, at Tunbridge,
but rode on here last night.'
'Yes,' Mary said. 'I heard your voice; and now--now what next?'
'It is my purpose to follow that villain who kidnapped the boy, and regain
possession of him. It is a puzzle to me to understand why he should steal
him.'
'He is so handsome, so clever,' his mother said. 'Humphrey, I cannot, I
cannot lose him. I must find him; and he will break his heart for his
mother,' she said passionately. 'His mother! bereft and desolate without
him.'
'We will find him,' Humphrey said, 'never fear. My noble master has given
me leave to go on the quest to France, or, it may be, the Low Countries,
for the Papists have schools and centres of worship in all the Protestant
towns.'
'The Low Countries,' Mary said, 'I have a friend there, at Arnhem, one
George Gifford; he is an honest and godly minister. In my first grief and
despair years ago, I sent a letter to him for counsel. He was then in
England, and acted a father's part by me, though only my husband's uncle.
Yes, I will go to him as soon as I can put my foot on the ground. I will
leave all things, and go on the quest myself--alone.'
'Not alone!' Humphrey said, 'not alone, but with me. Oh, Mary! I will tend
you and care for you, and we will seek together for _our_ boy--mine as
yours, yours as mine. We will go to this good man of whom you speak, and
all will be well. God will speed us.'
'Nay, dear friend,' Mary said. 'Nay, it cannot be. I can never be your
wife.'
'And, by Heaven, why not? What hinders? Something tells me, presumptuous
though it may be, that you might give me a little--a little love, in return
for mine. Why is it beyond hope?'
'Hush!' Mary said, 'you do not know why it is beyond hope.'
Humphrey's brow darkened, and he bit his under lip to restrain his
irritation.
Presently Mary laid her hand on his shoulder as he knelt by her.
'It is beyond hope,' she said,'because the man who stole my child from me
is my husband.'
Humphrey started to his feet, and said in a voice of mingled rage and
despair,--
'The villain! the despicable villain! I will run him through the body an I
get the chance.'
'Nay, Humphrey,' Mary said in pleading tones, 'do not make my burden
heavier by these wild words. Rumours had reached me in the winter of last
year, when the Earl of Leicester with his large following were at
Penshurst, that my husband was alive. Since then I have never felt secure;
yet I did not dare to doff my widow's garments, fearing--hoping the report
was false. As soon as I heard of this man lurking about the countryside, a
horrible dread possessed me. He asked Lucy to bring Ambrose to meet
him--this strengthened my fears. From that moment I never let the boy out
of my sight. Thus, on that morning of doom, I took him with me to look for
the shepherd and the lost lamb. Ah! woe is me! He was lying in wait. He had
told me, when as I sat late in the porch one evening, that he would have my
boy, and I knew he would wreak his vengeance on me by this cruel deed. I
seized Ambrose by the hand and ran--you know the rest--I fell unconscious;
and when I awoke from my stupor, the light of my eyes was gone from me.
'Ah! if God had taken my boy by death; if I had seen him laid in the cold
grave, at least I could have wept, and committed him to safe keeping in
the hands of his Heavenly Father--safe in Paradise from all sin. But
now--now he will be taught to lie; and to hate what is good; and be brought
up a Papist; and bidden to forget his mother--his _mother_!'
Humphrey Ratcliffe listened, as Mary spoke, like one in a dream.
He must be forgiven if, for the moment, the mother's grief for the loss of
her boy seemed a small matter, when compared with his despair that he had
lost her.
For a few moments neither spoke, and then with a great rush of passionate
emotion, Humphrey flung himself on his knees by Mary's side, crying out,--
'Mary! Mary! say one word to comfort me. Say, at least, if it were
possible, you could love me. Why should you be loyal to that faithless
villain? Come to me, Mary.'
The poor, desolate heart, that was pierced with so many wounds, craved,
hungered for the love offered her. How gladly would she have gone to
Humphrey, how thankfully felt the support of his honest and steadfast love.
But Mary Gifford was not a weak woman--swayed hither and thither by the
passing emotion of the moment. Clear before her, even in her sorrow, was
the line of duty. The sacred crown of motherhood was on her brow, and
should she dare to dim its brightness by yielding to the temptation which,
it is not too much to say, Humphrey's words put before her.
She gathered all her strength, and said in a calm voice,--
'You must never speak thus to me again, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I am--God help
me--the wife of Ambrose Gifford, and,' she paused, and then with pathetic
earnestness, '_I am the mother of his son._ Let that suffice.'
Again there was a long silence. From without came the monotonous cawing of
the rooks in the elm trees, the occasional bleating of the lambs in the
pastures seeking their mother's side, and the voices of the shepherd's
children, who had come down to fetch the thin butter-milk which Mistress
Forrester measured out to the precise value of the small coin the
shepherd's wife sent in exchange.
It was a sore struggle, but it was over at last.
When Humphrey Ratcliffe rose from his knees, Mary had the reward which a
good and true woman may ever expect sooner or later to receive from a
noble-hearted man, in a like case.
'You are right, Mary,' he said, 'as you ever are. Forgive me, and in token
thereof let us now proceed to discuss the plans for the rescue of your
boy.'
This was now done with surprising calmness on both sides.
Humphrey decided to start first for Douay, and then, failing to trace any
tidings of the boy, he would proceed to Arnhem, and enlist the sympathies
and help of the good man, George Gifford, to get upon the right track for
the recovery of his nephew's child.
'He is a just man, and will tender the best advice,' Mary said. 'It is true
that a father has a right to his own son, but sure I have a right, and a
right to save him from the hands of Papists. But I have little hope--it is
dead within me--quite dead. My last hope for this world died when I lost my
boy.'
'God grant I may kindle that hope into life once more,' Humphrey said, in a
voice of restrained emotion, and not daring to trust himself to say another
word, he bent his knee again before Mary, took the long, slender hands
which hung listlessly at her side, and bowing his head for a moment over
them, Humphrey Ratcliffe was gone!
Mary neither spoke nor moved, and when Goody Pearse came with a bowl of
milk and bread she found her in a deadly swoon, from which it was hard to
recall her. Mistress Forrester came at the old woman's call, and burnt
feathers under Mary's nose, and, with a somewhat ruthless hand, dashed cold
water over her pale, wan face, calling her loudly by name; and, when at
last she recovered, she scolded her for attempting to come downstairs, and
said she had no patience with sick folk giving double trouble by wilful
ways. Better things were expected of grown women than to behave like
children, with a great deal more to the same purpose, which seemed to have
no effect on Mary, who lay with large wistful eyes gazing out at the open
door through which Humphrey had passed--large tearless eyes looking in
vain for her boy, who would never gladden them again!
'The light of mine eyes!' she whispered; 'the light of mine eyes!'
'Shut the door,' Mistress Forrester said to her serving-maid, Avice, who
stood with her large, red arms folded, looking with awe at the pallid face
before her. 'She calls out that the light dazes her; methinks she must be
got back to bed, and kept there.'
The heavy wooden door was closed, and but a subdued light came in through
the small diamond panes of thick, greenish glass which filled the lattice.
Presently the large weary eyes closed, and with a gentle sigh, she said,--
'I am tired; let me sleep, if sleep will come.'
The business of the poultry-yard and dairy were far too important to be
further neglected, and Mistress Forrester, sharply calling Avice to mind
her work, nor stand gaping there like a gander on a common, left Goody
Pearse with her patient.
The old crone did her best, though that best was poor.
Nursing in the days of Queen Elizabeth was of a very rough and ready
character, and even in high circles, there was often gross ignorance
displayed in the treatment of the sick.
The village nurse had her own nostrums and lotions, and the country
apothecary, or leech as he was called, who led very often a nomadic life,
taking rounds in certain districts, and visiting at intervals lonely
homesteads and hamlets, was obliged, and perhaps content, to leave his
patient to her care, and very often her treatment was as likely to be
beneficial as his own.
Goody Pearse, to do her justice, had that great requisite for a nurse, in
every age and time--a kind heart.
She felt very sorry for Mary, and, when Mistress Forrester was gone, she
crooned over her, and smoothed the pillow at her head, and then proceeded
to examine her foot, and bind it up afresh in rags steeped in one of her
own lotions.
The doctor had ordered potations of wine for Mary, and Mistress Forrester
had produced a bottle of sack from her stores, a mugful of which Goody
Pearse now held to Mary's pale lips.
