THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST.THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST.
Sir Henry Sidney was seldom able to leave Ludlow for a peaceful sojourn in his beautiful home, andLady Mary had sometimes to make the journey from Wales without him, to see that all things in the house were well ordered, and to do her best to make the scanty income stretch out to meet the necessary claims upon it.
When two of the gentlemen in attendance came to the gate to hold it open for the ladies of the party to pass, the throng assembled in the churchyard moved up near the porch, and, as Lady Mary came in sight, curtseys from the women and reverences from the men testified to the esteem in which she was held.
Lady Pembroke came next, smiling and gracious. On her sweet face were no lines of the care which marked her mother's, and she looked what she was, a happy wife and mother.
By her side was Mr Philip Sidney, closely followed by Robert and Thomas, who imitated his courteous bearing, and doffed their caps and bowed their heads in acknowledgment of their people's greeting.
The Sidneys were lords of Penshurst in every sense, and the loyalty of their tenants and dependants was unquestioned. It is not too much to say that Philip Sidney was regarded with admiration and respect, seldom equalled, by these simple people in the Kentish village, who felt a right in him, and a pride, which was perhaps sweeter to him than all the adulation he won in Elizabeth's Court.
When the Sidneys' large pew was filled with its occupants, the bell stopped, and the rest of the congregationhastened to fill the benches in the body of the church.
The service was conducted after the Anglican form of worship, but differed in some respects from that of the present day. The Puritans of those times were making every effort to get rid of what, in their eyes, were useless forms and ceremonies, and in many places in England dissension was rife, and the dread of Popish innovations, or rather a return to Popish practices, was mingled with fierce hatred of Papists, and apprehension of their designs against the life of the Queen.
The Sidneys were staunch adherents of the reformed faith, and Philip Sidney was the staunchest of all. He could never forget the atrocities of that summer night in Paris, when the treachery of the king and his mother resulted in the massacre of innocent men and women, whose only crime was their devotion to the faith for which they died.
Philip Sidney had, as we know, protested with bold sincerity against the Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou, urging the danger to the Protestant cause in England, if the Queen should persist in her determination.
Now several years had passed, and he had regained Elizabeth's favour, and had withdrawn his opposition.
The French Ambassadors, who were to arrive in England in the following week, were to be entertained with grand feasts and games, in which he and his chief friend, Fulke Greville, were to take a leading part.
Perhaps no one in that congregation knew or dreamed that their ideal knight, as he stood up in his place amongst them, with his thoughtful face turned towards the nave of the church, had his heart filled with misgivings as to the part he had taken in this matter, and with still deeper misgivings as to the position in which he found himself with the only woman whom he loved and worshipped.
While the good clergyman was preaching a somewhat dull sermon from the words, 'Fear God, honour the King,' following the particular line acceptable in those days, by enforcing loyalty and devotion to the reigning sovereign as the whole duty of man, Philip, leaning back in his seat, his head thrown back, and that wistful, far-away look in his eyes, which enhanced their charm, was all unconscious of what was passing around him, so absorbed was he with his own thoughts.
He roused himself when the first words of a psalm were sung by the village choir in Sternhold and Hopkins' version, and bending over the book, which his sister Mary had opened, pointing her finger to the first line, he raised his musical voice and sang with her the rugged lines which called upon 'All people that on earth do dwell, to sing to the Lord with cheerful voice.'
Then the clergyman pronounced the blessing, and the congregation dispersed, the village people to their homes, the Sidneys towards the gate leading into the pleasance, which lay on the side of the house nearest to the church.
Mary Gifford held back, in spite of Lucy's entreaties to her to go forward.
'They will all have passed in, Mary,' she exclaimed in an agony of excitement. 'Were we not bidden to see the Countess by Mr Sidney himself.'
But Mary was always modest and retiring, and she stood with Ambrose and her sister awaiting a summons.
It came at last. Humphrey Ratcliffe was at her side, saying,—
'My Lady of Pembroke would fain speak with Lucy. Come forward with me.'
As they followed Humphrey through the gateway in the wall, Lucy could scarcely conceal her agitation.
What should she say? What if Lady Pembroke thought her too young and too ignorant? She had pictured to herself that Mr Sidney would himself have led her to his sister, but he was gone out of sight, and she heard one of the gentlemen say to Humphrey,—
'Sir Fulke Greville has arrived with a message from the Queen. Mr Sidney has gone round to meet him.'
'Ill news, I wonder?' Humphrey said.
'Nay, only some trifle about the tourney, belike a change in the colour of the armour, or some such folly.'
Mary and her little son and Lucy were now standing at the end of the terrace walk of smooth turf,which is raised some feet above the wide pleasance below.
'Await the Countess's pleasure here,' Humphrey said. 'She is engaged in talk with Lady Mary, she will send to summon you when she sees fit.'
