'What love hath wroughtIs dearly bought.'—Old Song, 1596.
'What love hath wroughtIs dearly bought.'—Old Song, 1596.
'What love hath wroughtIs dearly bought.'—Old Song, 1596.
Mary Gifford had found a quiet resting-place in the house of her husband's uncle, Master George Gifford, at Arnhem, and here, from time to time, she was visited by Humphrey Ratcliffe, who, in all the tumult of the war, kept well in view the quest for Mary's lost son.
Again and again hope had been raised that he was in one of the Popish centres which were scattered over the Low Countries.
Once Mary had been taken, under Humphrey's care, to watch before the gates of a retired house in a village near Arnhem, whence the scholars of a Jesuit school sometimes passed out for exercise.
For the Papists were under protection of the Spanish forces, and were far safer than their Protestant neighbours. Spain had always spies on the watch, and armed men ready in ambush to resent any interference with the priests or Jesuit schools.
The country was bristling with soldiers, and skirmishes were frequent between the English and Spaniards. Treachery and secret machinations were always the tactics of Spain, and the bolder and more open hostility of Elizabeth's army was often defeated by cunning.
Mary Gifford's expedition to the little town had resulted in disappointment. With eager eyes and a beating heart she had watched the boys file out in that back street towards the river, and when the boy passed whom, at a sign from Humphrey, she was especially to notice, she turned away. The light of hope died out from her face, as she said,—
'Ah! no, no! That boy is not my Ambrose!'
'He will be changed, whenever you do find him, Mistress Gifford,' Humphrey said, somewhat unwilling to give up his point. 'Methinks that stripling has as much likeness to the child of scarce seven years old as you may expect to find.'
'Nay,' Mary said. 'The eyes, if nought else, set the question at rest. Did you not note how small and deep-set were the eyes which this boy turned on us with a sly glance as he passed. My Ambrose had ever a bold, free glance, with his big, lustrous eyes, not a sidelong, foxy look. Nay, my good friend, the truth gets more and more fixed in my mind that my child is safe in Paradise, where only I shall meet him in God's good time.'
'I do not give up hope,' Humphrey said. 'This is certain, that he was at first at Douay, and that hisfather took him thence to some hiding-place in the Netherlands. He may be nearer you than you think. I shall not have the chance of speaking much to you for some weeks,' Humphrey said. 'It may be never again, for our great chief, Sir Philip, weary of inaction and sick at heart by the constant thwarts and drawbacks which he endures, is consorting with the Count Maurice of Nassau, and both are determined to capture Axel. The scheme has to be submitted to the Earl of Leicester, and we only await his assent to prepare for the onset, and, by God's help, we will take the town. Sir Philip craves for some chance of showing what he can do. He is crippled for money and resources, and, moreover, the loss of both his parents weighs heavy upon him.'
'Alas! I know this must needs do so, the losses following so close, one on the steps of the other.'
'I have had a letter of some length from Lucy concerning Sir Henry's death at Ludlow, and I look for another ere long with a fuller account than as yet I have received of the Lady Mary's departure.'
'Verily, there is only one staff to lean on as we pass through the valley of the shadow when all human help is vain. None need be lonely who can feel the presence of the Lord near in life and death. We must all seek to feel that presence with us.'
'Alas!' Humphrey said, 'this is a hard matter. It is many a year now since I have ventured to put the question. Do you still hold to the belief that your husband lives?'
'Yes,' Mary said firmly, 'till certain news reaches me that he is dead.'
They were at the door of Master Gifford's house now, and here they parted—Humphrey to the active service which would make him forget for the time the hopelessness of his quest for the boy Ambrose and his love for the mother.
Lucy Forrester had acquired, amongst other things in Lady Pembroke's service, the art of writing well, and she kept up communication with her sister by this means. These letters were often sent, by favour of the Earl of Pembroke, in the despatches to Sir Philip Sidney or the Earl of Leicester, and conveyed to Mary Gifford by his servants.
One of these letters awaited Mary this evening on her return, and it was lying on the table by Master Gifford's side, as he sat in the spotlessly clean parlour, with the Bible open before him, and a sheet of parchment, on which he was jotting down the heads of his sermon to be delivered next day in the plain unadorned room at the back of his house at Arnhem.
Master George Gifford was a fine and venerable-looking man, with abundance of grey hair curling low over the stiff, white collar, which contrasted with the sombre black of his long gown made of coarse homespun.
He had escaped to Holland in the days of the persecution of Protestants in England, and, having a natural gift of eloquence, had become the centre andstay of a little band of faithful followers of the Reformed Faith.
But Master Gifford was no narrow-minded bigot, and he abhorred persecution on the plea of religion, as utterly at variance with the Gospel of the One Lord and Saviour of all men.