'I only want quiet,' she said, in a low, pathetic voice; 'quiet, and, if
God please, sleep.'
'And this will help it, dear heart,' the old woman said. 'Sup it up, like a
good child, for, Heaven help you, you are young enow.'
Mary smiled faintly.
'Young! nay; was I ever young and glad?'
'Yes, my dearie, and you'll be young and glad again afore long. There! you
are better already, and Ned shall carry you up again when there's peace and
quiet.'
It was evening, and Mary Gifford had been laid again on her own bed, when
quick footsteps were heard before the house, and Lucy's voice,--
'How fares it with Mary?'
Goody Pearse was on the watch at the casement above, and called out,--
'Come up and see for yourself, Lucy Forrester.'
Lucy was up the crooked, uneven stairs in a moment, and Mary, stretching
out her arms, said,--
'Oh! Lucy, Lucy.'
The two sisters were locked in a long embrace.
'I am sorry you are fetched back from all your pleasures, little sister,'
Mary said at last.
'Nay, I am glad to come. I have had a taste of happiness, and it will last
till you are well, and we both go away from here, and the boy is found--for
he will be found--Humphrey Ratcliffe will scour the world ere he gives up
finding him, and Mr Sidney has granted him leave to go whither he lists, to
get hold of that wicked man with his horrible, cruel, black eyes. How I
hate him!'
'Do not speak of him,' Mary said, shuddering; 'do not speak of him,' and
she put her hand to her side, as if the very mention of him sent a pang
through her heart. 'Let me look at you, Lucy,' she said presently. 'Turn
your face to the light that I may scan it. Ah!' she said, 'still my little,
innocent sister, and with a happy light in her eyes.'
Lucy's face grew crimson.
'Yes,' she said. 'I have been happy, though there have been some crooks and
quips to bear from old Mother Crawley. Yet, oh, Mary! when there is one big
heart-joy, everything else seems so small, and poor, and mean.'
'Have you made George Ratcliffe happy, then, with a promise to requite his
love?'
'George Ratcliffe!' Lucy exclaimed. 'Nay, Mary--not for a lap full of
gold.'
'Who, then, is it? for there is someone? Who is it, Lucy? I pray God he is
a noble Christian gentleman.'
'He is the noblest, and best, and highest that ever lived. Hearken, Mary!
and do not scoff at me--nor scorn me. No, you can never do that, I know. My
knight is far above me--so far, it may be, that he will never stoop so low
as to give me more than passing signs of his good-will. But I _have had_
these. He has shone on me with his smile, he has thought of my comfort, he
did not deem the country maiden of no account, when grand ladies were
ogling him, and trying to win his favour, he did not think me beneath
notice when he lifted me on the saddle this very morning, and covered me
with a warm cloth, and bade me "God speed." If nought else comes--well, I
will live on what I have had from him. The crumbs of bread from him are
sweeter and richer than a feast from another. As I have jogged hither
to-day, there has been the thought of him to make me willing to give up
everything to gain his approval--his meed of praise. He bid me come to you,
and I came. Nay, it was my Lady Pembroke who _bid_ me come--it was Humphrey
Ratcliffe who said I _must_ e'en come--but it was my knight who told me I
_did well_ to come. And at these words a new feeling quickened in me about
it.
'You do not understand, Mary, I see you do not understand. You think me
silly, and vain, and selfish--and you are right. I am all three. I have
been all three, and hot-tempered, and saucy, and oh! a hundred other
things, but now I have an aim to be good and act in all things as my knight
would have me. Oh, Mary, could you have seen him as he rode into the
tilt-yard on Whit-Monday, in his blue and gold armour, sitting on his fine
horse, so stately and grand--could you have seen him break lance after
lance, his face shining like the sun, you would know what it is for me to
feel such an one can give a thought to me--even a passing thought.
'Mary! Mary! I cannot help it. I love him--I worship him--and there is an
end of the whole matter. It will make no odds whether what looks impossible
becomes possible--he is to me what no one beside can ever be. There, it is
out now, and I pray you do not despise me. I will be ever so patient now. I
will do all I am bidden, and one day, Mary, we will leave this place--it is
no home now, and I will return to my Lady Pembroke, and Humphrey Ratcliffe
will find Ambrose, and you will be his wife, and--'
'Hush, Lucy; not a word more. I will keep sacred and secret in my heart
what you have told me, dear child. I will not judge you hardly. You are
young--so young--as young as I was when I went forth to sorrow and misery.
For you, even though I think your dream baseless, and that you are feeding
hope on what may turn out to be the ashes of disappointment, I will not
despair. I know your idol is worthy, and love for one who is pure and noble
cannot work ill in the end. I will keep your secret; now, Lucy, little
sister--keep mine. I can never wed with another man, for my husband
lives--and has stolen from me my boy.'
'Mary, Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister's
pillow. 'Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only of
myself--I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really so
heartless and vain, I will be good and comfort you, Mary.'
Mary Gifford stroked Lucy's brown head, and murmured,--
'Dear child! dear child! we will help each other now as we have never done
before.'
From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester
seemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking
girlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and river
of womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares--others with
reluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to face
with the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly find
themselves on the other side to return no more.
BOOK II
Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve
As nature's work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might;
While each conceit an ugly figure bears
Which were we ill, well viewed in reason's light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be cleared, and now begin to see
Our life is but a step in dusty way,
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind;
Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find.--_Arcadia_, p. 457.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
CHAPTER X
AT WILTON
'The silk well could they twist and twine,
And make the fair march pine,
And with the needle work;
And they could help the priest to say
His matins on a holy day,
And sing a psalm at kirk.'
_November 1585._ _Old Rhyme._
The chastened sunshine of an All Saints' summer was lying upon the fair
lawns and terrace walks of Wilton House, near Salisbury, in the year 1585.
It was November, but so soft and balmy was the air that even the birds were
apparently ready to believe that winter was passed over and spring had
come.
The thrushes and blackbirds were answering each other from the trees, and
the air was filled with their melody and with the scent of the late flowers
in the pleasance, lying close under the cloisters, facing the beautiful
undulating grounds of Lord Pembroke's mansion near Salisbury.
The graceful figure of a lady was coming down the grassy slope towards the
house; a boy of five or six years old, with a miniature bow and arrow in
his hand, at her side.
'I would like another shot at this old beech tree, mother,' the child said.
'I do not care to come in to my tasks yet.'
'Will must be an obedient boy, or what will Uncle Philip say, if he comes
to-day and finds him in disgrace with his tutor?'
'Uncle Philip isn't here,' the child said.
'But he will be ere noon. I have had a despatch from him; he is already at
Salisbury, and may be here at any hour.'
At this moment Lady Pembroke saw one of her ladies hastening towards her,
and exclaimed,--
'Ah, Lucy! have you come to capture the truant?'
'Yes, Madam, and to tell you that Sir Philip Sidney's courier has ridden
into the courtyard to announce his Master's speedy arrival.'
'Then I will not go till I have seen Uncle Philip!' and Will dragged at
Lucy's hand as she attempted to lead him towards the house.
'Nay, Will,' his mother said, 'you must do as you are bid.' And forthwith
the boy pouted; yet he knew to resist his mother's will was useless. But
presently there was a shout, as he broke away from Lucy Forrester's hand,
with the cry,--
'Uncle Philip!' and in another moment Sir Philip had taken his little
nephew in his arms, and, saluting him, set him on his feet again. Then,
with a bow and smile to Lucy, he bent his knee with his accustomed grace
before his sister, who stooped down and kissed him lovingly, with the
words,--
'Welcome! welcome! dear Philip. Thrice welcome, to confirm the good news of
which my lord had notice yester even.'
'Yes; I have come to say much, and to discuss many schemes with you. I stay
but till the morrow, when I would fain you got ready to see me later at
Penshurst.'
'At Penshurst!'
'Yes. I have set my heart on meeting all my kindred--more especially our
father and mother--there ere I depart. Now, now, Will! wherefore all this
struggling to resist Mistress Forrester? Fie, fie! for shame!'
'It is the attraction of your presence, Philip, which is too much for
Will,' Lady Pembroke said.
