PENSHURST CASTLE

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TOWER, PENSHURST CASTLE. ]

 PENSHURST CASTLE

 _IN THE TIME OF_

 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

 BY

 EMMA MARSHALL

 _Author of 'Under Salisbury Spire, ' 'Winchester Meads, ' etc. _

 'A right man-like man, such as Nature, often erring, yet shows sometimes she fain would make. '--Sir Philip Sidney. 

 LONDON

 SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED

 ESSEX STREET, STRAND

 1894

_PREFACE_

For the incidents in the life of Sir Philip Sidney, who is the centralfigure in this story of 'the spacious times of great Elizabeth, ' I amindebted to Mr H. R. Fox Bourne's interesting and exhaustive Memoir of thisnoble knight and Christian gentleman. 

In his short life of thirty-one years are crowded achievements as scholar, poet, statesman and soldier, which find perhaps few, if indeed any equal, in the records of history; a few only of these chosen from among manyappear in the following pages. The characters of Mary Gifford and hersister, and the two brothers, Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, are whollyimaginary. 

The books which have been consulted for the poetry of Sir Philip Sidney andthe times in which he lived are--Vol. I. Of _An English Garner;_ M. Jusserand's _Roman du Temps de Shakespere, _ and a very interesting essay onSir Philip Sidney and his works, published in Cambridge in 1858. 

 WOODSIDE, LEIGH WOODS, CLIFTON, _October_ 5, 1893. 

 _CONTENTS_

 BOOK I. 

 PAGE

 I. THE SISTERS, 1

 II. IN THE PARK, 17

 III. A STRANGE MEETING, 35

 IV. THE HAWK AND THE BIRD, 60

 V. RESISTANCE, 82

 VI. THREE FRIENDS, 101

 VII. WHITSUNTIDE, 1581, 121

 VIII. DEFEAT, 146

 IX. ACROSS THE FORD, 171

 BOOK II. 

 X. AT WILTON, 207

 XI. LUMEN FAMILIÆ SUÆ, 223

 XII. FIRE AND SWORD, 243

 XIII. RESTORED, 258

 XIV. WHAT RIGHT? 276

 XV. THE PASSING OF PHILIP, 296

 XVI. FOUR YEARS LATER--1590, 311

 _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_

 THE ENTRANCE TOWER, PENSHURST CASTLE, _Frontispiece_

 PAGE

 PENSHURST CHURCH AND CASTLE, 4

 THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST, 64

 PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK, 70

 OLD HOUSES BY THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST, 130

 THE TILT YARD, WHITEHALL, 148

 THE GREAT HALL, PENSHURST CASTLE, 224

 THE BARON'S COURT, PENSHURST CASTLE, 288

BOOK I. 

 'What man is he that boasts of fleshly might, And vaine assurance of mortality; Which, all so soone as it doth come to fight Against spirituall foes, yields by and by: Or from the field most cowardly doth fly? No, let the man ascribe it to his skill, That thorough grace hath gained victory. If any strength we have, it is to ill; But all the good is God's, both power and will. '

 _The Faery Queene_, Book I. Canto 10. 

Penshurst Castle

CHAPTER I

THE SISTERS

 'She was right faire and fresh as morning rose, But somewhat sad and solemne eke in sight, As if some pensive thought constrained her gentle spright. '

 SPENSER. 

1581. --'There is time yet ere sunset; let me, I pray you, go down to thelych gate with the wheaten cake for Goody Salter. '

'Nay, Lucy; methinks there are reasons for your desire to go down to thevillage weightier than the wheaten cake you would fain carry with you. Restquietly at home; it may be Humphrey will be coming to let us know if MrSidney has arrived at Penshurst. Why such haste, little sister?'

'Because I do covet a place where I can witness the grand tourney atWhitehall. It may suit your mood, Mary, to live always on this hilltop, with naught to see and naught to do; with no company but a cross-grainedstepmother, and the cows and sheep. I am sick of it. Even a run down to thevillage is a change. Yes, I am going; one hour, and I will be back. '

Mary Gifford laid a detaining hand on her young sister's shoulder. 

'Have a care, dear child, nor let your wild fancies run away with yourdiscretion. Am I not one who has a right to caution you? I who have comeback as a widow to my old home, bereft and lonely. '

'Because you married a bad man, and rued the day, it is no reason that Ishould do the same. Trust me, good sister. I may be young, but I have mywits about me, and no soft speeches catch me in a net. '

The elder sister's beautiful face, always grave and mournful in itsearnestness, grew even more mournful than was its wont, as she looked downinto her sister's lovely eyes, and kissed her forehead. 

'Child, I pray God to keep you safe; but the net you speak of is not spreadin the sight of any bird, and it is captured all unawares. '

Lucy's answer was to return her sister's kiss with a quick, warm embrace, and then she was off, with the basket on her arm, and her glad, young voiceringing out, --

'Good-bye! good-bye! I'll be back in an hour. '

Mary Gifford stood under the old stone porch, watching the light figure asit tripped away, and then was turning into the house again, when a sharpvoice she knew too well called, --

'Lucy! Lucy! Where's that hussy? There's two pails of milk to set for creamin the pans, and the cakes are scorching before the fire. Lucy! Where'sLucy?'

Mary Gifford did not reply to the question, but said, --

'I will go to the dairy, mother, and see to the milk. '

'And take your boy with ye, I'll warrant, who will be up to mischief. No, no; it's Lucy's work, and she shall do it. It will be bedtime before weknow it, for the sun is going down. Lucy!'

This time a child's voice was heard, as little feet pattered along theterrace outside Ford Manor. 

'Aunt Lou is gone, ' the child said. 'I saw her running down the hill. '

'Is she? She shall repent it, then, gadding off like that. More shame toyou, ' Mrs Forrester said wrathfully, 'to let her go, Mary, and cheat me bynot telling me the truth. You want the child to go to ruin as you didyourself, I suppose. '

Mary Gifford's face flushed crimson, as she said, --

'It ill becomes my father's wife to taunt his daughter, when he is not hereto defend her. Come with me, Ambrose, nor stay to listen to more hardwords. '

But the child doubled his small fists, and said, approaching hisgrandmother, --

'I'll beat you. I'll kill you if you make mother cry! I will, you--'

'Hush, my little son, ' Mary said, drawing the boy away. 'It is near thybedtime. Come with me; nor forget thy manners if other folk are not mindfulof theirs. '

The tears of mingled sorrow and anger were coursing each other down MaryGifford's face, but she wiped them hastily away, and, putting her arm roundthe child, she led him up the narrow stairs leading from the large kitchento the room above, where she sat down, with Ambrose clasped close to herheart, by the square bay window, which was flung open on this lovely Aprilevening. 

Ford Manor stood on the slope of the hill, commanding a view of the meadowsstretching down to the valley, where the home of the Sidneys and the towerof the old church could be seen amongst the trees, now golden in thebrilliant western sunshine of the spring evening. Perhaps there canscarcely be found a more enchanting prospect than that on which MaryGifford looked, as she sat with her boy clasped in her arms, her heart, which had been pierced with many sorrows, still smarting with the sharpthrust her stepmother had given her. 

[Illustration: PENSHURST CHURCH AND CASTLE. ]

That young sister whom she loved so passionately, about whom, in her gaythoughtless youth, she was so anxious, whom she was ever longing to seesafe under the shelter of a good man's love--it was hard that her boyshould hear such words from those pitiless lips--'lead her toruin!'--when her one desire was to shield her from all contamination of theevil world, of which she had herself had such bitter experience. 

Little Ambrose was tired, after a day of incessant running hither andthither, and lay quiet with his head on his mother's breast, in thatblissful state of contentment to find himself there, which gives the thrillof deepest joy to a mother's heart. 

Ambrose was six years old, and a fair and even beautiful child. The stiff, ugly dress of the time, could not quite hide the symmetry of his roundedlimbs, and the large ruff, now much crumpled after the day's wear, set offto advantage the round chin which rested on it and the rosy lips, which hadjust parted with a smile, as Mary said, --

'Is my boy sleepy?'

'No, mother; don't put me a-bed yet'

Mary was not unwilling to comply with the request, and so they sat on, theboy's red-gold curls making a gleam of brightness on the sombre blackgarments of widowhood which Mary still wore. 

Presently the boy said, --

'When I'm a man, will Mr Philip Sidney let me be his esquire? Aunt Lou saysp'raps he will, if you ask him. '

'My boy will not be a man for many a year yet, ' Mary said, pressing thechild closer. 'And he would not leave his mother even for Mr PhilipSidney. '

Ambrose sat upright, and said, --

'I would come back to you, as Humphrey Ratcliffe comes back to his mother, but I'd like to ride off with Mr Sidney when I am a man. '

'Yes, yes, my boy, all in good time. '

'And I must learn to ride and wrestle, and--oh! a hundred things. I wish tobe a man like Mr Philip Sidney. '

'May you ever be as good, noble, and learned, my son; but come, the sun isgone to bed, and Ambrose must go too. '

Then, with loving hands, she prepared her child for his bed, smoothing backthe shining hair from the pure white brow, where the blue veins wereclearly traced, and Ambrose knelt at her knee and repeated his littleprayer, adding, with childlike simplicity, after the Amen, --

'Pray, God, make me a good man, like Mr Philip Sidney. '

While Mary Gifford and little Ambrose were thus together in the upperchamber of Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester had reached the old timbered house bythe lych gate of Penshurst Church, and had obtained admission at GoodySalter's door, and put the wheaten cake and two eggs on the little ricketytable which stood against the wall in the dark, low room. The old woman'sthanks were not very profuse, hers was by no means a grateful disposition, and, perhaps, there was no great inducement for Lucy to prolong her visit. However that might be, it was very short, and she was soon outside again, and standing in the village street, looking right and left, as ifexpecting to see someone coming in either direction. It had not escapedMary Gifford's notice that Lucy dressed herself with more than ordinarycare. She wore the short skirt of the time, which displayed her small feetand ankles to advantage. 