The ladies and gentlemen in attendance on Lady Mary Sidney and her daughter were threading the narrow paths of the pleasance and chatting gaily with each other, the bright dresses of the ladies, rivalling the colour of the spring flowers in the beds, while the jewelled hilts of the gentlemen's swords sparkled in the sunshine.
From the trees in the Park came the monotonous note of the unseen cuckoo, while the thrushes and blackbirds every now and then sent forth a burst of song, though it was nearly nigh noontide, when the birds are often silent, as if, in the general rejoicing of the spring, all living things must take part.
The picturesque side of the home of the Sidneys, which faces this pleasance, was in shadow, and made a background to the gay scene, which accentuated the brilliant effect of the gay throng below it.
On the terrace Mary Gifford stood in her black garments, relieved by a long white veil, holding her impatient boy by the hand, while Lucy, no less impatient, was hoping every minute that she should receive a message from Lady Pembroke. The group at last caught the attention of Lady Mary, who had been in earnest conversation with her daughter.
'Ah! there is Mistress Gifford,' she exclaimed, 'and the little sister of whom Philip spoke as suitable to be one of your waiting-women. Let us hasten to speak with them. They have been, I fear, waiting too long.'
'Yes; it was heedless of me to forget them; but there is the bell sounding for dinner in the hall, shall we not bid them sit down at the board? They must needs be weary after their long walk, and the service, to say naught of the sermon,' Lady Pembroke added, laughing.
'Hush, then; I see the good minister coming towards us. He means well, and is a godly man.'
'I do not doubt it, sweet mother; but let us mount the steps to the terrace, and show some courtesy to those waiting our pleasure there.'
'They are coming towards us, Mary. Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, 'come forward and meet them.'
'Yes, mother,' Ambrose said fretfully, dragging at his mother's hand. 'I thought I was to see Mr Sidney, and that he would let me ride again. I am so weary and so hungry.'
Lady Pembroke soon tripped up the stone steps, Lady Mary following more slowly. Lady Pembroke had all the graceful courtesy which distinguished her brother; and that high-bred manner which, quite apart from anything like patronage, always sets those who may be on a lower rung of the social ladder at ease in casual intercourse.
PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK.PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK.
There are many who aspire to be thought 'aristocratic' in their manners, and who may very successfullyimitate the dress and surroundings of the old noblesse. But this gift, which showed so conspicuously in the family of the Sidneys, is an inheritance, and cannot be really copied. It is so easy to patronise from a lofty vantage ground, so difficult to make those below it feel that the distance is not thought of as an impassable gulf, but is bridged over by the true politeness which lies not on the surface, but has its root deep in the consideration for others, which finds expression in forgetfulness of self, and in remembering the feelings and tastes of those with whom we are brought in contact.
Like the mists of morning under the warm beams of the sun, Mary Gifford's restraint and shy reserve vanished when Lady Pembroke exclaimed,—
'Ah, here is the little knight that Philip told me of. See, mother, he must be a playfellow for your Thomas.'
Lady Mary was somewhat breathless. She could not climb the steep, stone stairs as quickly as her daughter.
'Mistress Gifford must stay and dine with us, Mary, and then Thomas shall show him the pictures in the new book Philip has brought him from London.'
'Are there pictures of horses and knights, madam?' Ambrose asked.
'They are Bible pictures, boy, but there are warriors amongst them, doubtless—Joshua and Samson, and, it may be, others.'
The big bell which, to this day, is heard far and near at Penshurst, was still making its loud, sonorous clang, and Lady Mary, taking Ambrose by the hand led him along the terrace, his mother at the other side, and Lucy following with Lady Pembroke.
Instead of immediately beginning to discuss the probability of Lucy's being placed in her household, Lady Pembroke said,—
'I have not seen you for some time. You have grown apace since my marriage. Yet my brother, when he spoke of you, called you Mistress Gifford's little sister. You are taller than I am, methinks.'
Lucy's face glowed with pleasure, as Lady Pembroke said this.
'And most like you have yet to grow a few inches.'
'Nay, madam; I am near sixteen.'
'And is sixteen too old to grow? I think not. It is the age to grow in wisdom as well as in stature.'
'I would fain grow in the first, madam,' Lucy said, 'if only to please Mary, who is so good to me—my only friend.'
'I forgot you have no mother, poor child.'
'Nay, madam; only a cross-grained stepmother. Mary bears her quips and cranks like a saint. I cannot do so.'
'It is well to try to bear what you term quips and cranks. But we must repair to the hall now,' Lady Pembroke said; and then, addressing a gentlewoman who was standing at the lower end of the long table,she said, 'Mistress Crawley, be so good as to make room for Mistress Lucy Forrester at your side. She dines here to-day with Mistress Gifford.'
Mary already had her place pointed out to her, a little higher up the board with Ambrose; and the Countess of Pembroke, with a smile, said, as she passed to the gentleman who presided,—
'See that the young knight has sweet things enough to please his palate; and be sure, Master Pearson, that Mistress Gifford is well attended by the serving-men.'