He was a dignified, courteous man, and treated Mary with the tender consideration which her forlorn condition seemed to demand. Amongst those who at intervals attended his ministry was Sir Philip Sidney, and, on this very day when Mary Gifford had been on her vain expedition to the little out-of-the-way village on the river bank, the young soldier had come to lay before him the scheme for attacking Axel, and had brought with him the letter which, on Mary's entrance, Master Gifford held towards her.
'Here is a welcome missive,' he said; 'but forsooth, my poor child, you look worn and tired. Sit you down and rest. Gretchen has spread the board for you; I supped an hour agone. No news, I take it, Mary?' Master Gifford said.
'No, no, dear uncle, and I can go on no more vain quests. Master Humphrey has the best intention, and who but a mother could recognise her own child? I fear me you have needed my help with distributing the alms to the poor this afternoon, and I should have baked the pasty for the morrow's dinner.'
'Gretchen has done all that was needful. Is it not so, good Gretchen?' said Master Gifford, as a squarely-built, sandy-haired Dutch woman, in her short bluegown and large brown linen apron, and huge flapping cap came into the room.
Gretchen came forward to Mary with resolute steps, and said in her somewhat eccentric English,—
'And what must you tire yourself out like this for, Mistress Gifford? Tut, tut, you look like a ghost. Come and eat your supper like a Christian, I tell you.'
Gretchen was a rough diamond, but she had a good heart. She was absolutely devoted to her master, and with her husband, an Englishman, who had escaped with his master as a boy many years before, served him with zeal and loyalty.
Mary was led, whether she wished it or not, to the kitchen—that bright kitchen with its well-kept pots and pans, and its heavy delf-ware ranged on shelves, its great Dutch clock ticking loudly in the corner, and the clear fire burning merrily in the stove, which was flanked with blue and white tiles with a variety of quaint devices.
'Sit you down and eat this posset. I made it for you, knowing you would be more dead than alive. Come now, and sip this cup of mead, and don't open that letter till you have done. Take off your hood and cloak. There! now you are better already. Give up yawning like that, Jan, or you'll set me off,' Gretchen said to her husband, whose name she had changed, to suit the country of his adoption, from John to Jan, and who had been taking a comfortable nap on the settle by the stove, from which he had been rudely awakened by his wife.
Mary was obliged to do as Gretchen bid her, and was constrained to acknowledge that she felt the better for the food, of which she had been so unwilling to partake.
Master Gifford's house was frequented by many faithful Puritans in Arnhem, and amongst them was a lady named Gruithuissens, who was well-known for her benevolence and tender sympathy with all who were sorrowful and oppressed.
As was natural, therefore, she was attracted by Mary Gifford, and her friendship had been one of the compensations Mary felt God had granted her for the ever present loss of her boy.
Madam Gruithuissens' house faced the street on one side and overlooked the river on the other. The window of her long, spacious parlour opened out upon a verandah, and had a typical view of the Low Countries stretched before them. A wide, far-reaching expanse of meadow-land and water—the flat country vanishing in the sky-line many miles distant.
A contrast, indeed, to the wood-covered heights and undulating pastures of the fair country of Kent, where the home of the Sidneys stands in all its stately time-honoured pride.
Mary Gifford's thoughts were there at this moment. A summer evening came back to her when she sat at the casement of Ford Manor with Ambrose clasped close to her side. The years that lay between that time and the present seemed so short,and yet how they had probably changed the child whom she had loved so dearly.
Humphrey Ratcliffe was right. She had not realised what that change would be. And then came the ever-haunting fear that Ambrose, if he were alive, would fail to recognise his mother—might have been taught to forget her, or, perhaps, to think lightly of her, and to look upon her as a heretic, by the Jesuits who had brought him up in their creed.
She was roused from her meditations by Mistress Gruithuissens' abrupt entrance.
'Great news!' she said, 'Great news! Axel is taken, and Sir Philip Sidney has done wonders. A messenger has just arrived with the news at the Earl of Leicester's quarters, and Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has been sent by barge with others of the wounded. There has been great slaughter, and terrible it is to think of the aching hearts all around us. Women widows, children fatherless. Yet it is a righteous war, for Spain would massacre tenfold the number did she gain the ascendant—hearken! I hear footsteps.'
In another moment the door was partly thrown open, and a young soldier, evidently fresh from the scene of action, came in.
'I am seeking Mistress Gifford,' he said. 'I am esquire to Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and he has dispatched me with a message.'
'I am Mistress Gifford,' Mary said. 'What is your news?'
'My master is wounded, and he lies in Sir Philip Sidney's quarters in the garrison. He bids me say he would fain see you, for he has to tell you somewhat that could be entrusted to no one but yourself.'