Over the skirt was a crimson kirtle of fine cloth, cut square in thebodice, and crossed by a thick white kerchief, edged with lace. Lucy'sslender neck was set in a ruff, fastened at the throat by a gold brooch, which sparkled in the light. 

Her chestnut hair was gathered up from her forehead, and a little pointedcap of black velvet, edged with gold, was set upon it, and contrasted wellwith the bright locks, from which a curl, either by accident or design, hadbeen loosened, and rippled over her shoulder, below her waist. 

Lucy was well known in the village, and, as she stood debating whether sheshould go home or wait for a few minutes longer, a man, with the badge ofthe Sidneys on his arm, came up on horseback, and turned into the parkgate, which was near this end of the village. 

'They must be coming now, ' she said; 'they must be coming. Perhaps I shallsee Humphrey, and he will tell me if Mr Sydney is returning this evening. Ican hide behind the trees just outside the gate. No one will see me. '

Presently another horseman came riding slowly along. He was hailed by oneof the loiterers in the street, and Lucy heard the question asked andanswered. 

'Yes, Mr Sidney is on the road. He is gone round by the main entrance, withtwo of his gentlemen. '

'He won't pass this way, then, to-night, ' Lucy thought. 'Oh, I wish I couldsee him. Humphrey is so dull, and he won't ask him to do what I want. Iknow my Lady Mary would take me to see the show if Mr Philip wished, and--'

'Lucy, why are you here alone?' and the speaker dismounted, and, throwingthe reins of his horse to a groom, he was at her side in a moment. 

'I came down to bring food to the hungry. Where's the harm of that?'

'It is getting late. I'll walk up the hill with you. Lucy, does MistressGifford know of your coming?'

'What if she doesn't? I please myself; tell me, Humphrey, is Mr Sidney comehome?'

'For a few days. He returns shortly for the great tournament at Whitehallin honour of the French Embassy. '

'On Sunday next. Oh, Humphrey, I do want to see it--to see Mr Sidney tilt. I would walk to London to see it, if I can't ride. There is so little timeleft. Why won't you ask--beg--pray someone to take me?'

'The tournament is put off. There is time enough and to spare. Her Majestythe Queen has desired delay, and a day in May is now fixed. Three weekshence--'

'Three weeks hence! Then there is hope. I shall go to Lady Mary myself, ifI don't see Mr Sidney. '

'Well, well, come home now, or Mistress Gifford will be full of fears aboutyou. I marvel that you should add a drop of bitterness to her full cup. '

'I hate you to talk like that, ' Lucy said. 'I love Mary better than all theworld beside. No one loves her as I do. '

Humphrey Ratcliffe sighed. 

'You speak rashly, like the wayward child you are. In sober earnest, Lucy, you are too fair to wander into the village alone, and you know it. '

'I wanted to go into the park, and then you came and stopped me. '

'If I did, so much the better, ' was the reply. 'I will see you over theriver, at least. Then I must return, to find out if Mr Sidney has anycommands for the morrow. '

They had reached the River Medway now--in these days scarcely more than ashallow stream, crossed by stepping-stones, or by a narrow plank, with ahandrail on one side only. When the river was low, it was easy to cross theford, but, when swollen by heavy rains, it required some skill to do so, and many people preferred to use the plank as a means of crossing thestream. 

Just as Lucy had put her foot on the first stepping-stone, and rejected allHumphrey's offers of help with a merry laugh, they were joined byHumphrey's brother, who was coming down the hill in the opposite direction. 

'Stop! hold, Mistress Lucy!' he cried. 'Mistress Forrester, hold!'

'What for?' she said. 'I am coming over, ' and with extraordinary swiftness, Lucy sprang from stone to stone, and, reaching the opposing bank, curtseyedto George Ratcliffe, saying, --

'Your pleasure, sir?'

'My pleasure is that you should not put your limbs in peril by scalingthose slippery stones. Why not take the bridge?'

'Because I like the ford better. Good-bye. Good-bye, Humphrey, ' she called, waving her hand to the other brother who stood on the bank. 

'Good-bye, Mistress Lucy, George will take care of you now. And make allhaste homewards. '

Lucy now began to race up the steep hill at full speed, and her faithfulsquire had much difficulty to keep up with her light, airy footsteps. 

He was a giant in height and build, and was breathless, when, at the turnon the side of the hill leading to Ford Manor, Lucy paused. 

'You have no cause to come a step further, ' she said, laughing. 'Why, Master Ratcliffe, you are puffing like old Meg when she has pulled the cartup the hill! Good even to you. '

'Stop, Mistress Forrester. '

'Well, now you are more respectful, I will stop. Well, pray thee, takebreath, and make short work of what you are going to say. '

George hesitated, as much from shyness as from want of breath. 

'My mother bids me say that she would fain have you sup with her on themorrow. Say yes, Lucy; say yes. '

'Oh! I must ask permission first, ' she said, 'for, you know, I am a dutifulstep-daughter; but commend me to your mother, and say I will come if theywill permit me, for I love Madam Ratcliffe's sweet pasties. We do not getsweet pasties yonder. We are bidden to think all sweet and pleasant thingsunwholesome, and so we ought to believe it is true; but I don't, for one. Good-night. '

And Lucy was away along the rugged path at the side of the lane, with itsdeep ruts and loose stones, before George Ratcliffe could say another word. 

He pursued his way for another mile up the hill, till he came to a house ofrather more pretension than Ford Manor, but of the same character, with aheavy stone portico and square bays on either side. The diamond-shapedpanes of the lattice were filled in with thick glass, which had only, within the last few years, replaced the horn which had admitted but littlelight into the room, and had been the first attempt at filling in thewindows to keep out rain and storm. Until the latter years of Henry theEighth's reign wooden shutters were universal even in the homes of the richand great. 

The Ratcliffes had held their land under the lords of Penshurst for morethan two centuries, and had, as in duty bound, supplied men and arms, whencalled upon to do so by their chief. 

The Forresters held also the same tenure of the pasture lands and meadowswhich sloped down from Ford Manor, and, in earlier times, they had been thekeepers of the woods which clothed the undulating ground about Penshurst, and the stately beeches and chestnut trees which stand almost unrivalled inthe far stretching park, where the grand old house of the Sidneys issituated. 

But Mr Forrester, the father of Mary Gifford and Lucy, was the last of hisrace, and, though his widow and daughter still occupied the Manor Farm, theoffice of keeper of the woods had fallen to another family on a moredistant part of the estate, and it was only by courtesy that Mrs Forresterwas permitted to remain in the house for her life. 

The Ratcliffes occupied a superior position, and Mrs Ratcliffe pridedherself on her family, and considered Mrs Forrester very much beneath herin the social scale. 

Was not her younger son the favourite squire of Mr Philip Sidney, an honourcoveted by many, and had he not acquired the air and bearing of thegentlemen about the Court of the Maiden Queen, and was he not, moreover, educated in book learning as befitted his position. George, if more homelyin his person and manner, was known in the whole district as a man ofhonour, and celebrated for his breed of horses, and for the excellence ofhis farm produce. 

He superintended everything connected with the small estate, and suppliedthe neighbouring gentry with horses, when, perhaps for some hastily formedexpedition, they were suddenly required. 

Both brothers were respected in the neighbourhood, and Mrs Ratcliffe hadindeed cause to be satisfied with the sons who had so well taken up theplace their father had left vacant, by a sudden death in the prime of hismanhood. 

George Ratcliffe found his mother seated at the head of the long table, where the men and maidens employed on the farm were gathered at the lowerend. 

All rose when George entered, and he said, addressing his mother, as heseated himself near her, --

'I am later than I thought. I crave pardon, good mother. '

'Granted, my son, ' was the reply, with an inclination of the head, whichwas, to say the least of it, very stately. 

Mrs Ratcliffe stood always upon her dignity before her household, and neverforgot herself, or allowed others to forget, that she was the daughter of aKnight of the Shire, and that her own family was connected with some of theleading people at Court. Distantly connected, but still the fact remained, and Mrs Ratcliffe made the most of it. 

When the horn-handled knife had been struck thrice on the board by thebailiff, who sat at the lower end, the large party rose. George rose also, and said a short grace. Then the hall was deserted, the servants waitingtill Madam retired to her room, before they cleared away the dishes. 

George made a hasty meal, and then, giving his hand to his mother, he ledher through a door at the upper end of the hall to her own parlour. 

The spring twilight was deepening, and the figures of both mother and sonwere but dimly visible. 

Perhaps George was not sorry that there was but little light for his motherto discover the blush which rose to his honest face, as he said, --

I saw Mistress Lucy Forrester an hour agone, and I bid her to sup with uson the morrow. I gained your consent to do so, ' he added hurriedly. 

'You told me of your purpose, George, ' his mother said coldly. 'I did notforbid it, but I could hardly be said to consent. The poor girl may be wellfavoured; I do not deny it. '

'Who could deny it?' George exclaimed, with some heat. 

'I said I did not deny it; but her relations are, methinks, very coarse. '

'Mother, there is not a gentler lady in the land than Mistress Gifford. Ifyou doubt my word inquire of Mr Sidney or Lady Mary. '

'There is no occasion for this heat, George; it is unbecoming. '

'Pardon, my mother, but I cannot brook hearing Mistress Gifford andMistress Lucy put down as coarse. Coarse!' he repeated--'it is too much!They can't help themselves that their father chose to marry a virago liketheir stepmother. More shame to him; no shame to them. '

'Well-a-day, George, you are really upsetting me. I can hear no more. Stopthis tirade, or I shall swoon; you know I never am fitted to bear loudvoices, or contention and strife. You have bidden the girl to sup, and, asyour cousin Dolly will be here, it will not be amiss for once. But I neverdesire to have intercourse with the folk at Ford Place. Although I am awidow, I must not forget your father's standing. I visit at the Castle, anddear Lady Mary is so good as to call me her friend. Thus, to be a friend ofMistress Forrester also is beyond my wish or desire, and surely you couldnot desire it. '

George did not reply at first, then he said, --

'Mr Philip Sidney does not despise Mistress Gifford; indeed, it is true, there is no scorn in him towards anyone that breathes, save only againstmean cowards, liars and traitors. But I wish you a goodnight, mother. Ihave to see how the mare does that foaled this morning. She is of greatvalue to me, and I would fain save her life, if may be. '

When her son was gone, Mistress Ratcliffe resigned herself to meditation. 