'Then, if I am the culprit, I will do penance, and take the boy in hand
myself. See, Will, you are to come with me to your tasks, nor give Mistress
Forrester so much trouble.' And Lucy found herself free from the child's
detaining hand, as Sir Philip went, with swift steps, towards the
house--his little nephew running fast to keep up with him.
Lucy followed, and met Sir Philip in the hall, where the tutor had captured
the truant.
'Any news from Arnhem, Mistress Forrester?' Sir Philip asked. 'Any good
news from Mistress Gifford?'
'Nay, sir, no news of the boy; and even our good friend Master Humphrey
Ratcliffe is ready to give up the quest.'
'Nay, it shall not be given up. I am starting in a few days to the Low
Countries, as Governor of Flushing.'
'So my lady told me, sir, this morning,' Lucy said demurely.
'Yes, and I shall be on the alert; depend on it, if the boy is alive, he
shall be found. But I begin to fear that he is dead. Why should I say fear,
forsooth? Death would be better than his training by Jesuits, and so
leagued with Spain and all her evil machinations.'
Lucy curtseyed, and, with a gentle 'Good-morning to you, sir,' she went to
her duties under Mistress Crawley.
Lucy had changed from the impetuous child in the first flush of her youth
and consciousness of beauty, into a woman almost graver than her years, and
so little disposed to accept any overtures of marriage, that the ladies of
the Countess of Pembroke's household called her the little nun.
One after another they drifted off as the wives of the gentlemen and
esquires, who were retainers of the Earl; but Lucy Forrester remained, high
in favour with her lady, and even spoken of by Mistress Crawley as 'clever
enough, and civil spoken,' the real truth being that she had become
indispensable to Mistress Crawley, and was trusted by her to take in hand
the instruction of the young maidens who came from the homes of the gentry
and nobility, in a long succession, to enter the household of Lady
Pembroke, which was an honour greatly coveted by many.
Soon after Mary Gifford's great sorrow in the loss of her child, Mistress
Forrester astonished her step-daughter by announcing her marriage to one of
her Puritan neighbours, who was, in truth, but a herdsman on one of the
farms, but who had acquired a notoriety by a certain rough eloquence in
preaching and praying at the secret meetings held in Mistress Forrester's
barn. He was well pleased to give up his earthly calling at Mistress
Forrester's bidding, for he would scarcely have presumed to address her as
a suitor without very marked encouragement. He fell into very comfortable
quarters, and, if he was henpecked, he took it as a part of his discipline,
and found good food and good lodging a full compensation.
Then Mary Gifford and her sister were offered a small sum of money to
represent their right in their father's house, and left it with very little
regret on their side, and supreme satisfaction on their stepmother's. Lucy
returned to Lady Pembroke's household, and Mary Gifford, through the
ever-ready help of Humphrey Ratcliffe, broken down as she was prematurely
in mind and body, found an asylum in the home of her husband's uncle,
Master George Gifford, at Arnheim, from which place she made many vain
inquiries to lead to the discovery of her boy, which hitherto had proved
fruitless.
True and loyal to her interests, Humphrey Ratcliffe never again approached
her with passionate declarations of love. He was one of those men who can
be faithful unto death, and give unfaltering allegiance to the woman they
feel it is hopeless to win. Loving her well, but loving honour, hers and
his own, more, Humphrey went bravely on the straight road of duty, with no
regretful, backward glances, no murmurs at the roughness of the way, taking
each step as it came with unfaltering resolutions, with a heavy heart at
times; but what did that matter? And in all this determination to act as a
brave, true man should act, Humphrey Ratcliffe had ever before him the
example of his master, Sir Philip Sidney. Second only to his love for Mary
Gifford was his devotion to him. It is said that scarcely an instance is
recorded of any of those who were closely associated with Sir Philip Sidney
who did not, in those last years of his short life, feel ennobled by his
influence. And Humphrey Ratcliffe was no exception to this all but
universal law.
Mean men, with base, low aims and motives, shunned the society of this
noble Christian gentleman. His clever and accomplished uncle, the brilliant
and unscrupulous Earl of Leicester, must often have been constrained to
feel, and perhaps acknowledge, that there was something in his nephew which
raised him to a height he had never attained--with all his success at
Court, his Queen's devotion, and the fame which ranked him in foreign
countries as the most successful of all Elizabeth's favourites.
Lady Pembroke awaited her brother's return from the house. Going towards
it to meet him, she put her hand in his arm and said,--
'Let us have our talk in the familiar place where we have wandered together
so often, Philip.'
'Yes,' he said, 'all these fair slopes and pleasant prospects bring back to
me, Mary, the days, the many days, when I found my best comforter in you.
How fares it with the _Arcadia_?'
'It is winding out its long story,' Lady Pembroke said, laughing. 'Too
long, methinks, for there is much that I would blot out if I dare essay to
do so. But tell me, Philip, of this great appointment. Are you not glad now
that the design respecting Sir Francis Drake's expedition fell to nought. I
ever thought that expedition, at the best, one of uncertain issue and great
risk. Sure, Philip, you are of my mind now.'
'Nay, Mary, not altogether. I hailed the chance of getting free from
idleness and the shackles of the Court. And moreover,' he said, 'it is a
splendid venture, and my heart swelled with triumph as I saw that grand
armament ready to sail from Plymouth. Methinks, even now, I feel a burning
desire to be one of those brave men who are crossing the seas with Drake to
those far-off islands and territories, with all their wondrous treasures,
of which such stories are told.'
As Philip spoke, his sister saw his face kindling with an almost boyish
enthusiasm, and the ardent young soldier, eager, and almost wild, to set
sail across the great dividing sea, seemed to replace for the moment the
more dignified man of matured powers, who was now Governor of Flushing.
'It is all past,' he said, 'and I will do my utmost to forget my
disappointment. It is somewhat hard to forgive Drake for what I must think
false dealing with me, for I know well by whose means those mandates came
to Plymouth from the Queen. There was nought left for me but to obey, for
disobedience would have kept back the whole fleet; but the whole
transaction has left a sore--'
'Which will rapidly heal, Philip, in this new, and to my mind at least, far
grander appointment. Sure, to be Governor of Flushing means a high place,
and a field for showing all you are as a statesman and soldier. I am proud
and pleased; more proud of you than ever before, were that possible.'
They had reached a favourite spot now, where, from a slightly rising
ground, there was and is a beautiful view of Salisbury Cathedral.
'See yonder spire pointing skyward, Mary, how it seems to cleave the sky,
this November sky, which is like that of June? The spire, methinks, reads
me a lesson at this time. It saith to me, "Sursum corda."'
Lady Pembroke pressed her brother's arm with answering sympathy, and,
looking up into his face, she saw there the shining of a great hope and the
upward glance of a steadfast faith.
'Yes,' Sir Philip said, 'I am happy in this lot which has fallen to me, and
I pray God I may avenge the cause of those who are trodden down by the
tyranny of Spain. The Queen's noble words inspired me with great confidence
in the righteousness of the cause for which I am to fight. Her Grace said
her object was a holy one--even to procure peace to the holders of the
Reformed Faith, restoration of their time-honoured rights in the
Netherlands, and above all, the safety of England. It is a great work,
Mary; wish me God speed.'
'I do, I do; and now tell me about Frances and the babe. When is her
christening to be performed?'
'In four days. The Queen is so gracious as to ride from Richmond to London
to name our babe herself, and will dispense gifts in honour thereof. My
sweet Frances, the child's mother, is not as hearty as I would fain see
her, so she consents to delay her coming to Flushing till I can assure
myself that all is well prepared for her. I ride to London on the morrow.
The babe will be christened there. Two days later I purpose to convey
mother and child to Penshurst, where all who wish to bid me farewell will
gather. Our good father and mother, who do not feel strength enough for the
festivity of the Court, even to be present at the babe's christening,
proceed thither to-morrow from Ludlow. Will you join them there, or
accompany me to London?'
'I will await your coming at Penshurst, Philip. I am somewhat disturbed at
the last letters from our dear father. He speaks of being broken down in
body and dejected in spirit. Verily, I can scarce forgive the mistress he
has served so well for her treatment of him. God grant you get a better
guerdon for faithful service than our father and mother won.'
'It is true, too true,' Sir Philip said, 'that they were ill-requited, but
has anyone ever fared better who has striven to do duty in that unhappy
country of Ireland? It needs a Hercules of strength and a Solon of wisdom,
ay, and a Croesus of wealth to deal with it. In the future generations such
a man may be found, but not in this.'