The family and principal guests sat at the upper end of the hall, and amongst them was Mr Sidney's lifelong friend, Sir Fulke Greville.
There was a few moments' silence, when the chaplain, raising his hand, said a Latin grace; and then there was a clatter of trenchers, and the quick passing to and fro of the serving-men, and the sound of many voices as the meal proceeded.
That hospitable board of the Sidneys was always well spread, and to-day, at the upper end, Lady Mary had provided the best of viands for the entertainment of her daughter, and of her favourite son and his friend.
Lady Mary's face was shining with motherly pride as she looked at Philip and her fair daughter, who joined with keen delight in the conversation in which the two friends took the lead—her quick and ready appreciation of the subjects under discussion winning a smile from her brother, who continually referredto her, if on any point he and his friend held different opinions. Indeed, the Countess of Pembroke was not far behind her brother in intellectual gifts. The French and Italian literature, in which he delighted, were familiar to her also; and theDivina Commediaand theVita Nuovawere, we may well believe, amongst her favourite works. The great Poet of the Unseen must have had an especial charm for the lovers of literature in those times of awakening.
The mystic and allegorical style, the quaint and grotesque imagery in which Dante delighted, must have touched an answering chord in the hearts of scholars like Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke.
That Philip Sidney was deeply versed in the story of Beatrice—following her with devout admiration, as her lover showed her in her girlish beauty, and then in her matured and gracious womanhood—we may safely conclude.
At the time of which we write, he was making a gallant fight against defeat, in the struggle between love and duty, striving to keep the absorbing passion for his Stella within the bounds which the laws of honour and chivalry demanded, at whatever cost. No one can read the later stanzas, which are amongst the most beautiful inStella and Astrophel, without feeling that, deep as was his love, his sense of honour was deeper still.
Nor is it unreasonable to feel that, as he followed the great Master through those mysterious realms,guided by the lady of his love, pure and free from the fetters of earthly passion, Philip Sidney would long with unutterable longing that his love might be also as wings to bear him heavenward, like that of Dante for his Beatrice, whose name is for all time immortal like his own.
When the grace was said, the company at the upper end of the great hall rose, and left it by the staircase which led to the private apartments of the spacious house.
The ladies passed out first, and the Countess of Pembroke, turning at the foot of the stairs, said,—
'Mistress Crawley, bid Lucy Forrester to follow us with Mistress Gifford and the boy.'
But Lucy was thinking more of Mr Philip Sidney than of her summons to attend his sister. She was hoping for a smile from him, and felt a thrill of disappointment as he put his arm through Sir Fulke Greville's and turned away to the principal entrance with his friend.
Lucy's eyes followed them, and she was roused from her dream by a sharp tap on her shoulder.
'Did you not hear my lady's order, child? Methinks you will need to mend your manners if you wish to enter her service.'
Lucy's face grew crimson, and she gave Mistress Crawley a look, which, if she had dared, she would have accompanied by a saucy word.
Mary Gifford, who was waiting for her sister, said gently,—
'We are to follow quickly, hasten, Lucy, Mistress Crawley is waiting.'
Lucy tossed her head and did not hurry herself even then. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood besides George Ratcliffe, and one of them said to him,—
'It is a shame if old Mother Crawley has that little beauty as her servant. She will trample on her and make her life a burden to her, or I am mistaken.'
George resented any interference about Lucy from another man, and he greatly objected to hear her called 'a little beauty;' for George's love for her was that of a respectful worshipper at the shrine of a divinity, and he could not brook anything like familiar disrespect in others.
'Mistress Forrester,' he said, 'is likely to win favour wherever she may go, and she will serve the Countess of Pembroke rather than Mistress Crawley.'
A provoking laugh was the answer to this.
'You can know naught of the life of a household like my Lady Pembroke's. The head waiting-woman is supreme, and the underlings are her slaves. They may sit and stitch tapestry till they are half blind, and stoop over the lace pillow till they grow crooked, for all my lady knows about it. Ask Mistress Betty here, she knows what a life Mistress Crawley can lead her slaves.'
The person addressed as Mistress Betty was beginning to answer, when George turned away to go to the stables, where he thought Mr Sidney had probablypreceded him with Sir Fulke Greville, to examine the points of the two fresh steeds he had purchased for the tournament. But he could see nothing of Mr Sidney, and, meeting his brother Humphrey, he heard from him that he had walked away down the avenue with Sir Fulke Greville, apparently in earnest conversation, and that they would not care to be disturbed.
George lingered about disconsolately, and at last left the Park and went towards the river, which he knew Mary Gifford and Lucy must cross on their homeward way. At least he would have the chance of mounting guard over Lucy, and be present if the man who had so lightly spoken of her should be so presumptuous as to follow her.
After long waiting, George saw Lucy and her sister and Ambrose coming out of the gateway leading from the Park, and he was well satisfied to see that his brother Humphrey, and no other squire, was in attendance.