'He is in love with that child, poor, silly boy. She may be pretty, but itis the beauty which soon fades. I must keep Dolly with me. She has a prettyfortune, if not a fair face, and is of our blood, and a meet match for myhome-loving son. I have other hopes for Humphrey. He will wed with somegentlewoman about the Court. If Mr Philip Sidney wills to bring it about, it is done. Then I shall be a proud, happy mother, and I shall get out mytaffeta with the old lace, and the ornaments I have not worn since myhusband died, to do honour to the wedding. Humphrey will be knighted somefine day, and then he shall raise the family again to its proper level. '

CHAPTER II

IN THE PARK

 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. --BEN JONSON. 

The dew lay upon the grass the next morning, and the eastern rays of therising sun had but just shot across the slopes of Penshurst Park, whenPhilip Sidney passed from under the great gateway of the noble house--orcastle, for it was embattled, by the king's leave, in the reign of EdwardIV, --and crossed the turf towards the avenue of beeches now clothed in thetenderest hues of spring. 

He was at this time in high favour at Court. The cloud which his braveprotest against the Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou had cast overhim had passed away, and he was again the favourite on whom Elizabethsmiled, and from whom she expected and received due homage. But theperpetual demands made by Elizabeth on her admiring courtiers was oftenfelt to be irksome. 

The chains might be silken, but they were, nevertheless, binding, and itwas a relief to Philip Sidney to escape from the atmosphere of the Court attimes, to breathe the pure air of his home in the fair land of Kent. 

Penshurst Place was, and is, one of the most beautiful of the stately homesof England. 

On this April morning the long _façade_ was smiling in the early rays ofthe sun, and, as Philip crossed the Park he turned, and, looking back atit, felt stirring within him that pride of race and home, which is perhapsone of the strongest points in the character of a well-born Englishman. 

'A fair inheritance, doubtless, ' he said. 'All things are fair save wheresin and wrong enters. Why should my good Languet have grudged me myretirement, and rejoice that I have again gone forth into the troublesomeworld. 'Success at Court is dearly bought, and I must ever bear about withme a burden which no mortal eye sees. '

As Philip Sidney paced under the shadow of the beeches, the deep bronze offallen leaves at his feet glowing here and there into living gold, as thelow rays of the eastern sun shone through the branches, thinly veiled, asyet, with tender green, to any casual observer, he did not wear theappearance of a man whose heart knew any bitterness or was weighted withany burden. 

His light figure, with its easy swing as he walked, the perfect symmetry ofevery limb, the pose of his well-shaped head, from which he had removed thesmall cap with its short plume, raising his face that the fresh air mightfan it, were all in harmony with the pride and glory of his young manhood. Suddenly his eyes shone with a smile of welcome, as a lady came from underthe great chestnuts, which were already spreading their fan-like leavesfrom every branch, and exclaimed, --

'Ah! sister mine, I little thought I should find you before me breathingthe soft pure air. It has brought the colour to your cheeks which I love tosee. '

'Methinks those who lie a-bed late lose the best of the day, Philip, andhow surpassingly lovely Penshurst is. '

'Wilton does not make it less dear, then, Mary. '

'Nay, both are beautiful, and, ' she added, 'both are home now; but tenderthoughts ever cling to the place where childhood has been passed. And howfares it with you, dear brother?' the Countess of Pembroke said, as she puther hand within Philip's arm. 

'But ill, Mary. I strive, God knoweth, to conquer, but I cannot, I cannot. '

'Nay, Philip, you shall not say so. You must conquer. '

'If I could free myself from the chain--if I could--but it maddens me, Mary, to think she loved me, and that I was so blind, so blind. She is thewife of a man she loathes, and I--I am to blame. I, who would have died forher. '

'Live for her, Philip. Live to show her all that is noble and pure in yourlife, and so do her good and not evil. Yes, dear brother, by nurturing thislove you do her a worse evil than you know of. Sure, you would not bringher to a new misery, a worse misery. '

'No, no. I would not, yet I would. But the sting lies here; hearken, Mary, to this sonnet, lately penned:--

 'I might--unhappy word! O me! I might, And then would not, or could not, see my bliss Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night, I find how heavenly day--wretch! I did miss. Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right. No lovely Paris made thy Helen his; No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight; Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is. But to myself, myself did give the blow, While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me, That I respects, for both our sakes, must show. And yet could not by rising morn foresee How fair a day was near--O punished eyes! That I had been more foolish, or more wise!'

 _Astrophel and Stella_, Sonnet xxxiii. 

'Dear brother, ' the Countess of Pembroke said, --'these wild laments are notworthy of you. You shall not make any man moan. You will conquer at last, and come out of the fight a nobler man. The very beauty around us seems tobid us rejoice to-day. Come, let us speak of happier themes. You will liketo see my little Will, and carry back good news of him to the Queen, whosegodson he is. Tell her she hath a brave knight in store in our little Will. You scarce ever saw such tricks as he has, and is not yet one year old. '

Philip Sidney threw off his melancholy mood at his sister's bidding, and, looking down at her, kissed her pure, fair forehead. 

'Pembroke has reason to rejoice in possessing your love, Mary, and I doubtnot the boy is worthy of you, though he does not, or did not, when I sawhim, resemble you. '

'No, he is far handsomer; he has dark eyes and lashes; they lay curled uponhis fair cheeks, making the only shadow there. Will has not theamber-coloured hair of us Sidneys. '

As this brother and sister stood together in the morning light under thespreading boughs of the trees, they bore a striking similarity to eachother. 

Theirs was not the mere beauty of form and feature, though that was in bothremarkable. 

Intellectual power was seen in the wide, straight brow, and the light ofthat inner fire we call genius shone in the eyes. It has been said bycontemporary records that Philip Sidney's beauty was too feminine in itscharacter; but, if in colouring of hair and complexion and delicate outlineof feature, this might be true; there was wonderful strength of purpose inthe mouth and upward curve of the chin which indicated resolution andcourage, and determination to conquer difficulties. 

His sister's words were to come true, 'You will conquer at last, and comeout of the fight a nobler man. '

'We must turn homewards now. How long do you tarry here, Philip?'

'But two or three days. Shall we not journey to London in company withMary. This tournament needs much preparation; I did but snatch a few daysto speak on our father's affairs and to breathe freely for a short space, and then I must return. '

Philip Sidney sighed. 

'Nay, Philip, what hardship is there in being the favourite of the Queen, save for the jealousy it may breed. Our good Uncle Leicester tellsmarvellous tales of the manner in which the fair ladies of the Court areever ready to smile on you, to say nought of the Queen's own delight tohave you near her. She seems to have forgotten your former protest againstthe Duke of Anjou, and to believe in your approval now. '

'It is scarce approval, Mary, but the Queen must do as she lists. She is ofan age to discern what is best for herself and her realm. '

'She is, indeed, of an age to do so, ' Mary said, with a silvery laugh. 'Butqueens never grow old, they leave the process to humbler folk, Philip. '

They had reached the house now, and passed under the gateway into thequadrangle, just as the big bell was making a great clamour with its iron, merciless tongue. 

'Breakfast is served, ' the Countess said, 'and our good mother will alreadybe on the dais awaiting us. Would that our father were here with her. Hewill be present at the tournament, and I will do my utmost to persuade himto take a month of summer here at Penshurst, and dismiss all care for thetime. '

Lady Mary welcomed her son and daughter with a glad smile. She had alsobeen astir early, looking into the affairs of her household, in the homewhere the unbroken family so seldom met now. Lady Mary's life had been achequered one, and she had suffered much as a wife, from the unfairtreatment her brave, noble husband, Sir Henry Sidney, had received at theQueen's hand. 

He was poor in purse and wounded in heart for his service in Ireland, fromwhich he returned at last, losing everything but honour. He was also LordPresident of Wales, and received small thanks for all he did in theinterests of the Principality, and less gratitude. When breakfast wasconcluded, Lady Mary Sidney summoned Philip to a conference with her in thesmall ante-room, which was reached by a stone staircase at the upper end ofthe large hall. 

'You came hither, my son, as your good father's officer. How do you feeltowards this scheme? If my husband, your father, be sent for the fourthtime to Ireland, will you accompany him, and serve him with the wisdom youever show, Philip? It is time your father's services should gain somereward. Speak, Philip; do not hang back, but let me hear your mind. '

'Ah, sweet mother, ' Philip said, seating himself on a settle at hismother's side, and taking her hand in his, 'do not think I slight my goodfather, or disparage all his great service for Ireland, if I say I cannotadvise him to move in this matter. I was amazed when Molineux came chargedwith this mission to Court, and I told him I disapproved the appeal beingmade. For myself, I could not go thither to Ireland in the capacity myfather speaks of; and as to the Queen conferring on him a title of nobilityor large estates, she will never do it. I know this much, and I counsel myfather to let the matter rest. He is held in respect at Ludlow, he has ourown fair home of Penshurst as an inheritance, why, then, enfeebled inhealth, should he seek to be embroiled for the fourth time in the affairsof that unhappy country of Ireland? Misfortune followed his earlierfootsteps there, is it to be counted on that as a man prematurely old andworn, he should have better success, say rather win more gratitude. Nay, dearest and best of wives and mothers, let me beg of you to dissuade myfather from this project. '

'Philip, ' Lady Sidney replied, with some heat, 'my heart throbs withindignation when I think of the treatment your noble father has received atthe hands of the royal mistress he has served with honest devotion. He isno smooth-tongued courtier, Philip; he has taken no lessons in the schoolof flattery, and for this he is cast aside and misused. Think, ' Lady Sidneysaid, 'think, Philip, of the scant and mean allowance of twenty poundsweekly he receives as President of Wales. Forsooth, to keep up any fittingdignity in our mansion it costs us thrice that sum. And if it is complainedthat I am with my dear spouse, and so add to the cost, sure I am worth mymeat, of which my poor scarred face is a token. Scarce ever do I see thesescars but I remember how I caught that baleful disease, from which God keepyou, my son. Should He visit you with it, may you be tended with the carewherewith I tended the Queen's highness, when most of her attendants stoodfar off. Nay, Philip, I fear you are in danger of forgetting the pastservice your parents have rendered, in the glamour of the present favourshown to you at Court. '

Lady Mary Sidney's voice trembled, and tears sprang to her eyes. 