'Will you take the two boys with you, Robert and Thomas?'
'I shall take Robert and put him in a post of command. Thomas is all agog
to come also, but he is too young and weakly, though he would rave if he
heard me call him so. He shall follow in good time. There is a brave spirit
in Thomas which is almost too great for his body, and he is not prone to be
so lavish as Robert, who has the trick of getting into debt, out of which I
have again and again helped to free him. In my youth I too had not learned
to suit my wants to my means, but the lesson is now, I pray, got by heart.
A husband and father must needs look well to the money which is to provide
all things for these weak and defenceless ones who lean on him.'
'You speak of your youth as past, Philip,' Mary said. 'It makes me laugh.
You look, yes, far younger than some five or six years ago.'
'Happiness has a power to smooth out wrinkles, I know, sweet sister.
Witness your face, on which time refuses to leave a trace, and,' he added
earnestly, 'happiness--rather a peaceful and contented mind--has come to me
at last. When my tender wife, loyal and true, looks up at me with her
guileless eyes, full of love and trust, I feel I am thrice blest in
possessing her. And, Mary, the sight of our babe thrilled me strangely. The
little crumpled bit of humanity, thrusting out her tiny hands, as if to
find out where she was. That quaint smile, which Frances says, is meant for
her; that feeble little bleating cry--all seemed like messages to me to
quit myself as a man should, and, protecting my child in her infancy, leave
to her and her mother a name which will make them proud to have been my
wife and my daughter.'
'And that name you will surely leave, Philip.'
'Be it sooner or later, God grant it,' was the fervent reply.
The Countess soon after went into the house to make some arrangements for
departure, and to write a letter to her sister-in-law, with a beautiful
christening present, which she was to send by her brother's hand.
Sir Philip lingered still in the familiar grounds of Wilton, which were
dear to him from many associations. The whole place was familiar to him,
and with a strange presage of farewell, a last farewell, he trod all the
old paths between the closely-clipped yew hedges, and scarcely left a nook
or corner unvisited.
The country lying round Wilton was also familiar to him. Many a time he
had ridden to Old Sarum, and, giving his horse to his groom, had wandered
about in that city of the dead past, which with his keen poetical
imagination he peopled with those who had once lived within its walls, of
which but a few crumbling stones, turf-covered, remain. A stately church
once stood there; voices of prayer and praise rose to God, hopes and fears,
joys and sorrows, gay young life, and sorrowful old age, had in times long
since past been 'told as a tale' in the city on the hill, as now in the
city in the valley, where the spire of the new Cathedral rises skyward.
New! Only by comparison, for old and new are but relative terms after all,
and it is hard, as we stand under the vaulted roof of Salisbury Cathedral,
to let our thoughts reach back to the far-off time when the stately church
stood out as a new possession to take the place of the ruined temple, which
had once lifted its head as the centre of Old Sarum.
Sir Philip Sidney had left several of his servants at Salisbury, and, when
he had bidden the Countess good-bye, till they met again in a few days at
Penshurst, he rode back to the city, and, leaving his horse at the White
Hart, he passed under St Anne's Gateway, and crossed the close to the south
door of the Cathedral.
The bell was chiming for the evensong, and Sir Philip passed in. He was
recognised by an old verger, who, with a low bow, preceded him to the
choir.
Lady Pembroke was right when she said that her brother looked younger than
he had looked some years before.
There never was a time, perhaps, in his life, when his face had been more
attractive and his bearing more distinguished than now.
The eyes of the somewhat scanty congregation were directed to him as he
stood chanting in his clear, sweet musical voice the Psalms for the second
evening of the month.
The sun, entering at the west door, caught his 'amber locks' and made them
glow like an aureole round his head, as he lifted it with glad assurance
when the words left his lips.
'But my trust is in Thy mercy, and my heart is joyful in Thy salvation. I
will sing of the Lord because He hath dealt so lovingly with me; yea, I
will praise the name of the Lord Most Highest.'
Those who saw Sir Philip Sidney that day, recalled him as he stood in the
old oaken stall, only one short year later, when, with bowed head and sad
hearts, they could but pray in the words of the Collect for the week, 'that
they might follow the blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that
they might come to those unspeakable joys which are prepared for them that
love God.'
Sir Philip had not time to delay, though the Dean hurried after the service
to greet him and to offer hospitality.
'I must be on my road to London,' he said, 'for a great event awaits me
there, Mr Dean--the baptism of my little daughter, to whom the Queen is
graciously pleased to stand godmother.'
'And God give you a safe journey, Sir Philip, and bless the child,' the
kindly Dean said. 'How fares it with the daughter of my good friend Sir
Francis Walsingham? I trust she is well recovered.'
'Fairly well,' Sir Philip replied. 'She is young and somewhat fragile, but
I trust will soon be able to join me at Flushing.'
After the exchange of a few more kindly words and congratulations, Sir
Philip Sidney was leaving the Cathedral, when a figure, still kneeling in
the nave, arrested his attention, and as his footsteps drew near, the bowed
head was raised, and Sir Philip saw it was Lucy Forrester.
He passed on, but lingered outside for a few moments, till, as he expected,
Lucy came out.
'I am glad to see you once more,' Sir Philip said; 'if only to bid you
farewell, and to assure you I will not fail to track out the villain, who
may, at least, give me tidings of Mistress Gifford's boy. I will see her
also, if possible.'
'You are very good, sir,' Lucy said.
But she moved on with quick steps towards St Anne's Gateway.
'Have you aught that I can convey to Mistress Gifford? If so, commit it to
my care at Penshurst, whither, I suppose, you go with the Countess on the
morrow or next day. Then we shall meet again--so now, farewell.'
Years had passed since Lucy had subdued the tumultuous throb at her heart
when in Sir Philip's presence. He was still her ideal of all that was noble
and pure and courteous; her true knight, who, having filled her childish
and girlish dreams, still reigned supreme.
There are mysteries in the human heart that must ever remain unfathomable,
and it is not for us to judge one another when we are confronted by them,
and can find no clue to solve them.
Lucy Forrester's romantic love for Sir Philip Sidney had worked her no ill;
rather, it had strengthened her on the way; and from that night when she
and Mary Gifford had exchanged their secrets she had striven to keep her
promise, and to be, as she had said she wished to be, really good.
The atmosphere of Lady Pembroke's house had helped her, and had been an
education to her in the best sense of the word.
'Fare you well, sir,' she said. 'I must hasten to find Mistress Crawley. We
came hither to the city for something wanted from a shop ere we start on
our journey; but I craved leave to go to the Cathedral for a few minutes.
This is how you found me, sir, there.'
There was something in Lucy's voice which seemed to betray anxiety as to
whether Sir Philip might think she was alone in Salisbury; and something
of relief when she exclaimed,--
'Ah, there is Mistress Crawley!' as she tripped away to meet her, Sir
Philip repeating as she left him,--'Fare you well, Mistress Lucy. _Au
revoir._'
CHAPTER XI
LUMEN FAMILIAE SUAE
'Was ever eye did see such face?
Was never ear did hear that tongue?
Was never mind did mind his grace,
That ever thought the travail long?
But eyes, and ears, and every thought,
Were with his sweet perfections caught.'
SPENSER.
Penshurst Castle never, perhaps, wore a more festive air than when in the
November days of lengthening twilight and falling leaves, Sir Philip
Sidney's friends and relatives gathered under the hospitable roof to
congratulate him on his appointment to the Governorship of Flushing and
Rammekins, the patent having been granted at Westminster on the seventh day
of the month.
Sir Philip had taken leave of the Queen after she had honoured him by
standing as godmother to his little daughter. He had now brought her and
her mother to Penshurst to leave them there in safety, till he had arranged
for their reception at Flushing, and found proper accommodation for them.
It was a goodly company that assembled in the grand old hall on the day
before Sir Philip's departure. There were, we may be sure, many present
whose names live on the pages of the history of the time.
The courtly Earl of Leicester was there, who, with whatever outward show of
satisfaction at his nephew's promotion, was never free from a latent
jealousy which he was careful to hide.
