CHAPTER X

Since nature's works be good, and death doth serveAs 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 bearsWhich 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 seeOur 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.

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 sayHis 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 orsix 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 hisaccustomed 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 goodfriend 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 thehomes 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 Ratcliffenever 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 fromthe 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 theArcadia?'

'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 sailacross 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 ourdear 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 Crœsus 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 familiarto 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 mightthink 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.'

LUMEN FAMILIÆ SUÆ

'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 thegrand 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.

THE GREAT HALL, PENSHURST CASTLE.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 andthe 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 presentbliss 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 withenvy, 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 hisquerulous 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 theshort 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 somepicture 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, Iwillcome. 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 oftenhidden 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, scanninghis 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 Iwould 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 forthem 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 admirableDefence 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 theVita 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, theArcadia—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'sDialecticsis 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.'

FIRE AND SWORD

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