Philip could never brook the sight of his mother's distress; and he knewall she said was perfectly true and could not be contradicted. 

'I will confer with my father on this matter, ' he said. 'Dear mother, donot, I pray you, deem me hard and indifferent. As soon as thisentertainment of the Ambassadors from France is over, I will set aboutinquiring into the aspect of affairs, and find out my Lord Burleigh'sviews. If I see cause to change my mind, I will not be too proud to ownit. '

'That is like my noble Philip, ' his mother said. 'Ah, my son, this heavymoney trouble as to debts and ceaseless claims, makes of me an old woman, far more than the scars of the dire disease which snatched away my beautytwenty years ago. You were but a little fellow then, but then, as now, wisebeyond your years. It was hard for me to meet your inquiring gaze, and tohear the smothered sigh as you looked on your mother's changed face. Whilelittle Mary drew back from my offered kiss, and cried out, "It is not mypretty mother, " you put your arms round me, saying to her, "It is our owndear mother, Mary. Fie then, for shame, " as she struggled to get away fromthe woman who tried to force her to kiss me. ' Then with the swift change ofmood which characterised Lady Sidney she stroked Philip's cheek, and saidlaughing, --'How many fair ladies are sighing for your favour, my son? Trulythe hearts of many must be in danger of capture. Wit, wisdom, learning andbeauty such as yours do not often go hand in hand. '

'Nay; now, mother mine, I shall say you have taken lessons in the school offlattery, for which you were ready to take me to task not long ago. But Imust away to look round the stables, and see to the proper equipment of themen who will ride with me to the tourney at Whitehall next month. '

 * * * * *

Lucy Forrester found her household duties irksome the next morning. 

A wrangle with her stepmother had ended in a stormy scene, when MrsForrester gave Lucy a sudden box on the ear for neglecting to replenish thefire on the open hearth with wood, so that when it was time to hang up thekettle to boil the meat for the dinner, served at eleven o'clock to thefamily, there were only a few smouldering white ashes left. 

'As if I cared a groat for you! Box the other ear if you like, and kindleyour own fire, for me. '

'You shall not have bite or sup in this house to-day, ' Mrs Forresterscreamed, as Lucy darted out of the kitchen, answering, --

'I don't want your food. I know where I shall be better served. '

With flashing eyes and heightened colour, Lucy found herself face to face, on the strip of rough ground before the house, with Humphrey Ratcliffe. 

'Mistress Lucy, ' he exclaimed, 'whether are you rushing like a whirlwind?'

'Anywhere, to get out of hearing of that tongue. Hark, now, it is stillwagging like the clapper of a bell. '

'Where is Mistress Gifford?' Humphrey asked, without taking any notice ofLucy's reference to the quarrel which he guessed had been raging. 

'Oh, it's Mary you want to see, not me, ' Lucy said. 'Well, she is gone upto the shepherd's hut to look after a sick child there. She has got the boywith her, and I promised to see to the fire on the hearth, but I didn't, and that is the cause of the uproar. But good Master Humphrey, help me toget to London to see the great tourney. Oh!' clasping her her hands inentreaty, 'I pray you help me to get there. I am so sick of this place. Whyshould I be kept here till I am old?'

'That is a-far off day, Mistress Lucy, ' Humphrey said. 'But I have a planwhich, if it succeeds, may give you your desire. '

'Oh, you are good, Master Humphrey, so good!'

'My mother wishes to see London again, and I can provide her with lodgingsnot far from Whitehall. It may be there will be a corner found for you, that is to say, if Mistress Gifford approves. '

'I'll make her approve, I warrant. I am to sup with Mistress Ratcliffe thisevening, and I will be as meek as a lamb and curtsey my lowest to her, andcall her madam, and be ever so smiling to Master George. I'll win favourfor once. '

Humphrey discreetly forbore to let Lucy know that it was at George'searnest desire he had determined to make this proposal to their mother. 

'Tell me, Master Humphrey, will Mr Sidney be coming this way to-day?'

'It may be; he had to choose two extra horses from George's stalls for thejourney. George himself is, of course, to be in attendance, and one of ourserving men as groom. It is possible that Mr Sidney may be coming eitherto-day or on the morrow. '

'He will not pass without seeing Mary. I wish--'

But Lucy had not time to say what the wish was, for Mary Gifford and herlittle son were now seen coming along a field path which led down thehillside from the open country beyond. 

Humphrey stepped forward quickly to meet them, and lifted Ambrose over thestile, in spite of his declaration that he could get over by himself. 

Humphrey tossed the child high in the air before he set him on his legsagain, and then said to Mary, --

'Out on a mission of mercy, as is your wont, Mistress Gifford. '

Mary's colour rose as she said, --

'The sick and poor are always in the world. '

'And the sad also, ' Humphrey said, with an appealing look, which Maryunderstood only too well. 

'Come and see the little chickies, Master Humphrey, ' Ambrose said. 'There'sthree little ducks amongst them. Aunt Lou put the eggs under the old motherfor fun. Grannie does not know, and when the little ducklings waddle off tothe pond, she'll be in a fright, and think they'll all be drowned, and sowill the hen. '

But Humphrey scarcely heeded the child's chatter, he was earnestly lookingat Mary Gifford's face. 

Surely there must be some fresh cause of trouble there, for he thought hesaw traces of recent tears. 

Little Ambrose, finding his appeal to Humphrey took no effect, scamperedoff to the poultry yard, Lucy following. She thought it would be wiser toleave Humphrey to plead her cause, and persuade Mary that if his motherwould consent to her journey to London, she was better out of the way whenMary raised objections to the fulfilment of her wishes. 

'Is there any new cause of trouble, Mistress Gifford, ' Humphrey asked. 

'Nothing new--as you take the word. '

'Nought in which I can be of help?'

Mary hesitated, and Humphrey said, --

'The wrangles and quarrels yonder are on the increase. Is that so?' heasked. 'I heard loud voices when I came up to the house a short time ago, and Lucy rushed out with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes. '

'Poor child, ' Mary said, 'I will not say there is not blame on both sides, but the life we lead yonder becomes more and more hard. It is ill trainingfor my little son to see angry passions raging, and to hear loudreproaches. '

'I know it! I know it!' Humphrey exclaimed. 'End it, Mary--end it for ever, and come and bless me with your love. '

'Nay, Humphrey, do not urge me to do what is impossible. It cannot be. '

Humphrey Ratcliffe turned away with an impatient gesture, saying, --

'I see no glory in self-martyrdom. I offer you a home, and I swear toprotect you from all evil, and keep your boy from evil, train him to be anoble gentleman, and, forsooth, you turn away and will have none of me. '

'Dear friend, ' Mary began in a low voice, 'trust me so far as to believethat I have a reason--a good reason--for refusing what would be, I doubtnot, a haven of calm after the troubled waters of my life. Trust me, kindMaster Ratcliffe, nor think ill of me. I pray you. '

'Ill of you! nay, Mary, you know no saint in heaven is ever more devoutlyworshipped than I worship you. ' But, seeing her distress as he said thesewords, he went on, --'I will wait, I will bide my time, and, meanwhile, serve you in all ways I can. Here is this child, your young sister, chafingagainst the life she leads here. I will do my best to persuade my mother totake her in her company to London for the grand show, and it may be thatsome great lady may take a fancy for her, and she may win a place aswaiting-woman about the person of some Court dame. Do you consent? Do yougive me permission to try?'

'But Lucy is not in favour with your mother; she disdains us as beneath hernotice. '

'Not you--not Lucy; it is your father's widow whom she mislikes. HerPuritan whims and fancies are a cause of offence, and no aversions are sostrong as those begotten by religious difference. '

'That is so, alas!' Mary Gifford said. 'Persecution for diversity of faith, rather for diversity in the form of worship: it is this that tears thiscountry into baleful divisions, and pierces it with wounds which are slowto heal. '

'That is true, ' Humphrey said; 'and the law, condemning all Papists tosuffer extreme penalty, if found worshipping God after their own manner, has a cruel significance. But we must not forget the fires of Smithfield, nor the horrors to which this country was subjected when Spanish influencewas at work with a Papist queen on the throne. '

'No, ' Mary said in a low voice. 'Nor can we forget the grey head of thatqueen's dearest friend, which was brought to the block, and stirred thebitterness of revenge in Queen Mary's heart. '

'Well, ' Humphrey said, 'I am vowed to resist, with all possible might, theencroachments of Spain, --which means the plotting of Philip to force thereligion of the Pope upon an unwilling people--in the Low Countries first, and then, believe me, he will not stop there. Mr Sidney's protest againstthe Queen's marriage with the Duc of Anjou was founded on the horror hefelt of seeing this realm given over once more to the power of the Pope. MrSidney saw, with his own eyes, the Massacre of St Bartholomew; and whatsecurity could there be if any of this crafty Medici race should be set onhigh in this country?'

'Mr Sidney has changed somewhat in his views. Is it not so?' Mary asked. 

'He has submitted to the inevitable--that is to say, finding the Queendetermined, he, with Lord Burleigh and others in high office, will conferwith the ambassadors who come from France for the purpose--prayingsecretly, however, that the whole matter may fall to pieces. And, indeed, this is likely. The Queen's highness is loth to lose her supremacy, andthere are favourites at Court who would ill brook to be displaced by arival power. My lord the Earl of Leicester is one, though he hides his realfeeling from his nephew, my noble master. '

Mary Gifford was silent for a few moments, then she said, --

'If you can aid my poor little sister to get her heart's desire, do so. Iconsent, for life here is not to be desired for many reasons. Ah! MasterRatcliffe, ' Mary said, 'how fair is this world, and is there a fairer spotin it than these our native hills and valleys over which we look every day?See the wooded heights yonder, in all the varied colours of the earlyspring; see the sloping pastures, where the flowers make a carpet! Often asI look on it, and see the tower of the church rising amongst the red-tiledroofs of the cottages, and beyond, the stately pile of Penshurst Castle, Ithink if only sin were absent, and truth and righteousness reigned, thisvillage would find no rival save in the Eden before the serpent entered, and the ruin came with sin!'