Sir Francis Walsingham was there, the proud grandfather of the tiny babe
which Lady Mary Sidney held so tenderly in her arms, scanning her features
to discover in them a likeness to her father. Sir Henry Sidney was with
her, prematurely old and feeble, trying to shake off the melancholy which
possessed him, and striving to forget his own troubled and ill-requited
service to the Queen, in his pride that his son was placed in a position
where his splendid gifts might have full play.
'The light of his family,' he always fondly called Philip, and he would not
grudge that this light should shed its radiance far beyond his own home and
country.
Was it a strange prescience of coming sorrow that made Sir Henry for the
most part silent, and sigh when the Earl of Leicester tried to rally him,
saying that it was a time of rejoicing, and why should any face wear a look
of sadness.
[Illustration: THE GREAT HALL, PENSHURST CASTLE.]
'We part from our son, good nephew,' Lady Mary said, 'on the morrow, and
partings in old age have a greater significance than in youth. We please
ourselves with future meetings when we are young; when we are old, we
know full well that there is but a short span of life left us, for reunion
with those who are dear to us.'
As the short day closed in, the huge logs in the centre of the hall sent
forth a ruddy glow. The torches set in the iron staples on the walls were
lighted, and flickered on the plentifully-spread board and on the faces of
those gathered there. As the company at the upper end, on the raised dais,
rose to retire to the private apartments of the house, the minstrels in the
gallery struck up a joyful strain, and at the foot of the stairs Sir Philip
paused.
He looked down on the faces of many friends and retainers, faithful in
their allegiance, with a proud, glad smile. Many of them were to follow him
to his new post as Governor. All were ready to do so, and die in the cause
he held sacred, if so it must be.
It was not without intention that Sir Philip waited till the company had
passed him, detaining his young wife by drawing her hand through his arm,
and saying to the nurse who held his little daughter,--
'Tarry for one moment, Mistress Joan.'
'My friends,' he said, 'you who follow me to Flushing, I pray I may live to
reward you for the faithful service you will render me. God grant you may
return in health and peace to your wives and children. If it please God, I
shall myself return in due season; but there are many chances in war, and a
soldier's future must ever be doubtful. So, should I fall in the fight
against the tyranny of Spain and the machinations of Rome, I say to you,
show to this fair lady, my sweet wife, all reverent care and honour, for,
forsooth, she will merit it; and as for this little lady Elizabeth, the
godchild of our gracious Sovereign,' he continued, smiling as he took the
child from the nurse's arms, 'I commend her to you also. You see but little
of her, she is so swathed in folds of lace and what not, and, in good
sooth, there is but little to see; but she gives promise of being a dainty
little maiden, not unworthy to be the Queen's name-child, and the daughter
of the gentle Dame Frances Sidney.'
'Nor unworthy to be the child of Sir Philip Sidney, a greater honour than
all the rest, methinks.'
These words were spoken in a deep, manly voice by Sir Francis Walsingham,
who had stopped on the stairs when he saw his son-in-law pause with his
wife and child.
The remark was received with a prolonged 'Ay,' and a murmur of many voices
wishing Sir Philip all success and good fortune.
There was dancing in the spacious ballroom, which was lighted for the
occasion by the three cut-glass chandeliers, surmounted by the royal crown,
which were, it is said, the first made in England, and presented to Sir
Henry Sidney by Queen Elizabeth. Here the younger portion of the guests
enjoyed the dance then so popular, and which was known by the appropriate
name of 'The Brawl.'
The elders had followed Lady Mary Sidney to the room known as Queen
Elizabeth's, where the chairs, draped in yellow satin, and the card-table
covered by the fine silk embroidery worked by the Queen's clever fingers,
were all in their first freshness. On the walls were panels of worked silk,
which the ladies of the family had their share in producing, and between
them hung the portraits of Sir Philip and his brother Robert in childhood
in their stiff and ungainly Court dress, and one of Lady Mary when she came
as a bride to Penshurst--in the pride of her youth and beauty, before the
smallpox had robbed her face of its fair complexion, and before sorrow and
disappointment had left their trace upon it.
The Countess of Pembroke was always her mother's chief sympathiser in joy
and sorrow. She retired with her behind the glass screen where the Queen,
in her visits to Penshurst, always chose to summon her host, or any of her
ministers for a private conversation or flirtation, as the case might be.
By the opening of a panel of white Venetian glass, those who were seated
behind the screen could watch unseen what was passing in the room beyond.
'You look weary, dear mother,' Lady Pembroke said--'weary and sad. Methinks
pride in our Philip should overrule grief at his loss. He has been well
versed in the manners and customs of foreign courts. He is a great
favourite, and I hope to see him return with fresh laurels at no distant
date.'
'Ah, Mary! you have, as I said to my brother but an hour ago, you have a
future; for me there is only a short span left. Yet I can rejoice in the
present bliss of seeing Philip a proud husband and father. There was a
time when I feared he would never turn his thoughts towards another woman.'
'And I, sweet mother, always felt sure he would be the victor he has
proved. Look at him now!' As she spoke Sir Philip was seen coming down the
room with Lady Frances on his arm, Sir Fulke Greville on the other side,
evidently some jest passing between them, for Sir Philip's face was
sparkling with smiles, and his silvery laugh reached the ears of those
behind the screen as he passed.
'Yes, he has the air of a man who is happy, doubtless,' his mother said;
'but see your father, Mary, how he halts, as he comes leaning on Sir
Francis Walsingham's arm. He has the mien of a man many a year older than
he is, if age be counted by years.'
'Dear father!' Mary said, with a sigh. 'But now, watch Robert and Thomas.
They are each leading a lady to the ballroom. Little Tom, as I must still
call him, looks well. He is all agog to be off with Philip; he must tarry
till the winter is over. Robert is of a stronger build, and can weather the
frosts and bitter cold of the Low Countries.'
Lady Pembroke was now watching another couple who were passing on to the
ballroom. The Earl of Leicester had often been attracted by the beauty of
Lucy Forrester, and had now done her the honour of begging her to dance
with him. But Lucy shrank from the open admiration and flattery of this
brilliant courtier. While others were looking on her with envy, jealous of
the distinction the Earl had conferred upon her, Lucy hoped she might meet
her mistress, and excuse herself from the dance by saying her presence was
needed by Lady Pembroke. But those who sat behind the screen were unseen,
and Lucy did not know how near she was to her mistress.
Presently George Ratcliffe came towards the screen with gigantic strides,
his brow dark, biting his lower lip, while his hand rested on the hilt of
his short sword.
'Pardon me, dear mother,' Lady Pembroke said, as she rose from her seat, 'I
will return anon,' and then she stepped up to George, saying,--
'Have you danced this evening, Master Forrester? Come with me, and let me
find you a partner.'
George blushed crimson at the honour done him; he was no courtier, and the
thanks he would fain have spoken died on his lips.
'I have been desiring to speak with you,' Lady Pembroke said; 'I would fain
know if aught has been heard of Mistress Gifford.'
'Nay, Madam, not of late. She was in good health of body last summer,
though sore at heart; so my brother said.'
'No trace of her boy yet, I grieve to hear,' Lady Pembroke exclaimed. 'If
he is to be tracked out, your good brother will do it. You do not follow
Sir Philip to the Netherlands, I think.'
'Nay, Madam, I stay at home, my mother is sick, and the care of the place
falls on me heavily enow.'
When Lucy saw Lady Pembroke she disengaged her hand from the Earl's, and
said,--
'May it please you, my Lord, to permit me to go to my Lady, she may be
seeking me.'
'Now why so cruel?' the Earl rejoined; 'why cannot you give me one smile?
Do not reserve all your favour for yonder young country-bred giant, whom my
sister has chosen to patronise.'
But Lucy was resolute, her colour rose at this reference to George, and,
with a profound curtsey, she left the Earl's side and joined the Countess.
'Ah, Lucy, you are in time to give Master George your hand for a Saraband,
and I will find my uncle, the Earl, another partner, even myself,' she
added, laughing.
It was all done so quickly that George could scarcely realise what had
happened.
He had been faithful to his first love, and never for a moment faltered in
his allegiance.
Both brothers were, it may be, exceptional in the steadfastness of their
loyalty to the two sisters. But Humphrey's position was widely different
from that of his brother, and he had many interests and friends, yes, and
flirtations and passing likings also, which prevented his thoughts from
dwelling so continually upon Mary Gifford. Moreover, he knew the gulf set
between them was impassable, and she was really more, as he said, like a
saint out of his reach, than a woman of everyday life, whom he longed to
make his wife.