Ambrose was tired and a little querulous, and dragged heavily at his mother's hand. Humphrey offered to carry the boy, but he resented that as an indignity, and murmured that he had not seen Mr Sidney, and he wanted to ride his horse again.
'Mr Sidney has other matters on hand than to look after a tired, cross boy,' his mother said. 'Come, my son, quicken your pace somewhat, or we shall not be at home for supper. It was a grand treat for you to be entertained by my Lady Mary's sons, and you should be in high good humour,' she continued.
But poor little Ambrose kept up the same murmured discontent, of which the burden was,—
'I want to ride on Mr Sidney's horse,' and he dragged back more persistently than ever, till his mother's fair face flushed with the exertion of pulling him up the steep hill, over which the low westering sun was casting a glow, which was hot for the time of year.
Humphrey at last settled the matter by lifting Ambrose, in spite of his struggles, upon his shoulders, and saying,—
'You will never be a true knight, boy, like Mr Sidney, if you growl and scold at trifles. Fie, for shame, see how weary you have made your mother.'
'I don't love you,' the child said, 'and I hate to be carried like a babe.'
'Then do not behave as a babe,' Mary said, 'but thank Master Humphrey for his patience and for sparing you the climb uphill. If you love me, Ambrose, be amenable and good.'
The appeal had its effect. The child sat quietly on his perch on Humphrey's broad shoulder, and soon forgot his vexation in watching the rapid evolutions of a hawk in chase of a flight of small birds, one of which at last was made its prey.
'See, see, mother; hark, that is the cry of the little bird, the hawk has got it.'
Mary Gifford stopped, and, looking up, saw the hawk in full swing, not many hundred yards distant, with the bird in its beak, fluttering and struggling in vain.
'Ah!' she said, with a shudder, 'the weak is ever the prey of the strong, Master Humphrey,' and then she stopped.
He looked down on her troubled face with intense sympathy.
'Master Humphrey, the Countess of Pembroke and Lady Mary said they would fain make my boy a page in attendance. Oh! I cannot, I dare not part with him, he is my all—my all.'
'Nor shall you part from him,' Humphrey said. 'No one could wish to force you to do so.'
'No one—no one; but if a trap were laid, if a net were spread, if a ruthless hawk pursues a defenceless bird, the end is gained at last!'
Humphrey could not follow her meaning, and he said,—
'I do not understand. What do you fear?'
'Oh! what do I fear? Perchance if you had an idol, you would think of the words of Holy Scripture, that such should be utterly abolished, but,' she continued, changing her tone and speaking cheerfully, 'see how Lucy lags behind, poor child! Methinks her heart misgives her as the parting is now certain. She is to enter on her duties when the Countess goes to London with Lady Mary Sidney, one day in this week. May God keep her safe. You will be about the Court with Mr Sidney, and you will keep a watch over her. I know you will.'
'Yes, as you know full well, I will serve you in that or in any way, nor ask for my guerdon till such timeas you may see good to grant it to me, your friend always, Mistress Gifford, your lover, your humble suitor, when—'
'Hush,' she said, laying her hand on his arm, 'such words may not pass between you and me. Did I not tell you, did I not warn you that so it must be. And now, my little son,' she continued, 'get down from your high perch, if Master Humphrey is so good as to put you on your feet, for we are nearly at home.'
Ambrose, as soon as his feet touched the ground, ran off at full speed, and, turning into the lane, was hidden from sight for a few moments. It was scarcely more, but his mother rushed after him, calling him by name to stop.
But the child was a swift runner, and Mary, putting her hands to her side, said,—
'Master Ratcliffe, pursue him. Don't let him run out of sight, I—I cannot follow.'
It needed only a few of Humphrey Ratcliffe's long, quick strides to overtake Ambrose, and seize him by the arm.
'What a plague you are to your mother, child; first you can't walk, and then you run off like a young colt.'
'There was a black man in the hedge yonder that made me run so fast.'
'A black man! away with such folly. The black man is the stump of that old tree covered with ivy, so you are a coward, after all.'
Mary had come up now, breathless.
'Ambrose, Ambrose, why did you run like that?'
'I saw a black man,' the child repeated, 'and I wanted to get to the gate.'
Mary said not a word, but, taking the boy's hand, held it fast, and went towards the house.
RESISTANCE
'God giveth heavenly grace unto such as call unto Him with outstretched hands and humble heart; never wanting to those that want not to themselves.'—Sir T. Wilson, 1554.
The two brothers, Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, left Mary Gifford and Lucy at the gate of Ford Place.
From a barn came the sound of voices singing a psalm, in not very musical tones.
Mistress Forrester was engaging in a Puritan service with a few of the chosen ones, who would not join in what they deemed the Popish ceremonies of the church in the valley. These stern dissenters from the reformed religion were keeping alive that spark which, fanned into a flame some fifty years later, was to sweep through the land and devastate churches, and destroy every outward sign in crucifix, and pictured saint in fair carved niche, and image of seer or king, which were in their eyes the token of that Babylon which was answerable for the blood of the faithful witnesses for Christ!