Humphrey Ratcliffe liked to watch Mary's face as she spoke; but, as he lefther, a few minutes later, he felt there was something which divided themand made his suit hopeless. What was it?

He knew but little of the history of her short married life. Her suitor hadcome in the train of the Earl of Leicester in one of his visits toPenshurst. 

That she had been cruelly deceived was known, and that she had come back toher old home of Ford Manor with her child, clad in the weeds of widowhood, but saying nothing of what had really happened. Rumour had been busy, andAmbrose Gifford had been supposed to have been slain in a disgracefulfight; but nothing was absolutely certain; and Humphrey Ratcliffe, who hadknown Mary from her girlhood, now discovered that he had loved her always, and that he had failed to win her in her early youth because he had nevertried to do so, and now that he loved her passionately, he was to find hissuit was hopeless. 

Perhaps it was the similarity between his own case and that of his master'sthat made the tie between them stronger than is often the case between anesquire and his chief. 

CHAPTER III

A STRANGE MEETING

 'Before the door sat self-consuming Care, Day and night keeping wary watch and ward For fear lest Force or Fraud should unaware Break in, and spoil the treasure there in gard. '

 SPENSER. 

Lucy Forrester soon forgot the vexation and anger which her stepmother'sscolding had roused. She kept out of her sight, and entertained littleAmbrose with stories of fairies and elfs and imps and hobgoblins till thetime came for her to go up the hill to the Ratcliffes' house. 

Lucy did not attempt to sit down at the board when dinner was served ateleven o'clock. She had once or twice, when in disgrace, rebelled at thesight of the crust of bread and the mug of water which had been set beforeher as a token of Mistress Forrester's displeasure. 

'I am not a child now, ' she thought, 'to be gaped at by serving men andmaids. I will take care of myself in the buttery, and then get ready for mywalk up the hill. Perhaps, who knows, I may chance to meet Mr Sidney, andI may get a word from him or a rare smile; and then a fig for frowns andthe rating and scolding of fifty cross stepmothers! I wish Mary did notlook so grave. I hate to grieve her. Well-a-day, if only I can get toLondon, and see him in the tourney, I shall die of joy. '

Lucy was scarcely sixteen, an enthusiastic child, who had conceived aromantic devotion for Mr Philip Sidney, and worshipped his ideal as maidensof her temperament have worshipped at their idol's shrine since time began. 

And who can blame this country maiden if she cherished a passionateadmiration for one, who won the hearts of Court ladies and hoary statesmenof a grave scholar like Hubert Languet, and of the Queen herself, whocalled him the brightest jewel of her Court, and who often excited thejealousy of her older favourites by the marks of favour she bestowed onhim. 

In the village church on Sundays Lucy would sit with anxious, eagerexpectation till she saw the Sidney pew filled; if Mr Sidney was present itwas an hour or two of bliss; if, as was frequently the case, his place wasempty, she would bow her head to hide the tears of vexation anddisappointment which started to her eyes. 

Nor have these dreams of youthful romance wholly passed away. Even in therush and hurry of the prosaic world at the end of the nineteenth centurythey yet give a certain pleasure of unfulfilled longings to some younghearts, and fade away like the early cloud and morning dew, to leave behindonly a memory of mingled pain and sweetness, recalled in after time withsomething of self-pity and something of surprise that such things had everseemed real and not visionary, and had touched the warm springs in theheart now chilled, it may be, by the stern exigencies of this transitorylife. 

It must be said that few idols have been worthier of youthful adorationthan was this true knight at whose shrine Lucy laid her heart. If therewere spots in the sun, 'wandering isles of night, ' which were at this timesomewhat darkening its lustre, they were unknown to Lucy Forrester. PhilipSidney was to her all that was noble, pure, and true, and, as she put onher prettiest cap, with its long veil and little edge of seed pearls, Mary's gift, and crossed her finest kerchief across her breast, she sawherself in the bit of polished steel which served for her mirror, andsmiled as she thought, --

'What if I meet him on the way, he may look at me with some approval. Icannot help it. I do love to be fair, and why should I pretend I am ugly, even to myself. No, ' she went on turning her graceful head, first to theright and then to the left, before the little mirror; 'no, I can't pretendto be ugly, like Doll Ratcliffe, who makes eyes at poor old George. She mayhave him, ay, and welcome, for all I care. '

Lucy was pirouetting round the confined space of her attic chamber, whichwas bare enough of all ornament, and mean and humble in its furniture, whenlittle Ambrose's feet were heard on the wooden stairs leading to this upperstory of the old house, and he called, in his loud, childish treble, --

'Aunt Lou, you are to come down and see Mr Sidney. '

Lucy clasped her small hands together in an ecstasy of delight. 

'Is it true--is it true, Ambrose? Child, is it true?'

'I always say true things, mother saith lies are wicked, ' the boyexclaimed. 'You are very pretty, Aunt Lou. I like you. I wish mother wouldwear red gowns, and--and--'

But Lucy paid no heed to the child's compliments. She gave a parting lookat the mirror, and then brushed past little Ambrose and went downstairswith a beating heart. 

Mr Sidney was standing on the rough ground before Ford Place, leaningagainst the gnarled trunk of an ancient thorn tree, which had yet lifeenough left in it to put forth its tiny, round buds of pink and white, soonto open and fill the air with fragrance. 

By his side Mary Gifford stood, with her face turned towards the smilinglandscape before her. 

Philip Sidney, with the courtesy of the true gentleman, advanced to Lucywith his cap in his hand, bending the knee, and greeting her with all thegrace and courtly ceremony with which he would have greeted the highestlady in the land. 

The girl's face shone with proud delight, and the young voice trembled alittle as she said, in answer to his question, --

'I thank you, sir, I am well and hearty. '

'I need scarce ask the question, ' Mr Sidney said. 'With your good sister'sapproval, I came to inquire if you would care to fill the vacant place inmy sister the Countess of Pembroke's household. She leaves Penshurstshortly, and will be at Leicester House before returning to Wilton. One ofher gentlewomen is summoned to her father's deathbed, and Mistress Crawley, her bower-woman, needs help. I am not learned in the secrets of thetoilette, but you would soon learn what might be expected of you. '

'And shall I see the great show, sir--shall I see the tourney and theknights tilting?' Lucy said, unable to repress her joy. 

'Doubtless, ' Mr Sidney replied laughing. 'But, Mistress Lucy, it will notbe all play. Mistress Crawley is a somewhat stern task-mistress. My sisterbade me say as much. Therefore, consider the proposal well, and consultMistress Gifford, than whom you cannot have a wiser counsellor. '

'Mary, ' Lucy exclaimed, 'I may go to serve my Lady of Pembroke? Speak, Mary. '

Mary Gifford now turned towards Lucy and Mr Sidney. Up to this time she hadaverted her face. 

'You must remember, Lucy, ' she said gently, 'Mr Sidney's words. It willnot be all play, and, methinks, you have often shown impatience of controland undue heat when your will is crossed. '

Lucy's face flushed crimson, as she answered, --

'It is not kind to say this, Mary. You know--you must know how hard it isto please the one who rules here. '

'I know it, dear child, full well, ' Mary said. 'But we must not hinder MrSidney longer. It will be only right to consult our stepmother, and craveleave of Mr Sidney to defer an answer till the morrow. '

'By all means, Mistress Gifford, do so, ' Philip Sidney said. 

While these words had passed between the two sisters, little Ambrose hadbeen curiously stroking the hilt of Mr Sidney's sword, and fingering thewide ends of the belt which held it in its place. 

'Oh, ' the child said, 'I hope I shall have a sword when I am a man, and goto battle with you, sir. Will you take me with you when I am big andstrong?'

'Will I not!' Mr Sidney said. 'The time may come when I shall want togather all loyal hearts round me for service. I'll not forget you, Ambrose, if so it chances. '

'You are but a little child, my son, ' Mary said, with a sudden gesture, putting her arm round him. 'You must stay with your mother for a long, longtime, and be a dutiful son. '

'I am near seven years old, and I can fling a stone further than Giles, the cowherd's boy, and I can bend a bow, and--'

'Hush, my little son, ' Mary Gifford said. 'Do not chatter of your doings. Mr Sidney does not care to hear of them. '

'Strength of limb is good, ' Philip said, 'but strength of will is better, little Ambrose. Strive to be a dutiful son to the best of mothers. Afatherless boy has to do his utmost to have a care of his mother. '

The child left Philip Sidney's side, and went to his mother, who had turnedaway her face, with an exclamation of distress. 

'Fatherless, ' she repeated; 'ay, and worse than fatherless!'

But the words did not reach Mr Sidney's ears. His groom was waiting for himat the gate leading to the lane, and, taking Ambrose by the hand, hesaid, --

'Come with me, boy, and I will give you a ride to the end of the lane; anddo you, Mistress Lucy, follow, and take back the young horseman when I haveput him down, if it please you. '

'I will come also, ' Mary Gifford said hastily. 

She could scarcely bear her boy out of her sight, and watched him withanxious eyes, as Sir Philip set him on the saddle, across which his smalllegs could scarcely stride, the child dumb with delight, his eyessparkling, his little hands clutching the bridle-rein, and his figure drawnup to its full height. 

'Oh, have a care, Ambrose, ' Mary exclaimed. 

Mr Sidney laughed. 

'He shall come to no harm, Mistress Gifford. My hand is ready to stop himif he falls. But, indeed, there is no fear; he sits square and upright, like a man. '

The beautiful, well-trained horse arched his neck in reply to his master's'Softly, Hero--quietly, ' as he stepped out, raising his feet deliberately, with that stately air which marks high breeding, and pacing down the ruggedpath of the lane, with slow and measured tread, Mr Sidney at his side, thegroom in attendance following with the other horse. 