'How can I go to him?' Mary said helplessly.
'How? With me, and my servants to guard us. But do not look so terror-struck, Mistress Gifford,' Madam Gruithuissens said, 'it may, perchance, be good news. I will order the servants to make ready—or will we wait till the morrow? Nay, I see that would tax your patience too far; we will start at once.'
As Mary Gifford and her new protectress passed through the streets of Arnhem to the garrison where Humphrey lay wounded, they saw knots of people collected, all talking of the great event of the taking of Axel. Some women were weeping and unable to gain any exact information, most of them with a look of stolid misery on their faces, with no passionate expression of grief, as would have been seen in a like case amongst Italian and French women, or even amongst English sufferers in the same circumstances.
Mary Gifford's ear had become accustomed to the Dutch language, and she spoke it with comparative ease, having, in her visits of charity amongst the poor of Master Gifford's followers and disciples, no other means of communicating with them.
Madam Gruithuissens spoke English, for, like so many of those who sought safety in the Low Countriesfrom the persecution of the Papists in England, she had been brought thither by her father as a child, and had, till her marriage, spoken her native tongue, and had read much of the literature which was brought over from England.
Humphrey Ratcliffe was lying in a small chamber apart from other sufferers, by Sir Philip's order. He was wounded in the shoulder, and faint from the loss of blood.
Mary Gifford did not lose her self-control in an emergency. Like many gentle, quiet women, her strength and courage were always ready when she needed them.
'I am grieved to see you thus,' Mary said, as she went up to the low pallet where Humphrey lay.
'It is nought but a scratch,' he said, 'and it has been well worth the gaining in a noble cause and a grand victory. I have certain news of your boy. He was in a Jesuit school. It was burnt to the ground, but the boy was saved. In the confusion and uproar, with the flames scorching hot on us, I felt pity for the young creatures who were seen struggling in the burning mass. With the help of my brave companions I rescued three of the boys. I was bearing off one to a place of safety when I felt a blow from behind. This stab in my shoulder, and the pain, made me relax my hold of the boy.
'Instantly one of the Jesuit brothers had seized him, saying,—
"You are safe, Ambrose, with me."
'I knew no more. I swooned from pain and loss of blood, and, when I came to, I found I was in a barge being brought hither with other of the wounded.'
'But my son!' Mary exclaimed. 'Are you sure it was my son?'
'As sure as I can be of aught that my eyes have ever looked upon. I saw the large eyes you speak of dilated with fear, as the flames leaped up in the surrounding darkness. And I verily believe the man who tore him from me was him who gave me this wound, and is the crafty wretch whom you know to be your husband.'
'Ah me!' Mary exclaimed, 'it is but poor comfort after all. My boy may be near, but I can never see him; he who has him in his power will take care he eludes our grasp. But I am selfish and ungrateful to you, my good friend. Pardon me if I seem to forget you got that sore wound in my service.'
'Ah! Mary,' Humphrey said, 'I would suffer ten such wounds gladly if I might but win my guerdon. Well for me, it may be, that I swooned, or, by Heaven, I should have run that wily Jesuit through the body.'
'Thank God,' Mary said fervently, 'that his blood lies not on your head.'
Madam Gruithuissens had considerately withdrawn to a long, low chamber next the small one where Humphrey lay. She knew enough of Mary Gifford's history to feel that whatever Humphrey Ratcliffe had to say to her, he would prefer to say it with no listeners.
And, full of charity and kindness, the good lady moved about amongst the wounded and dying, and tried to cheer them and support them in their pain, by repeating passages from the Bible, in English or in Dutch, according to the nationality of the sufferer.
When Madam Gruithuissens returned to Humphrey's room, Mary said,—
'I would fain watch here all night, and do my utmost for all the sufferers. Will you, Madam, give my uncle notice of my intention, and I think he will come hither and pray by the side of those whom I hear groaning in their pain.'
'I will e'en do as you wish, and send my servant back with cordials and linen for bands, and such food as may support you in your watch.'
When Madam Gruithuissens departed, Humphrey and Mary Gifford were alone together. The servant who had been sent with the news keeping watch at the door outside, and Humphrey, for the time, seemed to go over, half unconsciously, the scenes of the taking of Axel, and Mary listened to it not exactly with half-hearted sympathy, but with the perpetually recurring cry at her heart that God would restore to her her only son.
It is ever so—the one anxiety, the one centre of interest to ourselves, which may seem of little importance to others, drives out all else. All other cares and griefs, and grand achievements of which we hear, are but as dust in the balance, when weighed down by our own especial sorrow, or suspense is hardest,perhaps, to bear, which is pressing upon us at the time.