The stern creed of the followers of Calvin had acharm for natures like Mistress Forrester, who, secure in her own salvation, could afford to look down on those outside the groove in which she walked; and with neither imagination nor any love of the beautiful, she felt a gruesome satisfaction in what was ugly in her own dress and appearance, and a contempt for others who had eyes to see the beauty to which she was blind.
Lucy had come home in a very captious mood, and declaring she was weary and had a pain in her head; she said she needed no supper, and went up to her little attic chamber in the roof of the house.
Mary Gifford laid aside her long veil, and made a bowl of milk and brown bread ready for her boy; and then, while he ate it, pausing between every spoonful to ask his mother some question, she prepared the board for the guests, whom she knew her stepmother would probably bring in from the barn when the long prayer was over.
Ambrose was always full of inquiries on many subjects, and this evening he had much to say about the picture-book Master Tom Sidney showed him—the man in the lions' den, and why they did not eat him up; the men in a big fire that were not burned, because God kept them safe. And then he returned to the hawk and the little bird, and wondered how many more the cruel hawk had eaten for his supper; and, finally, wished God would take care of the little birds, and let the hawk live on mice like the old white owl in the barn. The child's prattle was notheeded as much as sometimes, and Mary's answers were not so satisfactory as usual. He was like his Aunt Lucy, tired, and scarcely as much pleased with his day as he had expected to be; and, finally, his mother carried him off to bed, and, having folded his hands, made him repeat a little prayer, and then he murmured out in a sing-song a verse Ned the cowboy had taught him:—
Four corners to my bed,Four angels at my head;Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed I lie upon.
Four corners to my bed,Four angels at my head;Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed I lie upon.
Four corners to my bed,Four angels at my head;Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,Bless the bed I lie upon.
Almost before the last word was said, the white lids closed over the violet eyes, and Ambrose was asleep. Mary stood over him for a minute with clasped hands.
'Ah! God keep him safe, nor suffer him to stray where danger lurks,' she said.
Voices below and the sound of heavy feet warned her that the meeting in the barn was over, and her stepmother would require her presence.
The little company which had met in the barn was composed of labourers and shepherds, with one or two of the better sort of work-people holding superior positions on the estate of the Sidneys.
Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal twang to bless the humble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before the benches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread and milk, flavoured with strips of onion, wereattacked by the hungry brethren with large, unwieldy, wooden spoons.
Mary waited on the guests, and, filling a large earthen cup with cider, passed it round. One man who took a very prolonged pull at it, wiping his mouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysterious whisper,—
'There's a nest of Papists hiding in Tunbridge, and one of those emissaries of the Evil One is lurking about here, Mistress Forrester. Let us all be on guard.'
'Ay,' said another, 'I've seen him. He wears the priest's garb, and he is plotting mischief. What can he want here?'
'He can work us no harm; the tables are turned now, and the Papists are getting their deserts,' Mistress Forrester said.
'I wouldn't trust them,' said the first speaker. 'They would as lief set fire to this house or yon barn as to a stake where the blessed martyrs were bound. You looked scared, Mistress Gifford. But, if all we hear is true, you rather favour the Papists.'
Mary rallied, with a great effort.
'Nay,' she said; 'I do not favour their creed or their persecuting ways, but I may no less feel pain that they should be hunted, and, as I know, in many cases, homeless and dying of hunger.'
'Mary consorts with grand folks down at the great house,' Mistress Forrester said, 'who look with as little favour on us, or less, than on the Papists. Formy part, I see but small difference between the bowings, and scrapings and mummeries practised in the church down yonder, and the mass in the Papists' worship.'
'You are near right, Mistress Forrester; and those who are aiding and abetting the Queen in her marriage with a Popish prince have much to answer for.'
'Which Popish prince?' asked one of the more ignorant of the assembly.
'Is not the man, Philip Sidney, who is set up in these parts as a god, getting ready to take a share in the tourney which is to do honour to the men sent by the brother of the murderous French king?'
'I never heard tell on't,' gasped an old dame. 'Dear heart! what will the country come to?'
'Ruin!' was the answer. 'And tell me not a man is godly who has ordered the Maypole to be set up this coming first of May, and gives countenance by his presence on the Sabbath day to the wrestling games of the village louts, and the playing of bowls in the green at the back of the hostelry. But let us praise the Lord we are delivered from the bondage of Satan, and have neither part nor lot in these evil doings and vain sports, working days or Sabbath!'
Fervent Amens were uttered, and, wrapt in the mantle of self-satisfaction that they were not as other men, the company gathered in the kitchen of Ford Manor broke up, and, in the gathering twilight, dispersed to their homes.
Mary Gifford hastened to put away the remnants of the supper, and reserved the broken fragments for the early breakfast of the poultry the next morning.