'Oh, I would like to ride like thus far, far away, ' the boy said, as MrSidney lifted him down, and set him by his mother's side. 

'Make Mr Sidney your bow, and say you are grateful to him for this greatkindness, Ambrose. '

The child was almost too excited to speak, but Mr Sidney sprang lightlyinto the saddle, and, with a parting smile to Lucy, with the words, 'Weshall await your decision, Mistress Forrester, ' he rode away, the groomfollowing. 

Lucy stood at the turn of the road, watching the horses and the riders, till they had disappeared, and then she returned to the house with Mary, like the child, too happy to speak. They reached the house together, andwere met by Mrs Forrester. 

She had heard of Mr Sidney's visit, and had hastened upstairs to exchangeher coarse homespun for a gown of grey taffeta and a kirtle of the samecolour; a large white cap or hood was set a little awry on her thin, greyhair. 

'You might have had the grace to ask Mr Sidney to step in, ' she saidsharply to Mary Gifford. 'It is ill manners to stand chaffering outsidewhen the mistress of a house would fain offer a cup of mead to her guest. But I never look for aught but uncivil conduct from either of you. What areyou pranked out for like this?' she asked, addressing Lucy. 

'I am going to sup with Mistress Ratcliffe. You needn't look so cross. Isha'n't trouble you long. I am going to Court with my Lady Pembroke, and Imay never darken your doors again. '

'You'll get into mischief like your sister before you, I'll warrant, and ifyou do, don't come back here, for I'll shut the door in your face, as sureas my name is Anne Forrester. '

'Have no fear, ' Lucy said. 'I am away now by the path across the hills. '

'Nay, Lucy!' Mary exclaimed. 'Nay, by the highway is best. The hill path islonesome. Stay, Lucy. '

But Lucy was gone, and Mary, looking after her retreating figure, could notgainsay Mistress Forrester, as she said, --

'Wilful, headstrong little baggage, she will rue her behaviour some fineday, as you have done. '

'Mother, ' Mary Gifford said, in a troubled voice, 'do not be for everreproaching me in the hearing of others, it is cruel. It may be better foryou and for me if I leave my father's house, and seek some humble refugewith my boy. '

But this did not suit Mistress Forrester's views. Mary Gifford was far toouseful to her. She could write, and manage the accounts of the farm; shecould, by a few calm words, effect more with lazy or careless serving menand maids than their mistress did by scolding and reproofs, oftenaccompanied with a box on the ear or a sharp blow across the shoulder toenforce what she said. 

It would not answer Mistress Forrester's purpose to let Mary Gifford go, soshe said, --

'Hoity, toity! don't talk like that. It's folly to say you will leave agood home when you have no home to go to. Bide here, and let bygones bebygones. I am ready to be friendly if you'll let me. I must away now to seeabout the two sick lambs; it's all along of the shepherd's ill treatment ofthe ewe that I am like to lose 'em. '

Mistress Forrester bustled away, and Mary Gifford was left with Ambrose, who was making a hobbyhorse of a thick stick, scampering up and down, andcalling out, --

'Gee-up, Hero! I'm off to the fight with Mr Sidney. '

Mary looked at the boy with a strange, wistful smile. 

'Poor child!' she murmured, 'poor child! he hath no young comrades withwhom to make merry. It is well he can be so jocund and happy. It is truewhat Mistress Gifford saith, I have no home, and I must bide quietly here, for the boy is safe, and who can tell to what danger I might not expose himif I ventured forth with him into the world again. '

Lucy Forrester went gaily across the open ground, fearless of any dangerfrom horned cattle, of which there were several feeding on the short sweetgrass. 

She sang as she went, out of the gladness of her heart; triumph, too, mingled with the gladness. 

How surprised Mistress Ratcliffe would be to hear she was to be awaiting-woman to my lady the Countess of Pembroke. George had thought ofasking his mother to take her to London. Humphrey had spoken of a cornerbeing found for her. Now, what did it matter whether Mistress Ratcliffeconsented or not to her son's desire. She had no need to be beholden toher. She would be lodged in a grand house, and have a place with the ladiesof the Countess's household. 

Remembering how Mistress Ratcliffe had often looked down upon her and Mary, it was a keen delight to her to feel how chagrined she would be at herunexpected good fortune. 

It was not absolutely settled yet, but she was sure Mary would giveconsent, and, on the morrow, after service in the church, she would beadmitted to the grand house at Penshurst, and see the Countess herself, andperhaps Mr Philip Sidney. 

Perched on a stile to rest, Lucy indulged in a prolonged meditation on thefair prospect which had so unexpectedly opened before her. Of course Marywould make no real objection. No one ever did resist Mr Philip Sidney'swill, and it was he had proposed the scheme, and he wished her to be one ofhis sister's waiting-women. 

This gave the poor, little fluttering heart the most intense pleasure, which she could scarcely dare to acknowledge, even to herself. Still, hadnot Mr Sidney come to offer the coveted place to her--come himself? And hadhe not beamed on her with his beautiful smile? Yes, and with admiring eyes!

How long Lucy might have indulged in these thoughts it is impossible tosay, had she not been suddenly conscious that she was not alone. 

Stealthy footsteps were heard approaching from behind, and, turning herhead, she saw a tall man, wearing a long cloak, much the worse for wear, and a hat, with neither band nor feather, pulled down over his eyes. 

Lucy started, and jumped from the stile, her heart beating violently, andher face, which a few moments before had been radiant with pleasure, paleand frightened. 

'Whither away, little maiden; why so scared?' the man said. 'I mean noharm. See!' he said, taking a rosary from under his cloak, 'see, I kiss theblessed cross, in token that you need not fear. I am a poor Catholic, hiding from persecutors, wandering about and living in dens and caves ofthe earth. '

Lucy had, in her short life, heard nothing but condemnation of Papists. When she thought of them at all, it was with horror, and her knees trembledunder her, and her voice was scarcely audible as she said, --

'Prithee, sir, suffer me to pass. '

'On one condition. You know a house called Ford Place?'

'Ay, sir, I do; and I will run back thither and--'

'You will _not_ do so, little maiden; you will tell me how it fares with agentlewoman there, called Mary Gifford?'

'She is well, sir; she is--'

'Hearken! She has a boy named Ambrose. I would fain see him. Bring himhither to me, and I will call on all the saints to bless you. Our Ladyshall watch over you and grant you your heart's desire. '

'I cannot do it, sir; I dare not! Let me pass. If you would fain see theboy, go to the house. '

'And be seized and taken off before the grand folk down yonder andimprisoned, and, it may be, tortured. Hearken, ' he went on, bringing hisface unpleasantly near Lucy's, 'hearken, I can call down blessings on you, but I can call down bitter curses also. Your heart's desire shall be deniedyou, you shall eat the bread of affliction and drink the water of tears, if you betray me. If you keep my secret, and let me see that boy, blessingsshall be showered on you; choose now. '

Poor Lucy was but a child, she had scarcely counted out sixteen years. Thisstrange man, with his keen dark eyes gleaming under the black cap andlooking as if they read her very soul, seemed to get her into his power. She was faint with terror, and looked round in vain for help, for some oneto come who would deliver her from her trouble. 

With a cry of delight she sprang again on the topmost rung of the stile, asshe saw George Ratcliffe's giant form appearing in the distance on theslope of a rising ground. 

The hillside was covered in this part with great hillocks of heather andgorse. 

Apparently her persecutor had also caught sight of the approaching figure, for he relaxed his hold on her wrist, which he had seized as she had sprungup on the stile, and, looking back when she had run some distance towardsGeorge, she saw that the man had disappeared. 

'George! George!' she cried, as he came with great strides towards her, and, to his intense satisfaction, even in his dismay at her apparentdistress, threw herself into his arms. 'George! a dreadful man, a Papist, has scared me. He will curse me, George. Oh! it is terrible to be cursed. Save me from him. '

George looked about in bewilderment. 

'I see no man. There is no one near, Lucy. I see no one. '

'Did you not see him as you came in sight?'

'Nay, I was thinking only of you, and hoping to meet you on your way. I sawno man, nor did I see you till I had come up yonder rising ground, just asyou mounted the stile. Be not so distressed, ' George said, 'we will scourthe country for the villain, for villain he must be if he is a Papist; butcome now with me. My mother is well-pleased that you should sup with us. Oh! Lucy, ' George said, with lover-like earnestness, 'smile again, I prayyou, it goes to my heart to see you thus scared, though without reason, Itrust. Will it please you to stay here, while I go and unearth the wretch, and belabour him till there is no breath left in him. '

'No, no, George, don't leave me. I should fear to be left alone. Don't, don't leave me. '

George was only too willing to remain, and presently Lucy grew calmer, andthey walked slowly across the heath together. 

George was too happy for many words, and scarcely heeding even Lucy'saccount of her adventure, in the bliss of having her clinging to his arm, and the memory of that moment when she threw herself upon him forprotection and safety. 

'What can he want with Ambrose, Mary's child? He tried to make me promiseto bring him to that spot, that he might see him. What can it mean? It willfrighten Mary when I tell her, for she is ever dismayed if the child islong-out of her sight. What can it mean?'

'I cannot say, ' George replied, dreamily. 'Thank God you are safe. That manis some agent of the devil, but I will put Humphrey on the scent, and wewill track him out. I have heard there is a nest of Papists hiding inTunbridge. Doubtless he is one. Forget him now, Lucy; forget him, and behappy. '

'He gripped my wrist so hard, ' Lucy said, holding up her little hand like achild for pity. 

It is small wonder that George treated her as a child, and, taking thelittle hand in his, pressed a fervent kiss upon it. 

This seemed to recall Lucy from her clinging, softened mood. She sprangaway from George with heightened colour, and said, with all her oldbrightness, --

'I have news for you. I am going to London to see the tourney, and I am tobe one of my Lady of Pembroke's waiting-women. Isn't that grand news?'

Poor George! his dream of bliss was over now. 

'Going away!--for how long a space?' he exclaimed. 