Mary Gifford had often told herself that hope was dead within her, and that she had resigned her boy into God's hands, that she should never clasp him in her arms again, nor look into those lustrous eyes of which she had spoken to Humphrey. But hope is slow to die in human hearts. It springs up again from the very ashes of despair, and Humphrey Ratcliffe's words had quickened it into life. Thus, as Humphrey described the events of the past forty-eight hours, and forgot pain and weariness in the enthusiasm for the courage and heroism of Sir Philip Sidney, his listener was picturing the blazing house, the flames, the suffocating smoke, and the boy whose face had been revealed to Humphrey as the face of her lost child.
She was haunted by the certainty that the man who had stabbed Humphrey was her husband, and that it was he who had called the boy by name, and snatched him from his deliverer.
This was the undercurrent of thought in Mary's mind, while she heard Humphrey describe to her uncle, who promptly obeyed the summons, the capture of the four citadels and rich spoil.
'Ours was but a little band,' Humphrey was saying, 'but three thousand foot soldiers. I was one of the five hundred of Sir Philip's men, and proud am I to say so. It was at his place we met, on the water in front of Flushing, and then by boat and onfoot, with stealthy tread lest we should disturb the sleepers.
'Within a mile of Axel Sir Philip called us near, and may I never live to forget his words. They were enow to set on fire the courage of all true soldiers. He bade us remember it was God's battle we were fighting, for Queen and country and for our Faith. He bade us remember, too, we were waging war against the tyranny of Spain, and exhorted us to care nought for danger or death in serving the Queen, furthering our country's honour, and helping a people so grievously in want of aid. He said, moreover, that his eye was upon us, and none who fought bravely should lose their reward.
'I thank God I was one of the forty men, who, headed by our gallant leader, jumped into the turbid waters of the ditch, swam across, and, scaling the walls, opened the gate for the rest.
'The men we attacked were brave, and fought hard for victory; but they were but just roused from slumber, it was too late to resist, and Sir Philip had, by his marvellous wisdom in placing the troops, ensured our success. It was a fearful scene of carnage. I only grieve that I did not get my wound in fair fight, but by the back-handed blow of a Jesuit. Some of our men set fire to the house where those emissaries of the devil congregate, and Mistress Gifford here knows the rest, and she will relate it to you, Master Gifford, in due time.'
'Ah, my son,' Master Gifford said, 'let us pray forthe blessed time when the nations shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning-hooks, and learn war no more.'
'But it is a righteous war, sir, blessed by God. Sure, could you have heard Sir Philip bid us remember this, you would not soon forget his words, his voice, his gallant bearing. He is ever in the front rank of danger, nor spares himself, as it is reported some other great ones are known to do. And his brothers are not far behind him in valour. That slight stripling, Mr Thomas Sidney, is a very David in the heat of the battle.'
'Let us try to dismiss the dread conflict from our minds,' Master Gifford said, 'while we supplicate our Father in Heaven that He would look with eyes of pity and forgiveness on the wounded and the dying, the bereaved widows and the fatherless children.'
And then the good old man poured out his soul in prayer as he knelt by Humphrey's side. His words seemed to have a composing effect on Humphrey; and when Master Gifford left the room to go to the bedside of the other sufferers in the adjoining chamber, Mary saw, to her great relief, that Humphrey was sleeping soundly.
RESTORED
'Good hope upholds the heart.'Old Song, 1596.
'Good hope upholds the heart.'Old Song, 1596.
'Good hope upholds the heart.'Old Song, 1596.
There were great rejoicings at Arnhem when Sir Philip Sidney came back to join the main army, stationed there under the command of the Earl of Leicester.
Sir Philip had been appointed Colonel of the Zeeland regiment of horse and, to the disappointment of his friends, the Queen chose to be offended that this mark of honour had been conferred upon him.
The character of the Queen was full of surprising inconsistencies, and it seems incredible that she should have grudged one whom she called the gem of her Court the honour which she actually wished conferred on Count Hohenlo, a man who, though a brave soldier, was known for his drunken, dissolute habits.
The Earl of Leicester made a jest of the Queen's displeasure, and only laughed at the concern Sir Francis Walsingham showed in the letter in which he announced it.
'Let it not disturb your peace,' the Earl said to Lady Frances, who, filled with pride in her husband's achievements, was depressed when she heard her father's report that the Queen laid the blame on Sir Philip's ambition, and implied that he had wrung the honour from his uncle.
'Let it not disturb your peace,' the Earl repeated, 'any more than it does mine. It is but part and parcel of Her Highness's ways with those whom she would seem at times to think paragons. Do I not not know it full well? I have said in my despatch the truth, and I have begged your father, sweet Frances, to communicate what I say without delay to the Queen; my words for sure will not count for nought.'