George, on his hilltop, with no companion but his querulous mother--Mrs
Ratcliffe was for ever harping on his folly in suffering his cousin
Dorothy, with her full money-bags, to slip through his fingers, to bless
the draper's son in the Chepe with what would have been so valuable to him
and to her--was far more to be pitied; and it was no wonder that he
withdrew more and more into himself, and grew somewhat morose and gruff in
his manner.
It was something to watch for Lady Pembroke's visits to Penshurst, when
Lucy would at least appear with the household at church, but these visits
only left him more hopeless than before.
His only consolation was that, although Lucy would not listen to his suit,
she apparently favoured no one else.
George was conscious of a change in her; she was no longer the gay,
careless maiden of years gone by, no longer full of jests, teasing ways,
and laughter, but a dignified lady, held in high esteem in the Countess of
Pembroke's household; and, alas! further from him than ever.
In the dance to which George led Lucy, they found themselves opposite to
Humphrey and one of the younger members of the Countess's household.
A bright, blue-eyed, laughing girl, who rallied Lucy on her sedate
behaviour, and the profound curtseys she made to her partner, instead of
the pirouette which she performed with Humphrey, his arm round her waist,
and her little feet twinkling under the short skirt of her stiff brocade,
like birds on the wing.
When the dance was over, George said,--
'The air is hot and fevered in this room; will you take a stroll with me,
Mistress Lucy, in the gallery? or is it too great a favour to ask at your
hands?'
'Nay, no favour,' Lucy replied; 'I shall be as well pleased as you are to
leave the ballroom.'
So they went together through the gallery, where, now and again, they saw
couples engrossed with each other's company in the deep recesses of the
windows.
The young moon hung like a silver bow in the clear sky, and from this
window the church tower was seen beyond the pleasance, and the outline of
the trees, behind which the moon was hastening to sink in the western
heavens.
As Lucy gazed upon the scene before her, her large wistful eyes had in them
that look which, in days gone by, George had never seen there.
The dim light of a lamp hanging in the recess shone on Lucy's face, and
poor George felt something he could not have put into words, separating him
from the one love of his life. His thoughts suddenly went back to that
spring evening when Lucy, in her terror, had rushed to him for protection.
He recalled the sweetness of that moment, as a man perishing for thirst
remembers the draught of pure water from the wayside fountain, of which he
had scarcely appreciated the value, when he held it to his lips.
A deep sigh made Lucy turn towards him, and, to his surprise, she opened
the very subject which he had been struggling in vain to find courage to
begin.
'George,' she said, 'it would make me so happy if you could forget me, and
think of someone who could, and would, I doubt not, gladly return your
love.'
'If that is all you can say to me,' he answered gruffly, 'I would ask you
to hold your peace. How can I forget at your bidding? it is folly to ask me
to do so.'
'George,' Lucy said, and her voice was tremulous, so tremulous that George
felt a hope springing up in his heart.--'George, it makes me unhappy when I
think of you living alone with your mother, and--'
'You could change all that without delay, you know you could. I can't give
you a home and all the fine things you have at Wilton--'
'As if that had aught to do with it,' she said. 'I do not care for fine
things now; once I lived for them; that is over.'
'You love books, if not fine things,' he went on, gathering courage as he
felt Lucy, at any rate, could think with some concern, that he was lonely
and unhappy. 'You care for books. I have saved money, and bought all I
could lay my hand on at the shop in Paul's Churchyard. More than this, I
have tried to learn myself, and picked up my old Latin, that I got at
Tunbridge School. Yes, and there is a room at Hillside I call my lady's
chamber. I put the books there, and quills and parchment; and I have got
some picture tapestry for the walls, and stored a cupboard with bits of
silver, and--'
'Oh! George, you are too good, too faithful,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I am not
worthy; you do not really know me.' And, touched with the infinite pathos
of George's voice, as he recounted all he had done in hope, for her
pleasure, Lucy had much ado to keep back her tears. Then there was silence,
more eloquent than words.
At last Lucy put her hand gently on George's arm.
'Hearken, George,' she said; 'if the day should ever dawn when I can come
to you with a true heart, I _will_ come. But this is not yet, and I should
wrong a noble love like yours if I gave you in return a poor and mean
affection, unworthy of your devotion. Do you understand me, George?'
'No,' he said, 'no, but I am fain to believe in you, and I will wait.
Only,' he added, with sudden vehemence, 'give me one promise--do not let me
hear by chance that you have become the wife of another man; give me fair
warning, or I swear, if the blow should fall unawares, it would kill me or
drive me mad.'
'You will never hear the news of which you speak, and in this rest content.
I have neither desire nor intention of wedding with any man. Let that
suffice.'
George drew himself up to his full height and said formally,--
'It shall suffice, so help me God.'
In all great assemblies like that which had gathered at Penshurst on this
November day, there are often hidden romances, and chapters rehearsed in
individual lives, of which the majority know nor care nothing. Who amongst
that throng of courtly ladies and gay gentlemen knew aught of George
Ratcliffe's love story; and, if they had known, who would have cared? To
the greater number the whole thing would have seemed a fit subject for
jest, perhaps of ridicule, for self-forgetting love, which has nothing to
feed on, and no consolation except in nursing vain hopes for the fulfilment
of the heart's desire, does not appeal to the sympathy of the multitude.
Such chivalrous, steadfast love was not unknown in the days of Queen
Elizabeth, nor is it unknown in the days of Queen Victoria. It left no
record behind it then, nor will it leave a record now. It is amongst the
hidden treasures, which are never, perhaps, to see the light of day; but it
is a treasure, nevertheless; and who shall say that it may not shine in a
purer atmosphere and gain hereafter the meed of praise it neither sought
for nor found here?
There was much stir and bustle in the President's Court at Penshurst's the
next morning. The gateway tower had just been completed by Sir Henry Sidney
on the old foundations, which dated from the thirteenth century. And now,
from under its shadow, on this still November morning, 'the light of Sir
Henry's family' was to ride out with a large retinue to take up the high
position granted him by the Queen as Governor of Flushing. How young he
looked as he sat erect on his noble horse, scanning his men, whose names
were called by his sergeant-at-arms as they answered one by one in deep,
sonorous tones to the roll call. Drawn up on either side of the court, it
was a goodly display of brave, stalwart followers, all faithful servants of
the house of Sidney, bearing their badge on their arm, and the boar and
porcupine on the helmets.
The Earl of Leicester was by his nephew's side, and his gentlemen and
esquires in attendance in brilliant array, for Robert, Earl of Leicester,
loved display, and nothing could be more gorgeous than the trappings of his
own horse, nor the dazzling armour which he wore.
In the background, under the main entrance of the house, Sir Henry Sidney
and Lady Mary stood with the Earl and Countess of Pembroke, and Dame
Frances Sidney, leaning on the arm of her father, Sir Francis Walsingham.
So fair and young she looked that all hearts went out in sympathy with her,
for she was very pale, and she was evidently trying to control herself, and
let her husband's last look be answered by smiles rather than tears.
Sir Philip had bidden his good-bye to those to whom he was so dear in
private, and there was a general determination amongst everyone to be brave
and repress any demonstration of sadness at the last moment. And indeed the
splendid military career opening before Sir Philip was a joy in the hearts
of many who loved him, which silenced any expression of grief at his loss
to themselves.
Humphrey Ratcliffe, in command of his men, presently left the ranks, and,
approaching Sir Philip, said,--
'We await the word of command to start, sir.'
Just at this moment the feeble cry of an infant was heard. And Sir Philip,
throwing the reins to his esquire, said to the Earl,--
'Your pardon, my lord, if I delay for one moment,' and then, with a quick,
springing step, Sir Philip returned to the entrance, where his little
daughter had just been brought by her nurse. 'Nay, then, my lady
Elizabeth,' he said, 'it would ill-beseem me to forget to bid you
farewell,' and, taking the child in his arms, he kissed her twice on the
little puckered forehead, saying, 'Go for comfort to your sweet mother,' as
he put her into his wife's arms, 'and God bring you both safe to me ere
long.'
In another moment he had again sprung on the saddle, and, with a last look
at the group collected under the porch, he rode away with all that gallant
company, with high hopes and courage to follow where their great chief led
them.