'Ah! that I cannot tell you, for more weeks or months than I can count, maybe. '

George, who had with Humphrey done his utmost to persuade their mother toconsent to take Lucy with her, in the event of her going to London, withoutsuccess, or, rather, without a distinct promise that she would do so, wasfairly bewildered. 

'How did it come about?' he asked. 

'Oh! that is a question, indeed, Master Ratcliffe. There is someone youknow of who can bring about what he wishes. It is he who has commended meto my Lady Pembroke, hearing, it may be, from your brother, that I wishedto see the tourney, and the Queen, and all the fine doings. Mr Sidney camehimself to offer the place of waiting-woman to me. '

'Came himself!' George exclaimed. 

'And, prithee, why not; am I beneath his notice as I am beneath yourmother's? It seems not. '

George had not time to reply, for, on the square of turf before the house, Mistress Ratcliffe and her niece, Dorothy Ratcliffe, were apparentlyawaiting their arrival. 

'You are late, George, as is your wont, ' his mother said. 'Doll must makeyou more mindful of the fixed time for meals. Is this young woman MistressForrester's daughter? I bid you kindly welcome. '

'I thank you, madam, ' Lucy said. 'I have seen you many a time, and, methinks, you must have seen me; but, doubtless, I was not like to beremembered by such as you and Mistress Dorothy. '

This little thrust passed unnoticed. Mistress Ratcliffe merely said, --

'George, lead your cousin Doll to the hall, for supper is served. MistressLucy, will you permit me to take your hand?'

Lucy made another curtsey, as George, with a rueful face, obeyed his motherand handed his cousin up the stone steps to the porch, his mother and Lucyfollowing. 

Mistress Ratcliffe was attired in her best gown, with a long-pointed waistand tight sleeves slashed with purple. Her ruff rivalled the Queen's inthickness and height; and the heavy folds of her lute-string skirt wereheld out by a wide hoop, which occupied the somewhat narrow doorway as theyentered the hall. 

Lucy was more than usually hungry, and did full justice to the pasties andconserves of apples which graced the board. As she looked at DorothyRatcliffe her heart swelled with triumph, for she was not slow to noticethat the household below the salt cast admiring glances at her, and thatDorothy attracted no attention. 

George's spirits had sunk below their accustomed level, and his mothersharply reproved him for inattention to his cousin. 

'You are ill performing the duties of a host, George. See, Doll's trencheris empty, and the grace-cup is standing by your elbow unheeded. Are youdreaming, George, or half-asleep?'

'I crave pardon, mother, ' George said, with a great effort rousing himself. 'Now then, cousin Doll, let me carve you a second portion of the pasty; or, mayhap, the wing of this roast pullet will suit your dainty appetitebetter. '

Dorothy pouted. 

'I have not such vulgar appetites as some folk. Nay, I thank you, cousin, I will but taste a little whipped cream with a sweet biscuit. '

George piled up a mountain of frothy cream on one of the silver plates, which were the pride and glory of his mother. The wooden trenchers wereused for the heavier viands; but these silver plates were brought out inhonour of guests, for the sweets or fruit which always came at theconclusion of the repast. 

These silver plates were kept brightly burnished, and Lucy, as she sawherself reflected in hers, said, laughing, --

'It is pleasant to eat off mirrors--that is to say when what we see thereis pleasant. '

Madam Ratcliffe, although full of satisfaction to have her 'household gods'admired, concealed it, and said, with an inclination of her head towardsDorothy, --

'It is no novel thing for you to eat off silver, but I dare to say it isthe first time Mistress Lucy has done so. '

'That may be true, madam, ' Lucy said--she was never at a loss for arejoinder--'but, methinks, I shall soon eat off silver every day an' Ichoose to do it. '

'How so?' asked Mistress Ratcliffe; but the moment the question was asked, she repented showing any curiosity about it, and made a diversion toprevent a reply by suddenly breaking into admiration of the lace whichtrimmed Dorothy Ratcliffe's bodice. 

'It is Flemish point, sure; and did it not descend to you, Doll, from yourgrandmother? I have a passion for old lace; and these sapphires of yourbrooch are of fine water. Now, shall we repair to the parlour, and you, Dorothy, will discourse some sweet music on your mandoline. '

The parlour was a dark room, with oak panels, and a heavy beam across theceiling. The floor was polished oak, which was slippery to unwary feet. Theopen fireplace was filled by a large beau-pot filled with a posy of flowingshrubs and long grass and rushes. 

Rushes were strewn on the raised floor of the square bay window. Aspinning-wheel stood there, and the stool of carved oak, where MistressRatcliffe sat when at her work, that she might have an eye to any who camein at the gate, and perhaps catch one of the serving-maids gossiping with apasser-by. 

There was a settle in one corner of the parlour, and a cupboard withshelves in a recess in the thick wall. Here the silver was kept, and somecurious old figures which had been, like the plate, handed down from theancestors of whom Mistress Ratcliffe was so proud. 

In another recess were a few books, in heavy vellum bindings--Tyndale'stranslation of the Bible, with silver clasps; and some dull sermons, roughly bound, with an early edition of the Boke of Chess; the prayer-bookof Edward the Sixth, and some smaller and insignificant volumes, completedMistress Ratcliffe's library. 

Mistress Ratcliffe did not concern herself with the awakening life of theseremarkable times in literature and culture. 

It was nothing to her that numerous poets and authors, from Edmund Spenserto many humbler craftsmen of the pen, were busy translating from theItalian the tales of Boccaccio, or the Latin of Virgil. 

The horizon had not yet widened to the small landed proprietors of thesedays, and education, as we understand the word, was confined to the few, and had not reached the people to whom the concerns of everyday life wereall-important. Women like Mistress Ratcliffe could often scarcely writetheir own names, and read slowly and with difficulty the psalms in theirprayer-book, or the lessons of the Church in their Bible. 

Spelling was eccentric, even in the highest circles, as many letters stillpreserved in family archives prove, and was made to suit the ear and eye ofthe writer, without reference to rule or form. 

The evening passed somewhat slowly. There was an evident restraint uponevery one present. 

Dorothy's performance on the mandoline did not elicit much praise, exceptfrom Mistress Ratcliffe, who was annoyed that George should seat himself onthe settle, by Lucy's side, and encourage her to talk, instead of listeningwhile his cousin sang a melancholy ditty, in anything but a musical voice. 

When Dorothy had finished, she laid down the mandoline in a pet, andyawning, said, --

'I am weary after my long ride from Tunbridge, Aunt Ratcliffe. I pray youforgive me if I retire early to bed. '

'Nay, Doll, you must have a cup of spiced wine ere you go, we cannot spareyou yet. '

'It is plain I am not wanted, so I can well be spared, ' was the reply, witha disagreeable laugh and a jerk of the head in the direction of the settle. 

Lucy now sprang up, saying, --

'I, too, must crave leave to bid you good evening, Mistress Ratcliffe. Ihave to settle plans with my sister before I sleep to-night, and theevening shadows are falling. '

'If you must leave us, Mistress Forrester, ' Mistress Ratcliffe saidstiffly, 'I may as well inform you, with regret, that the plan proposed bymy sons for asking you to bear me company to London in a useful capacity, cannot be fulfilled. I take my niece with me, and two serving-men on thesecond horse, hence--'

'Oh! madam, ' Lucy said, 'there is no need of excusations. I go to London inthe next week as waiting-woman to my lady the Countess of Pembroke. It maybe that I shall see you there, and I shall be sure to know you and MistressDorothy, and make you my proper reverence, even if you have forgotten me. '

'The impudent little hussy!' Mistress Ratcliffe murmured, but she retainedher feelings, and said, --

'It is fortunate for you, Mistress Forrester, that you will be under duecontrol in London, for in good sooth you will need it. If you must go, goodevening. '

Lucy turned at the door and made a profound curtsey, then, drawing herkerchief closer to her throat, she left the room, George following. 

'I don't set much store by Mistress Forrester's manner, Aunt Ratcliffe, 'Dorothy said; 'an ill-bred country child, who, of course, is ignorant, sowe will pardon her. '

'Ignorant, yes, ' Mistress Ratcliffe said, 'but her pretty face. '

'Pretty!' Dorothy screamed, 'Pretty! Nay, aunt, you cannot call thatbaby-faced chit pretty. No air; no breeding; mere dairymaid's beauty. Itmakes me laugh to think how proud she was of her fine gown and cap, whichonly showed her awkward gait the more. ' And Mistress Dorothy fingered herFlemish lace and the string of beads round her short, thick neck, withprofound belief in her own charms. 

If Lucy's beauty was that of a milkmaid, Dorothy's was decidedly of adifferent character. Her complexion was sallow and pale; her hair, whichwas by no means abundant, was of the sandy hue, which she tried to persuadeherself was like the Queen's. Her eyes were of a greenish colour, anddeeply set under a heavy forehead, and her figure was angular andungraceful. 

Fine feathers do not always make a fine bird, and Dorothy Ratcliffe, although with what in those days was considered to be a fortune at herback, did not find fervent suitors for her favour. She was, therefore, veryready to fall in with Mistress Ratcliffe's wishes, and take pains toingratiate herself with George, failing Humphrey, whose position as one ofMr Sidney's esquires, made him the more desirable of the two brothers. 

Dorothy Ratcliffe was the child of George's uncle, who was a recluse livingat Tunbridge. He was a scholar and a pedant, and concerned himself butlittle about his only child, whose fortune was inherited from her mother. 

Marriages in those days were generally settled for the people principallyconcerned, with or without their consent, as it happened, and MasterRatcliffe and George's mother had a sort of tacit understanding with eachother that Dorothy should take herself and her fortune to Hillbrow Place. 

Dorothy was not unwilling to find herself mistress there, but she hadalways a lingering hope that Humphrey would at last be a victim to hercharms, and then it would be easy to throw George over. 

But things did not look very promising, and Dorothy asked, in an irritabletone, before she parted with her aunt for the night, --

'Is Humphrey so taken up with the grand folk that he cannot find the timeto pay his dutiful respects to you, aunt?'