Mistress Forrester did not seem inclined for conversation, and yawned audibly, saying she was tired out and it was time to lock up for the night.
'The days are lengthening now,' Mary said. 'I do not feel inclined for bed. Leave me, mother, to make all safe.'
'As you will,' was the reply. 'I'll hear what you have to say about Lucy to-morrow. Jabez Coleman says we are sending her to the jaws of the lion by this move, and that she will never return, or like you—'
'Spare me, mother!' Mary said. 'I cannot bear much more to-night.'
'Much more! Sure, Mary, you make an ado about nothing. What have you to bear, I'd like to know, with a roof over your head, and your child fed and clothed? Bear indeed!' and with a low, mocking laugh, Mistress Forrester stumped with her heavy tread up the stairs which led to the upper floor from the further end of the kitchen.
Mary went into the porch, and the peaceful landscape before her seemed to quiet her troubled spirit. She was so keenly alive to all that was beautiful in nature; her education had been imperfect, but she was open to receive all impressions, and, during her short married life, she had been brought into contact with the people who were attached to the Earl of Leicester's household, and had read books which hadquickened her poetic taste and given a colour to her life.
It is difficult for those who live in these times to realise the fervour with which the few books then brought within the reach of the people were received by those who were hungry for self-culture. The Queen was an accomplished scholar, and did her best to encourage the spread of literature in the country. But though the tide had set in with an ever-increasing flow, the flood had not as yet reached the women in Mary Forrester's position. Thus, when she married Ambrose Gifford, a new world was opened to her by such books as Surrey'sTranslation of the Æneid, and Painter'sTales from Boccaccio. She had an excellent memory, and had learned by heart Wyatt'sTranslation of the Psalms, and many parts of Spenser'sShepherd's Calendar. This evening she took from the folds of her gown a small book in a brown cover, which had been a gift to her that very day from Mary, Countess of Pembroke.
It was the Psalms in English verse, which the brother and sister had produced together in the preceding year when Philip Sidney, weary of the Court, and burdened with the weight of his love for Stella, had soothed his spirit by this joint work with his sister as they walked together in the wide domain of Wilton, the home to which Mary Sidney went from her native Penshurst, and which was scarcely less fair and beautiful than that which she left to become the wife of the Earl of Pembroke.
It was at Wilton thatThe Arcadiahad its birth, and the description of the fair country where Sir Philip Sidney and his sister placed the heroes and heroines of the story may well answer as a description of both places, as they write of proud heights, garnished with stately trees; and humble valleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; the meadows enamelled with all sorts of flowers; the fields garnished with roses, which made the earth blush as bashful at its own beauty—with other imagery which, after the lapse of more than three hundred years, shines out through the tangled labyrinth of the story ofThe Arcadia, like golden threads, the lustre of which time has no power to dim.
Mary Gifford has paid dearly for those five years spent in the world, which was so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. And now, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had been the gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dim waning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the lines printed close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the book fell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle near and a soft tread of stealthy footsteps.
In another moment the tall black figure Lucy had spoken of stood before her.
Her heart beat fast, and it needed all her courage not to cry aloud with fear.
'What is your pleasure, sir?' she said.
The slouching hat was removed, and she saw before her her husband,—
'You thought I was dead; is it not so? I crave your pardon for being alive, Mary.'
'I heard a rumour that you lived,' she replied; 'but why do you come hither to torture me?'
'I have an errand, and I shall fulfil it. I am come hither for my son.'
'You come, then, on a bootless errand,' was the answer. 'No power in Heaven and earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies.'
'We shall see,' was the cool reply. 'Hearken, Mary! I left the country after that fray with the man you know of. They left me for dead, but I rose and escaped. The man lay dead—that consoles me—his wife—'
'Do not go over the miserable wickedness of your life. You were covered with dishonour, and you betrayed me. I would die sooner than give up my child to you; you shall kill me first—'
'Nay, Mary, do not give vent to your hatred and abhorrence of me. Hearken! I know I was a sinner, not worse than thousands, but I have sought the shelter of the Holy Catholic Church, and I am absolved from my sins by penance and fasting. The unhappy woman for whom I sinned is now a professed nun in a convent. I shall never look on her face again. I have joined the priests at Douay; one Dr Allan has the control of the school. It is there Iwill take my son, and have him brought up in the Catholic faith.'
'Never!' Mary said. 'My son shall be trained in the Protestant faith, and I will hold him, by God's grace, safe from your evil designs. Ah, Ambrose, be not so pitiless; be merciful.'
'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; you scorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give you your choice—commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will find means to take him whether you will or no. I give you fair warning.'
'You have robbed me of peace and love, and all a woman counts dear. You betrayed me and deserted me; you slew the husband of the woman you ruined, and fled the country with her. The sole comfort left me is my boy, and I will keep him, God helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy by committing him to a father unworthy the name.'