'The Queen had not heard of the last grand victory, the taking of Axel, when she made the complaint. Ambitious! nay, my good uncle, Philip is never ambitious save for good.'
The Earl stroked the fair cheek of Philip Sidney's young wife, saying,—
'Philip is happy in possessing so loyal a lady for his wife; he can afford to let the smiles or frowns of the Queen go by. And here he comes to attest the truth of what I say.'
Sir Philip had often to doubt the ability of his uncle as a general, but at this time they were on terms of greater friendliness than ever before. Sir Philip had, in a few short months, lost both father and mother, and he probably felt the tie between him and his mother's brother to be stronger than in formertimes. Had not his mother often bid him remember that he came of the noble race of Dudley, and that he bore their crest with that of the Sidneys—a proud distinction.
If there had been jealousy in the Earl's heart when he saw his nephew rising so rapidly to a foremost place in the esteem of all men—a place which, with all his brilliant gifts, he secretly felt he never had filled—it was subdued now.
He did not grudge him the praise his splendid achievement awoke, and, in his despatch to the English Court, he gave the whole credit of the capture of Axel to his nephew.
The Earl always took care to have the room he inhabited, whether for a longer or a shorter time, luxuriously furnished.
If the word 'comfortable' does not apply to the appointments of those days, there was abundance of grandeur in fine tapestry hangings, in soft-cushioned seats, and in gold and silver plate on which the delicacies that were attainable were served.
Sir Philip and Lady Frances were the Earl's guests, with the young Earl of Essex and Mr Thomas Sidney. The elder brother, Robert, had been left in command at Flushing with the nine hundred trusty soldiers Sir Philip had left in the garrison there.
'What truth am I to attest?' Sir Philip asked, as he came up the room with his quick, elastic step.
His wife went forward to meet him, and, clinging to his arm, said,—
'Our good uncle was consoling me for those words in my father's letter.'
'And on what ground did I console you, Frances?' the Earl said. 'You give but half the truth; go on to say the rest.'
'Nay,' she said, hiding her face on Sir Philip's shoulder, as he put his arm tenderly round her. 'Nay, there is no need—'
'To tell him he is happy to possess a loyal wife? You are right, dear niece; he knows it full well.'
'Ay, to my joy and blessing,' was the answer. 'The favour of the Queen is, I do not deny, precious; but there are things more precious even than that. But, Frances, I come to tell you I think it is time we return to Flushing. We have had many bright days here, but I must soon be at the work I came hither to perform, and there is much to do, as you, my Lord, know full well.'
'Ay, surely, but we need not be rash, or in too great haste.'
'The investment of Doesburg is imperative,' Sir Philip said, 'and, if we wish to gain the mastery of the Yssel, this must be done. There are some matters which cause me great uneasiness. Stores are short and money greatly needed; nor do I put much faith in some of our allies. There is a mutinous feeling abroad amongst the troops.'
'You may be right,' the Earl said, 'but let us away to our supper, it must needs be served, and afterwardsyou shall take the viol, and chase away any needless fears by your sweet music.'
The Earl was always ready to put away any grave or serious matter, and Sir Philip was often hampered by the difficulty he found in bringing his uncle to the point on any question of importance.
When Sir Philip and Lady Frances were alone together that evening, he seemed more than usually grave and even sad.
'Are you grieved, Philip, about the Queen's displeasure? As soon as she hears of Axel she will sure cover you with honours.'
'Nay, sweetheart, it is not over this matter that I am brooding. Concern for you is pressing most.'
'For me! But I am merry and well.'
'Will you choose to remain here at Arnhem or return to Flushing with me? A sore struggle must ensue before long, and Zutphen will be besieged. I have been meditating whether or not I ought to send you and our babe under safe convoy to England.'
'No—oh, no! I would fain stay with you—near you—especially now. My ladies take good care of me, and little madam Elizabeth. She is well and hearty, and so am I; do not send us away from you!'
'It shall be as you wish, dear love,' was the answer; 'though, I fear, you will see but little of me. I have much to occupy me. But I will come to you for rest, dear heart, and I shall not come in vain.'
In all the events and chances of war, Sir Philip did not forget his servants; and he had been greatly concerned at the wound Humphrey had received, which had been slow to heal, and had been more serious than had at first been supposed. Before leaving Arnhem, Sir Philip went to the house of Madam Gruithuissens, whither Humphrey had been conveyed when able to leave the room in the quarters allotted to Sir Philip's retainers, where he was nursed and tended by Mary Gifford and his kind and benevolent hostess.