Some of the guests departed in the afternoon of the day to sleep at
Tunbridge, but Sir Fulke Greville remained at the request of Lady Pembroke.
There was no one to whom she could so freely speak of her brother, sure of
his sympathy, as to Sir Fulke Greville.
Perhaps no one, except herself, had such an intimate knowledge of the depth
of his learning and the wonderful versatility of his gifts.
The beech wood was Lady Pembroke's favourite resort at all seasons when at
Penshurst. It was there she had many a time played with Sir Philip as a
child, and taken sweet converse with him in later years. Here many of his
poems had been rehearsed to his sister before ever they had been written on
paper.
It was in the profound stillness of the November noontide that Lady
Pembroke invited Sir Fulke Greville to cross the park and wander with her
in the familiar paths through the beech wood.
The leaves were falling silently from the branches overhead, adding one by
one their tribute to the thick bronze carpet which had been lying at the
feet of the stately trees for many a long year.
The gentle rustle of a bird as it flew from the thinning branches, the soft
sigh of a faint breeze as it whispered its message of decay to the trees,
the gentle trill of a robin at intervals, were the only sounds that fell
upon the ear as Lady Pembroke and Sir Fulke Greville spoke of him who was
uppermost in their thoughts.
'It is a splendid career for him, doubtless,' Sir Fulke was saying, 'and
marvellous that one so young should be thus distinguished as to be set over
the heads of so many who would fain have been chosen. But no man living
excites less jealousy than Sir Philip; jealousy and scorn and mistrust die
in his presence.'
'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said, 'that is true. Yet I would that I felt more
secure as to my Uncle Leicester's attitude towards my brother. I scarce can
feel his praise is whole-hearted. Maybe it is too much to expect that it
should be as fervent as that of others.'
'The Earl is appointed Commander-in-Chief of the whole force. Sure that is
honour enough, and the sooner he hastens thither the better. He is gone to
dally at Court and trifle with the Queen as of old. When I see these
middle-aged folk, Queen and courtier, posing as lovers and indulging in
youthful follies, I ask myself, will it be so with me? shall I dance
attendance on fair ladies when I have told out near fifty years of life? I
hope not.'
Lady Pembroke laughed.
'There is no fear, methinks, for you or Philip; but, after all, it is the
heart which keeps us really young, despite age, yes, and infirmity. Philip,
as he rode forth this morning, looked as young, methinks, as when on the
first expedition he went to Paris, when scarce eighteen years had passed
over his head.'
'That is true,' Sir Fulke answered, 'and none can look at Philip now
without seeing that happiness has the effect of renewing youth.'
'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said; 'he is happy, as he could not be while that
hunger for forbidden fruit was upon him. At times I am tempted to wish
Frances had more tastes in sympathy with her husband, but one cannot have
all that is desired for them we love, and she is as loving a wife as any
man ever possessed. But, tell me sure, how fares it with the young trio of
scholars? Has aught come lately from your pens? and does the sage Harvey
yet rule over your metres, and render your verses after ancient model?'
'Nay, we have withdrawn from the good old man's too overbearing rule. As
you must know, Sir Philip has written an admirable _Defence of Poesie_, and
he there is the advocate for greater simplicity of expression. We have had
too much of copies from Italian models.'
'The Italians vary in merit,' Lady Pembroke said. 'Sure Dante rises to the
sublime, and Philip has been of late a devout student of the _Vita Nuova_,
and caught the spirit of that mighty genius who followed Beatrice from
depths of hell to heights of Paradise.'
'Yes, I have had the same feeling about Sir Philip which you express,' Sir
Fulke Greville said. 'Dante has raised love far above mere earthly passion
to a religion, which can worship the pure and the spiritual rather than the
mere beauty of the bodily presence. This breathes in much of Philip's later
verse. You know how he says he obeyed the muse, who bid him "look in his
heart, and write, rather than go outside for models of construction." That
great work--great work of yours and Sir Philip, the _Arcadia_--teams with
beauties, and Pamela is the embodiment of pure and noble womanhood.'
'Ah!' Lady Pembroke said, 'my brother and I look forward to a time of
leisure and retirement, when we will recast that lengthy romance, and
compress it into narrower limits. We know full well it bears the stamp of
inexperience, and there is much concerning Philoclea that we shall expunge.
But that time of retirement!' Lady Pembroke said, 'it seems a mockery to
speak of it, now that the chief author has just left us to plunge into the
very thick of the battle of life.'
'I am well pleased,' Sir Fulke said, 'that Sir Philip should have so able a
secretary at his elbow--Mr William Temple. The scholar's element will be a
refreshment to Philip when the cares of government press heavily. Mr
William Temple's _Dialectics_ is dedicated, with no empty profession of
respect and affection, to one who has ever been his friend. Forsooth,' Sir
Fulke Greville said, 'friends, true and loyal to your brother, Madam, are
as numerous as the leaves that rustle under our feet.'
'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said; 'that is a consoling thought; and he goes to
friends, if one may judge by the terms Count Maurice of Nassau writes of
him to the English Ambassador, Master Davison. My father has shown me a
copy of that letter, which speaks of Philip as his noble brother, and
honoured companion-in-arms.'
'How proud one of the chiefest of the friends you speak of would be could
he know that Philip is gone forth to wage war against Spain.'
'Good Hubert Languet! I always think no man in his first youth had ever a
truer and more faithful counsellor than Philip possessed in that noble old
Huguenot. And how he loved him, and mourned his loss!'
The big bell was now sounding for the mid-day dinner, and Lady Pembroke
said,--
'However unwillingly, we must break off our converse now. You will write to
me if you repair to Flushing; or you will find a welcome at Wilton on any
day when you would fain bend your steps thither. Philip's friend must needs
be mine.'
'A double honour I cannot rate too highly,' was the reply. 'I will ever do
my best to prove worthy of it.'
CHAPTER XII
FIRE AND SWORD
'What love hath wrought
Is dearly bought.'--_Old Song_, 1596.
Mary Gifford had found a quiet resting-place in the house of her husband's
uncle, Master George Gifford, at Arnhem, and here, from time to time, she
was visited by Humphrey Ratcliffe, who, in all the tumult of the war, kept
well in view the quest for Mary's lost son.
Again and again hope had been raised that he was in one of the Popish
centres which were scattered over the Low Countries.
Once Mary had been taken, under Humphrey's care, to watch before the gates
of a retired house in a village near Arnhem, whence the scholars of a
Jesuit school sometimes passed out for exercise.
For the Papists were under protection of the Spanish forces, and were far
safer than their Protestant neighbours. Spain had always spies on the
watch, and armed men ready in ambush to resent any interference with the
priests or Jesuit schools.
The country was bristling with soldiers, and skirmishes were frequent
between the English and Spaniards. Treachery and secret machinations were
always the tactics of Spain, and the bolder and more open hostility of
Elizabeth's army was often defeated by cunning.
Mary Gifford's expedition to the little town had resulted in
disappointment. With eager eyes and a beating heart she had watched the
boys file out in that back street towards the river, and when the boy
passed whom, at a sign from Humphrey, she was especially to notice, she
turned away. The light of hope died out from her face, as she said,--
'Ah! no, no! That boy is not my Ambrose!'
'He will be changed, whenever you do find him, Mistress Gifford,' Humphrey
said, somewhat unwilling to give up his point. 'Methinks that stripling has
as much likeness to the child of scarce seven years old as you may expect
to find.'
'Nay,' Mary said. 'The eyes, if nought else, set the question at rest. Did
you not note how small and deep-set were the eyes which this boy turned on
us with a sly glance as he passed. My Ambrose had ever a bold, free glance,
with his big, lustrous eyes, not a sidelong, foxy look. Nay, my good
friend, the truth gets more and more fixed in my mind that my child is safe
in Paradise, where only I shall meet him in God's good time.'
'I do not give up hope,' Humphrey said. 'This is certain, that he was at
first at Douay, and that his father took him thence to some hiding-place
in the Netherlands. He may be nearer you than you think. I shall not have
the chance of speaking much to you for some weeks,' Humphrey said. 'It may
be never again, for our great chief, Sir Philip, weary of inaction and sick
at heart by the constant thwarts and drawbacks which he endures, is
consorting with the Count Maurice of Nassau, and both are determined to
capture Axel. The scheme has to be submitted to the Earl of Leicester, and
we only await his assent to prepare for the onset, and, by God's help, we
will take the town. Sir Philip craves for some chance of showing what he
can do. He is crippled for money and resources, and, moreover, the loss of
both his parents weighs heavy upon him.'