Could this be gentle Mary Gifford? This woman with flashing eyes and set, determined face, from which all tenderness seemed to have vanished as she stood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and who was the father of her child.
The mother, roused in defence of her boy—from what she considered danger both to his body and soul—was, indeed, a different woman from the quiet, dignified matron, who had stood in that very spot with Humphrey Ratcliffe a day or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution fromthe love he offered her, and which she could not accept.
What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if she had been, as for years everyone believed her to be, a widow! Now disgraced, and with the death of the man, whom he had killed, on his head, and as one of the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he had died.
The next moment the very thought was dismissed, with a prayer for grace to resist temptation, and pardon even for the thought, and Mary Gifford was her true self again.
With the fading light of the April evening on her face—pale as death, but no longer resentful—her heart no longer filled with passionate anger and shrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stood before him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly and deceitful heart admiration, and even awe.
There was silence between them for a short space.
Suddenly, from the open casement above their heads, came the sound of a child's voice—a low murmur at first, then growing louder—as the dream passed into reality.
'Mother, mother! Ambrose wants mother!'
Then, without another word, Mary Gifford bowed her head, and, passing into the kitchen, closed and barred the door; and, hastening to her room, threw herself on her knees by the child's little bed, crying,—
'Ambrose, sweetheart! Mother is here!'
'I'm glad on't,' said the child, in a sleepy, dreamy voice, as he turned towards her, and wound his arms round her neck.
'I'm glad on't! I thought I had lost her.'
The sound of the child's voice smote on the ears of the unhappy father, and sent a sharp thrill of pain through his heart.
Perhaps there never was a moment in his life when he felt so utterly ashamed and miserable.
He felt the great gulf which lay between him and the pure woman whom he had so cruelly deserted—a gulf, too, separating him from the child in his innocent childhood—the possession of whom he so greatly coveted. For a moment or two softer feelings got the mastery, and Ambrose Gifford stood there, under the starlit sky, almost resolved to relinquish his purpose, and leave the boy to his mother. But that better feeling soon passed, and the specious reasoning, that he was doing the best for the child to have him brought up a good Catholic, and educated as his mother could never educate him, and that the end justified the means, and that he was bound to carry out his purpose, made him say to himself, as he turned away,—
'I will do it yet, in spite of her, for the boy's salvation. Yes; by the saints I will do it!'
The next few days passed without any summons for Lucy to join the household at Penshurst.
She became restless and uneasy, fearing that, after all, she might miss what she had set her heart upon.
Troubles, too, arose about her dress. She had been conscious on Sunday that the ladies in attendance were far smarter than she was; and she had overheard the maiden, who was addressed as 'Betty,' say,—
'That country child is vain of her gown, but it might have been put together in the reign of our Queen's grandmother. And who ever saw a ruff that shape; it is just half as thick as it ought to be.'
Poor little Lucy had other causes, as she thought, for discontent. The long delay in the fulfilment of her wishes was almost too much for her patience; but it was exasperating, one morning, to be summoned from the dairy by little Ambrose to see a grand lady on a white horse, who asked if Mistress Lucy Ratcliffe had gone to London.
Lucy ran out in eager haste, hoping almost against hope that it was some lady from Penshurst, sent by the Countess to make the final arrangements.
To her dismay she found Dorothy Ratcliffe being lifted from the pillion by a serving man, attired in a smart riding-robe of crimson with gold buttons and a hood of the same material to protect her head from the sun and the keen east wind which had set in during the last few days.
'Good-day to you,' Dorothy said. 'I did not hope to find you here. Methought you had set off for London days ago! Whence the delay?'
'I am waiting the Countess of Pembroke's pleasure,' Lucy said, with heightened colour. 'The tourney has been put off.'
'As we all know,' Dorothy remarked, 'but it is well to be lodged in good time, for all the quarters near Whitehall will be full to overflowing. Prithee, let me come in out of the wind, it is enow to blow one's head off one's shoulders.'
Lucy was unpleasantly conscious that she was in her ordinary dress, that her blue homespun was old and faded, that her sleeves were tucked up, and that there was neither ruff at her throat nor ruffles at her sleeves, that her somewhat disordered locks were covered with a thick linen cap, while Mistress Ratcliffe was smartly equipped for riding after the fashion of the ladies of the time.
'Well-a-day,' Dorothy said. 'I am vexed you are disappointed. We are off at sunrise on the morrow, staying a night at my father's house in Tunbridge, and then on to London on the next day but one. Aunt Ratcliffe and my father have business to go through about me and my jointure, for, after all, for peace's sake, I shall have to wed with George, unless,' with a toss of her head, 'I choose another suitor in London.'
Dorothy's small eyes were fastened on Lucy as she spoke. If she hoped the information she had given would be unwelcome, she must have been disappointed. Lucy was herself again, and forgot her shabby gown and work-a-day attire, in the secretamusement she felt in Dorothy's way of telling her proposed marriage with George Ratcliffe.