Humphrey had chafed against his enforced inaction, and was eager to be allowed to resume his usual duties. It was evident that he was still unfit for this; and Sir Philip entirely supported Madam Gruithuissens when she said it would be madness for him to attempt to mount his horse while the wound was unhealed and constantly needed care.
It was the evening before Sir Philip left Arnhem that he was met in the square entry of Madam Gruithuissens' house by Mary Gifford. She had been reading to Humphrey, and had been trying to divert his mind from the sore disappointment which the decision that he was to stay in Arnhem had occasioned him. But Humphrey, like most masculine invalids, was very hard to persuade, or to manage, and Mary, feeling that his condition was really the result of his efforts to save her boy and bring him to her, was full of pity for him, and self-reproach that she had caused him so much pain and vexation.
'How fares it with my good esquire, Mistress Gifford?' Sir Philip asked, as he greeted Mary.
'Indeed, sir, but ill; and I fear that to prevent his joining your company may hurt him more than suffering him to have his way. He is also greatly distressed that he could not prosecute inquiries at Axel for my child. In good sooth, Sir Philip, I have brought upon my true friend nought but ill. I am ofttimes tempted to wish he had never seen me.'
'Nay, Mistress Gifford, do not indulge that wish. I hold to the faith that the love of one who is pure and good can but be a boon, whether or not possession of that one be denied or granted.'
'But, sir, you know my story—you know that between me and Master Ratcliffe is a dividing wall which neither can pass.'
'Yes, I know it,' Sir Philip said; 'but, Mistress Gifford, take courage. The wall may be broken down and his allegiance be rewarded at last.'
'Yet, how dare I wish or pray that so it should be, sir? No; God's hand is heavy upon me—bereft of my boy, and tossed hither and thither as a ship on a stormy sea. All that is left for me is to bow my head and strive to say, "God's will be done."'
It was seldom that Mary Gifford gave utterance to her inmost thoughts; seldom that she confessed even to herself how deeply rooted in her heart was her love for Humphrey Ratcliffe. She never forgot, to her latest day, the look of perfect sympathy—yes, of understanding, which Sir Philip Sidney bent onher as he took her hand in his, and, bending over it, kissed it reverently.
'May God have you in His holy keeping, Mistress Gifford, and give you strength for every need.'
'He understands me,' Mary said, as she stood where he left her, his quick steps sounding on the tiled floor of the long corridor which opened from the square lobby. 'He understands, he knows; for has he not tasted of a like cup bitter as mine?'
Mary Gifford was drawing her hood more closely over her face, preparing to return to Master Gifford's house, when she saw a man on the opposite side of the street who was evidently watching her.
Her heart beat fast as she saw him crossing over to the place where she stood on the threshold of the entry to Madam Gruithuissens' house.
She quickened her steps as she turned away in the direction of Master Gifford's house, but she felt a hand laid on her arm.
'I am speaking to one Mistress Gifford, methinks.'
'Yes, sir,' Mary said, her courage, as ever, rising when needed. 'What is your business with me?'
'I am sent on an errand by one you know of as Ambrose Gifford—called by us Brother Ambrosio. He lies sick unto death in a desolate village before Zutphen, and he would fain see you ere he departs hence. There is not a moment to lose; you must come at once. I have a barge ready, and we can reach the place by water.'
Mary was still hurrying forward, but the detaining grasp grew firmer.
'If I tell you that by coming you will see your son, will you consent?'
'My son! my boy!' Mary exclaimed. 'I would traverse the world to find him, but how am I to know that you are not deceiving me.'
'I swear by the blessed Virgin and all the Saints I am telling you the truth. Come!'
'I must seek counsel. I must consider; do not press me.'
'Your boy is lying also in the very jaws of death. A consuming fever has seized many of our fraternity. Famine has resulted in pestilence. When I left the place where Brother Ambrosio and the boy lie, it was doubtful which would depart first. The rites of the Holy Church have been administered, and the priest, who would fain shrive Brother Ambrosio, sent me hither, for confession must be made of sins, ere absolution be bestowed. If you wish to see your son alive you must not hesitate. It may concern you less if I tell you that he who was your husband may have departed unabsolved through your delay.'
The twilight was deepening, and there were but few people in this quarter of the town. Mary hesitated no longer, and, with an uplifting of heart for the strength Sir Philip's parting blessing had invoked, she gathered the folds of her cloak round her, pulled the hood over her face, and saying, 'Lead on, I am ready,' she followed her guide through some narrow lanes leadingto the brink of the water, where a barge was lying, with a man at the prow, evidently on the watch for their coming.
Not a word was spoken as Mary entered the barge, and took her seat on one of the benches laid across it, her guide leaving her unmolested and retiring to the further end of the vessel.
There was no sound but the monotonous splash of the oars, and their regular beat against the edge of the boat, as the two men pulled out into the wider part of the river.