'Alas! I know this must needs do so, the losses following so close, one on
the steps of the other.'
'I have had a letter of some length from Lucy concerning Sir Henry's death
at Ludlow, and I look for another ere long with a fuller account than as
yet I have received of the Lady Mary's departure.'
'Verily, there is only one staff to lean on as we pass through the valley
of the shadow when all human help is vain. None need be lonely who can feel
the presence of the Lord near in life and death. We must all seek to feel
that presence with us.'
'Alas!' Humphrey said, 'this is a hard matter. It is many a year now since
I have ventured to put the question. Do you still hold to the belief that
your husband lives?'
'Yes,' Mary said firmly, 'till certain news reaches me that he is dead.'
They were at the door of Master Gifford's house now, and here they
parted--Humphrey to the active service which would make him forget for the
time the hopelessness of his quest for the boy Ambrose and his love for the
mother.
Lucy Forrester had acquired, amongst other things in Lady Pembroke's
service, the art of writing well, and she kept up communication with her
sister by this means. These letters were often sent, by favour of the Earl
of Pembroke, in the despatches to Sir Philip Sidney or the Earl of
Leicester, and conveyed to Mary Gifford by his servants.
One of these letters awaited Mary this evening on her return, and it was
lying on the table by Master Gifford's side, as he sat in the spotlessly
clean parlour, with the Bible open before him, and a sheet of parchment, on
which he was jotting down the heads of his sermon to be delivered next day
in the plain unadorned room at the back of his house at Arnhem.
Master George Gifford was a fine and venerable-looking man, with abundance
of grey hair curling low over the stiff, white collar, which contrasted
with the sombre black of his long gown made of coarse homespun.
He had escaped to Holland in the days of the persecution of Protestants in
England, and, having a natural gift of eloquence, had become the centre
and stay of a little band of faithful followers of the Reformed Faith.
But Master Gifford was no narrow-minded bigot, and he abhorred persecution
on the plea of religion, as utterly at variance with the Gospel of the One
Lord and Saviour of all men.
He was a dignified, courteous man, and treated Mary with the tender
consideration which her forlorn condition seemed to demand. Amongst those
who at intervals attended his ministry was Sir Philip Sidney, and, on this
very day when Mary Gifford had been on her vain expedition to the little
out-of-the-way village on the river bank, the young soldier had come to lay
before him the scheme for attacking Axel, and had brought with him the
letter which, on Mary's entrance, Master Gifford held towards her.
'Here is a welcome missive,' he said; 'but forsooth, my poor child, you
look worn and tired. Sit you down and rest. Gretchen has spread the board
for you; I supped an hour agone. No news, I take it, Mary?' Master Gifford
said.
'No, no, dear uncle, and I can go on no more vain quests. Master Humphrey
has the best intention, and who but a mother could recognise her own child?
I fear me you have needed my help with distributing the alms to the poor
this afternoon, and I should have baked the pasty for the morrow's dinner.'
'Gretchen has done all that was needful. Is it not so, good Gretchen?' said
Master Gifford, as a squarely-built, sandy-haired Dutch woman, in her short
blue gown and large brown linen apron, and huge flapping cap came into the
room.
Gretchen came forward to Mary with resolute steps, and said in her somewhat
eccentric English,--
'And what must you tire yourself out like this for, Mistress Gifford? Tut,
tut, you look like a ghost. Come and eat your supper like a Christian, I
tell you.'
Gretchen was a rough diamond, but she had a good heart. She was absolutely
devoted to her master, and with her husband, an Englishman, who had escaped
with his master as a boy many years before, served him with zeal and
loyalty.
Mary was led, whether she wished it or not, to the kitchen--that bright
kitchen with its well-kept pots and pans, and its heavy delf-ware ranged on
shelves, its great Dutch clock ticking loudly in the corner, and the clear
fire burning merrily in the stove, which was flanked with blue and white
tiles with a variety of quaint devices.
'Sit you down and eat this posset. I made it for you, knowing you would be
more dead than alive. Come now, and sip this cup of mead, and don't open
that letter till you have done. Take off your hood and cloak. There! now
you are better already. Give up yawning like that, Jan, or you'll set me
off,' Gretchen said to her husband, whose name she had changed, to suit the
country of his adoption, from John to Jan, and who had been taking a
comfortable nap on the settle by the stove, from which he had been rudely
awakened by his wife.
Mary was obliged to do as Gretchen bid her, and was constrained to
acknowledge that she felt the better for the food, of which she had been so
unwilling to partake.
Master Gifford's house was frequented by many faithful Puritans in Arnhem,
and amongst them was a lady named Gruithuissens, who was well-known for her
benevolence and tender sympathy with all who were sorrowful and oppressed.
As was natural, therefore, she was attracted by Mary Gifford, and her
friendship had been one of the compensations Mary felt God had granted her
for the ever present loss of her boy.
Madam Gruithuissens' house faced the street on one side and overlooked the
river on the other. The window of her long, spacious parlour opened out
upon a verandah, and had a typical view of the Low Countries stretched
before them. A wide, far-reaching expanse of meadow-land and water--the
flat country vanishing in the sky-line many miles distant.
A contrast, indeed, to the wood-covered heights and undulating pastures of
the fair country of Kent, where the home of the Sidneys stands in all its
stately time-honoured pride.
Mary Gifford's thoughts were there at this moment. A summer evening came
back to her when she sat at the casement of Ford Manor with Ambrose clasped
close to her side. The years that lay between that time and the present
seemed so short, and yet how they had probably changed the child whom she
had loved so dearly.
Humphrey Ratcliffe was right. She had not realised what that change would
be. And then came the ever-haunting fear that Ambrose, if he were alive,
would fail to recognise his mother--might have been taught to forget her,
or, perhaps, to think lightly of her, and to look upon her as a heretic, by
the Jesuits who had brought him up in their creed.
She was roused from her meditations by Mistress Gruithuissens' abrupt
entrance.
'Great news!' she said, 'Great news! Axel is taken, and Sir Philip Sidney
has done wonders. A messenger has just arrived with the news at the Earl of
Leicester's quarters, and Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has been sent by barge
with others of the wounded. There has been great slaughter, and terrible it
is to think of the aching hearts all around us. Women widows, children
fatherless. Yet it is a righteous war, for Spain would massacre tenfold the
number did she gain the ascendant--hearken! I hear footsteps.'
In another moment the door was partly thrown open, and a young soldier,
evidently fresh from the scene of action, came in.
'I am seeking Mistress Gifford,' he said. 'I am esquire to Master Humphrey
Ratcliffe, and he has dispatched me with a message.'
'I am Mistress Gifford,' Mary said. 'What is your news?'
'My master is wounded, and he lies in Sir Philip Sidney's quarters in the
garrison. He bids me say he would fain see you, for he has to tell you
somewhat that could be entrusted to no one but yourself.'
'How can I go to him?' Mary said helplessly.
'How? With me, and my servants to guard us. But do not look so
terror-struck, Mistress Gifford,' Madam Gruithuissens said, 'it may,
perchance, be good news. I will order the servants to make ready--or will
we wait till the morrow? Nay, I see that would tax your patience too far;
we will start at once.'
As Mary Gifford and her new protectress passed through the streets of
Arnhem to the garrison where Humphrey lay wounded, they saw knots of people
collected, all talking of the great event of the taking of Axel. Some women
were weeping and unable to gain any exact information, most of them with a
look of stolid misery on their faces, with no passionate expression of
grief, as would have been seen in a like case amongst Italian and French
women, or even amongst English sufferers in the same circumstances.
Mary Gifford's ear had become accustomed to the Dutch language, and she
spoke it with comparative ease, having, in her visits of charity amongst
the poor of Master Gifford's followers and disciples, no other means of
communicating with them.
Madam Gruithuissens spoke English, for, like so many of those who sought
safety in the Low Countries from the persecution of the Papists in
England, she had been brought thither by her father as a child, and had,
till her marriage, spoken her native tongue, and had read much of the
literature which was brought over from England.