'It will save all further plague of suitors,' Dorothy continued, 'and there is nought against George. If he is somewhat of a boor in manners, I can cure him, and, come what may, I dare to say he will be a better husband in the long run than Humphrey. What do you say, Mistress Lucy?'
'I dare to say both are good men and trusty,' was the answer, 'and both are well thought of by everyone.'
'Ay, so I believe; but now tell me how comes it you are left out in the cold like this? I vow I did my best to wheedle the old aunt yonder to let you come in our train, but she is as hard as a rock when she chooses. When I get to Hillbrow there won't be two mistresses, I warrant. One of us will have to give in, and it won't be your humble servant! As I say I am sorry you have lost your chance of this jaunt. It's a pity, and if I could put in a good word for you I would. I am on my way now to Penshurst Place to pay my dutiful respects to my Lady Mary Sidney. My good aunt was not ready when I started, so I thought to tarry here to await her coming. I hear the horse's feet, I think, in the lane. I must not make her as cross as two sticks by keeping her fuming at my delay, so good-day, Mistress Lucy. I am mightily sorry for you, but I will put in a word for you if I can.'
'I pray you not to mention my name, MistressDorothy,' Lucy said. 'You are quite wrong, I am only waiting for my summons from the Countess, and I am prepared to start.'
'Not if the summons came now,' Dorothy said, with a disagreeable smile. 'You couldn't ride to Court in homespun, methinks. Her Highness the Queen, so I hear, is vastly choice about dress, and she has proclaimed that if the ruffs either of squires or ladies are above a certain height they shall be clipped down by shearers hired for the purpose—willy nilly. As you have no ruffs, it seems, this order will not touch your comfort. Good-day.'
Lucy looked after her departing visitor, seated on a pillion with the serving-man, with a scornful smile.
It was irritating, no doubt, to be pitied by Dorothy Ratcliffe, and to have to stand by her in such humble attire, but did she not know that George, poor George, loved her, and her alone; did she not know that he would never suffer himself to be entrapped into a marriage with his cousin, even though she had bags of gold, and finally—and that was perhaps the sweetest thought of all—did she not know whether in faded homespun, guiltless of lace or ruffle, or in her best array, no one could look twice at Dorothy Ratcliffe while she was by.
So the poor little vain heart was comforted, as Lucy turned to Mary, who had been in the bakehouse kneading flour for the coarse, brown breadconsumed by the household at Ford Manor far too quickly to please Mistress Forrester, with a merry laugh,—
'To think on't, Mary. Doll Ratcliffe has been visiting me to tell me she is to marry George, and be the fair mistress of Hillbrow. I could split my sides with laughing to think of it! And she came to pity me—pity me, forsooth! because I have to wait long for the summons to join my Lady Pembroke, and she starts on the morrow. I hate pity, Mary;—pity, indeed, from a frump like that! I can snap my fingers at her, and tell her she will want my pity—not I hers.'
'Go and finish your work, Lucy,' Mary said. 'Strive after a gentler and more patient spirit. It fills me with foreboding when you give your tongue such licence.'
'Mary!' Lucy said, with a sudden vehemence. 'Mary! I heard you sobbing last night—I know I did. I heard you praying for help. Oh! Mary, I love you—I love you, and I would fain know why you are more unhappy than you were a while agone. Has it aught to do with that black, dreadful man I saw on the hill?'
'Do not speak of him—not a soul must know of him. Promise, Lucy!' Mary said.
'But George Ratcliffe knows how he scared me that day, though he did not see him. He said he would track him out and belabour him as he deserved.'
And now, before Mary could make any rejoinder, Ambrose was calling from the head of the stairs,—
'Mother, I am tired of staying here, let me come down.'
'Yes, come, Ambrose,' Mary said, 'mother's work is over, and she can have you now near her.'
The child was the next minute in his mother's arms.
Mary covered him with kisses.
'And you have stayed in my chamber for these two hours?' she said. 'My good, brave boy!'
'Yes; I stayed,' the child said, 'because I promised, you know. I didn't like it—and when a lady rode up on a big grey horse, I did begin to run down, and then I stopped and went back to the lattice, and only looked at her. It was not a horse like Mr Sidney's, and I should not care to ride on a pillion—I like to sit square, like Mr Sidney does. When will he come again? If he comes, will you tell him I am learning to be a dutiful boy? He told me to be a dutiful boy, because I had no father; and Iwillbe dutiful and take care of you, sweet mother!'
'Ah, Ambrose! Ambrose!' Mary said, 'you are my joy and pride, when you are good and obedient, and we will take care of each other, sweetheart, and never part—'
'Not till I am a big man,' Ambrose said, doubtfully, 'not till I am a big man, then—'
'We will not speak of that day yet—it is so far off. Now we must set the board for dinner, and you shall help me to do it, for it is near eleven o'clock.'
THREE FRIENDS