Above, the stars were coming out one by one, and the wide stretch of low meadow-land and water lay in the purple haze of gathering shadows like an unknown and undiscovered country, till it was lost in the overarching canopy of the dim far-off heavens.
Mary Gifford felt strangely indifferent to all outward things as she sat with her hands tightly clasped together under her cloak, and in her heart only one thought had room—that she was in a few short hours to clasp her boy in her arms.
So over-mastering was this love and hungry yearning of the mother for her child, that his condition—stricken by fever, and that of his father lying at the very gates of death—were almost forgotten.
'If only he knows my arms are round him,' she thought; 'if only I can hear his voice call memother, I will die with him content.'
After a few hours, when there were lines of dawn in the eastern sky, Mary felt the barge was beingmoored to the river bank; and her guide, rising from his seat, came towards her, gave her his hand and said,—
'We have now to go on foot for some distance, to the place where your son lies. Are you able for this?'
For Mary was stiff and cramped with her position in the barge for so long a time, and she would have fallen as she stepped out, had not one of the watermen caught her, saying,—
'Steady, Madam! steady!'
After a few tottering steps, Mary recovered herself, and said,—
'The motion of walking will be good for me; let us go forward.'
It was a long and weary tramp through spongy, low-lying land, and the way seemed interminable.
At last, just as the sun was sending shafts of light across river and swamp—making them glow like burnished silver, and covering every tall spike of rush and flag with diamonds—a few straggling cottages or huts came in sight.
A clump of pollards hid the cluster of buildings which formed the nucleus of the little hamlet, till they were actually before a low, irregular block of cottages, and at the door of one of these Mary's guide stopped.
'A few of our brethren took refuge here after the taking of Axel and the burning of our habitation there. We are under the protection of the Duke of Parma, who is advancing with an army for therelief of Zutphen, and will, as we believe, drive from before us the foes of the Holy Church.'
As they passed under the low doorway into a narrow entry paved with clay, Mary's guide said,—
'Tarry here, while I find what has passed in my absence.'
Mary was not left long in suspense.
The man presently returned, and, beckoning her, said,—
'Come, without delay!'
Mary found herself in a low, miserably furnished room on the ground-floor, where, in the now clear light of the bright summer morning, Ambrose Gifford lay dying.
The 'large, cruel, black eyes,' as Lucy Forrester had called them long ago, were dim now, and were turned with pitiful pleading upon the wife he had so grievously injured.
The priest stood by, and signed to Mary to kneel and put her face near her husband, that she might hear what he had to say.
As she obeyed, the hood fell back from her head, and a ray of sunshine caught the wealth of her rich chestnut hair and made an aureole round it. The grey streaks, which sorrow rather than years, had mingled amongst the bronze locks, shone like silver. She took the long, wasted hand in hers, and, in a low, clear voice, said,—
'I am here, Ambrose! what would you say to me?'
'The boy!' he gasped; 'fetch hither the boy!'
One of the Brothers obeyed the dying man's request, and from a pallet at the farther end of the room he brought the boy, whose cheeks were aflame with fever, as he lay helpless in the Brother's arms.
'Here, Ambrose,' the dying father said—'this—this is your mother; be a good son to her.'
Often as Mary Gifford had drawn a picture in her own mind of this possible meeting with her son, so long delayed, such a meeting as this had never been imagined in her wildest dreams.
'Thus, then, I make atonement,' the unhappy man said. 'Take him, Mary, and forgive itall.'
'Yes,' Mary said, as the boy was laid on the pallet at his father's feet, and his mother clasped him close to her side. 'Yes, I forgive—'
'All?' he said. 'All?'
'As I pray God to be forgiven,' she said, womanly pity for this forlorn ending of a misspent life thrilling in her voice, as hot tears coursed one another down her pale sweet face. 'Yes,' she repeated, 'all! Ambrose.'
'One thing more. Did I murder Humphrey Ratcliffe? Does that sin lie on my soul?'
'No, thank God!' Mary said. 'He lives; he was cruelly wounded, but God spared his life.'
There was silence now. The priest bid Mary move from the bed, and let him approach; but, before she did so, she bent over her husband and said,—
'Have you gone to the Saviour of the world forforgiveness through His precious blood, Ambrose? He alone can forgive sins.'
'I know it! I know it!' was the reply.
But the priest interfered now.
'Withdraw, my daughter, for the end is near.'
Then Mary, bending still lower, pressed a kiss upon the forehead, where the cold dews of death were gathering, and, turning towards her boy, she said,—
'Where shall I take him? Where can I go with him, my son, my son?'
There was something in Mary's self-restraint and in the pathetic tones of her voice, which moved those who stood around to pity as she repeated,—
'Where can I find a refuge with my child? I cannot remain here with him.'
One of the Brothers raised Ambrose again in his arms, and saying, 'Follow me,' he carried him to a small chamber on the upper floor, where he laid him down on a heap of straw covered with an old sacking, and said in English,—
'This is all I can do for you. Yonder room whence we came is kept for those stricken with the fever. Two of them died yesterday. We were burned out of house and home, and our oratory sacked and destroyed at Axel. We fled hither, and a troop of the Duke's army is within a mile to protect us.'
'Is there no leech at hand, no one to care for my child?'
'There was one here yester eve. He is attached to the troop I speak of, and has enow to do with thesick there. Famine and moisture have done their work, and God knows where it will end. There is a good woman at a small homestead not a mile away. She has kept us from starving, and, like many of the Hollanders, has a kind heart. I will do my best to get her to befriend you, Mistress, for I see you are in a sorry plight.'
'Even water to wet his lips would be a boon. I pray you fetch water,' she entreated.
The man disappeared, and presently returned with a rough pitcher of water and a flagon in which, he said, was a little drink prepared from herbs by the kindly Vrouw he had spoken of.
'I will seek her as quickly as other claims permit,' he said. And then Mary was left alone with her boy.
The restlessness of fever was followed by a spell of utter exhaustion, but the delirious murmurs ceased, and a light of consciousness came into those large, lustrous eyes, by which Mary knew this was indeed her son.
Otherwise, what a change from the rosy, happy child of seven, full of life and vigour, to the emaciated boy of twelve, whose face was prematurely old, and, unshaded by the once abundant hair, which had been close cropped to his head, looked ghostly and unfamiliar.
Still, he was hers once more, and she took off the ragged black gown, which had been the uniform of the scholars of the Jesuit school, and was now only fitfor the fire, and taking off her own cloak, she wrapped him in it, bathed his face with water, put the herb cordial to his lips, and then, setting herself on an old chair, the only furniture in the tumbledown attic, she raised Ambrose on her knees, and, whispering loving words and prayers over him, hungered for a sign of recognition.
Evidently the poor boy's weary brain was awakened by some magnetic power to a consciousness that some lost clue of his happy childhood had been restored to him.
As his head lay against his mother's breast the rest there was apparently sweet.
He sighed as if contented, closed his eyes and slept.
Mary dare not move or scarcely breathe, lest she should disturb the slumber in which, as she gazed upon his face, the features of her lost child seemed to come out with more certain likeness to her Ambrose of past years.
For a smile played round the scarlet lips, and the long, dark fringe of the lashes resting on his cheeks, brought back the many times in the old home when she had seen them shadow the rounded rosy cheeks of his infant days.
A mother's love knows no weariness, and, as the hours passed and Ambrose still slept, Mary forgot her aching back and arms, her forlorn position in that desolate attic, even the painful ordeal she had gone through by her husband's dying bed—forgot everythingbut the joy that, whether for life or death, her boy was restored to her.
At last Ambrose stirred, and the smile faded from his lips. He raised his head and gazed up into the face bending over him.
'I dreamed,' he faltered; 'I dreamed I saw mymother—mymother.' He repeated the word with a feeble cry—my mother; 'but it's only a dream. I have no mother but the blessed Virgin, and she—she is so far, far away, up in Heaven.'
'Ambrose, my sweetheart, my son!' Mary said gently. 'I am not far away; I am here! Your own mother.'
'It's good of you to come down from Heaven, mother; take me—take me back with you. I am so—so weary—weary; and I can't say all the Latin prayers to you; I can't.'
'Ambrose,' poor Mary said, 'you need say no more Latin prayers; you are with me, your own mother, on earth.'
The wave of remembrance grew stronger, and, after a moment's pause, Ambrose said,—
'Ned brought me two speckled eggs. The hawk caught the poor little bird; the cruel hawk. Where am I?Ave Maria, ora pro nobis.'
'Say rather, dear child, "Dear Father in heaven, bless me, and keep me."'
'Yes, yes; that is the prayer I said by—'
'Me—me, your own mother.'
The long-deferred hope was at last fulfilled, andMary Gifford tasted the very fruit of the tree of life, as Ambrose, with full consciousness, gazed long and earnestly at her, and said,—
'Yes, you are my mother, my own mother; not a dream.'
'Ah! say it again, my child, my child.'
'My own mother,' the boy repeated, raising his thin hand and stroking his mother's face, where tears were now running down unchecked, tears of thankfulness; such as, for many a long year, she had never shed.
With such bliss the stranger cannot intermeddle; but mothers who have had a child restored to them from the very borders of the unseen land will know what Mary Gifford felt.
WHAT RIGHT?