'He was here late the last evening, ' Mistress Ratcliffe said, 'and is, withGeorge, anxious to furnish Mr Sidney with the pick of the horses in thestable. Humphrey can scarce stir from Mr Sidney. '

'So it seems, ' Dorothy said. 'Methinks, where there's a will there's a way;but we shall have his company in London. '

'Yes, and George's also. You will favour my poor boy's suit, Doll. '

'Your poor boy! nay, aunt, he is not worthy of pity, when he wins favourfrom a peerless beauty like Mistress Forrester. But let be, it will notbreak my heart if he gives you this fair country maid for your daughter, who has not--so I have heard--so much as a brass farthing to call her own. '

Deeply chagrined, and with an uneasy suspicion that Dorothy might be rightin what she said, Mistress Ratcliffe left her niece to repose, saying toherself, 'She has a tongue and a temper of her own, but we will soon tameher when we get her here. '

CHAPTER IV

THE HAWK AND THE BIRD

 'So doth the fox the lamb destroy we see, The lion fierce, the beaver, roe or gray, The hawk the fowl, the greater wrong the less, The lofty proud the lowly poor oppress. '

 JOHN DAVIES, 1613. 

When George left Lucy at the door of Ford Place, she ran quickly throughthe kitchen, where Mistress Forrester was resting on the settle after thelabours of the day. 

Things had not gone well with the sick lambs, both were dead, and one ofthe cart-horses had gone lame, and the eggs of the pea-hen were addled. 

These circumstances were not likely to sweeten Mistress Forrester's temper, and Lucy, who never bore malice, received a sharp answer in reply to herinquiries as to the condition of the lambs. 

'They are dead, and much you care, flaunting off with your lover instead ofturning your hand to help at home. '

'I could not have saved the lambs' lives, ' Lucy said, 'but I am sorry theyare dead. I am sorry when any creature dies. '

'I dare say! Be off to bed, for I am locking up in a minute. '

'Where is Mary?' Lucy asked. 

'A-bed. That boy has cut his little finger, or some such thing. Lor'! shewas like to swoon with terror when she saw the blood; the child himself wasnot such a coward. '

Lucy hastened upstairs, and found Mary by the window in her favourite seat. A book lay open on her knee, and, when Lucy came in, she held up her hand, and, pointing to the bed, said, --

'Hush! he is asleep. '

'What has happened?' Lucy said. 'Is the boy hurt?'

'He cut his hand with an old knife, and the blood poured forth. Oh, Lucy, if aught were to befall him, I scarce dare think of what would become ofme. '

Lucy thought of the strange encounter she had had with the man on the hillpath, and wondered whether it were kind to raise her sister's fears aboutAmbrose. 

'Come and sit by me, sweetheart, ' Mary said, making room for her sister onthe deep window seat. 'I am troubled to-night with a shadow of cominggrief. Sure I have had enough, and I am young yet. Twenty-five is young, though I dare to say I seem old to you, little sister. I am perplexed inmind, and tossed about with doubt. Can you think of me as a merry, light-hearted maiden, donning my smartest gown to go at Lady Mary's biddingto the Park, where great festivities were held in honour of the Queen'svisit? Ah, child, it was then soft words and flattery turned my head, andI--well, I have rued it to this hour. Thus, dear Lucy, when I think of yourgoing forth in my Lady Pembroke's train, I fear for you. I will pray also, and pray God may watch over you. '

'Then I may go, ' Lucy said. 'I may really go. Oh, Mary, Mary, I am sohappy!'

Then, remembering her encounter with the stranger she said, --

'I met a man on the hill path as I went to Hillbrow. He scared me a littlebit, but George Ratcliffe came up, and he made off and like a ghostvanished. '

'A man!' Mary exclaimed, in a low voice of suppressed fear. 'What man?'

'He was clad in a long cloak, with a cap pulled over his brow. He had evileyes--dark, piercing eyes. '

Mary Gifford's clasp of her young sister tightened convulsively, and herheart throbbed so that Lucy could feel it as she pressed her closer andcloser. 

'What did he say to you, this strange man?'

'He said he would fain see little Ambrose, and bid me bring him to thestile where he met me, that he might look at him. He said he would call acurse down on me if I refused. He looked dreadful as he spoke. And thenGeorge came. But, Mary--'

For Mary had sprung to her feet, and, with hands clasped and eyes dilatedwith terror, she stood like one struck down by some sudden blow. 

'Promise, swear, Lucy, you will never take the child outside the fence onthe hill side. Swear, Lucy. '

Lucy was frightened by her sister's vehemence, and said, --

'Yes, I promise. Oh, Mary, do not look like that. Do you know the man?'

'Know him! know him! Nay. How should I?' Then she said, after a pause, 'Hush! we shall wake the boy. Let us talk no more to-night. Go to your bed, child; it is late, and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow is Sunday--I will go downwith you to the church, and await my Lady Pembroke by the lych gate, andyou shall have your desire, and God keep you, and bless you. '

Lucy quickly recovered her spirits; her heart was too full of delightedanticipation to have room for any prolonged fear about her sister, thoughher pale, terror-struck face, seen in the twilight, and her agonised appealto her to swear what she asked, made her say, as she lay down on her lowtruckle bed in the little attic chamber next her sister's, --

'Sure Mary must know something of that man. Perhaps he was a boon companionof her wicked husband. Ah, me! it would be a different world if all menwere brave and good and noble like--'

Before the name had taken shape on her lips, Lucy was asleep, and in herdreams there were no dark strangers with cruel black eyes and sinistersmiles, but goodly knights, in glistening armour, riding out against theiradversaries, and goodlier and nobler than the rest, before whose lance allothers fell, while the air rang with the shouts of victory, was Mr PhilipSidney. 

 * * * * *

Sunday morning dawned fair and bright. The bells of Penshurst church werechiming for matins, when Mary Gifford, leading her boy by the hand, stoodwith Lucy under the elm tree by the timbered houses by the lych gate, returning the kindly greetings of many neighbours and acquaintances. 

Overhead the great boughs of the elm tree were quivering in the softbreeze. The buds, scarcely yet unfolded into leaf, were veiled with tendergreen, while a sheaf of twigs on the trunk were clothed in emerald, inadvance of the elder branches, and making the sombre bole alive withbeauty, as the sunbeams sought them out, and cast their tiny, flickeringshadows on the ground. 

The village people always waited in the churchyard, or by the lych gatetill the household from the castle came through the door leading from thePark to the church, and this morning their appearance was looked forward towith more than usual interest. Not only was Lady Mary expected, but theCountess of Pembroke and her ladies, with Mr Sidney, and his youngbrothers, Robert and Thomas, were known to be of the party. 

[Illustration: THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST. ]

Sir Henry Sidney was seldom able to leave Ludlow for a peaceful sojourn inhis beautiful home, and Lady Mary had sometimes to make the journey fromWales 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 thenecessary claims upon it. 

When two of the gentlemen in attendance came to the gate to hold it openfor the ladies of the party to pass, the throng assembled in the churchyardmoved up near the porch, and, as Lady Mary came in sight, curtseys from thewomen and reverences from the men testified to the esteem in which she washeld. 

Lady Pembroke came next, smiling and gracious. On her sweet face were nolines of the care which marked her mother's, and she looked what she was, ahappy 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 theirheads in acknowledgment of their people's greeting. 

The Sidneys were lords of Penshurst in every sense, and the loyalty oftheir tenants and dependants was unquestioned. It is not too much to saythat Philip Sidney was regarded with admiration and respect, seldomequalled, by these simple people in the Kentish village, who felt a rightin him, and a pride, which was perhaps sweeter to him than all theadulation he won in Elizabeth's Court. 

When the Sidneys' large pew was filled with its occupants, the bellstopped, and the rest of the congregation hastened to fill the benches inthe body of the church. 

The service was conducted after the Anglican form of worship, but differedin some respects from that of the present day. The Puritans of those timeswere making every effort to get rid of what, in their eyes, were uselessforms and ceremonies, and in many places in England dissension was rife, and the dread of Popish innovations, or rather a return to Popishpractices, was mingled with fierce hatred of Papists, and apprehension oftheir designs against the life of the Queen. 

The Sidneys were staunch adherents of the reformed faith, and Philip Sidneywas the staunchest of all. He could never forget the atrocities of thatsummer night in Paris, when the treachery of the king and his motherresulted in the massacre of innocent men and women, whose only crime wastheir devotion to the faith for which they died. 

Philip Sidney had, as we know, protested with bold sincerity against theQueen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou, urging the danger to theProtestant cause in England, if the Queen should persist in herdetermination. 

Now several years had passed, and he had regained Elizabeth's favour, andhad withdrawn his opposition. 

The French Ambassadors, who were to arrive in England in the followingweek, were to be entertained with grand feasts and games, in which he andhis chief friend, Fulke Greville, were to take a leading part. 

Perhaps no one in that congregation knew or dreamed that their idealknight, as he stood up in his place amongst them, with his thoughtful faceturned towards the nave of the church, had his heart filled with misgivingsas to the part he had taken in this matter, and with still deepermisgivings as to the position in which he found himself with the only womanwhom he loved and worshipped. 

While the good clergyman was preaching a somewhat dull sermon from thewords, 'Fear God, honour the King, ' following the particular lineacceptable in those days, by enforcing loyalty and devotion to the reigningsovereign as the whole duty of man, Philip, leaning back in his seat, hishead thrown back, and that wistful, far-away look in his eyes, whichenhanced 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 villagechoir in Sternhold and Hopkins' version, and bending over the book, whichhis sister Mary had opened, pointing her finger to the first line, heraised his musical voice and sang with her the rugged lines which calledupon 'All people that on earth do dwell, to sing to the Lord with cheerfulvoice. '

Then the clergyman pronounced the blessing, and the congregation dispersed, the village people to their homes, the Sidneys towards the gate leadinginto the pleasance, which lay on the side of the house nearest to thechurch. 

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 ofexcitement. '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 hersister 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 couldscarcely conceal her agitation. 

What should she say? What if Lady Pembroke thought her too young and tooignorant? She had pictured to herself that Mr Sidney would himself have ledher to his sister, but he was gone out of sight, and she heard one of thegentlemen say to Humphrey, --

'Sir Fulke Greville has arrived with a message from the Queen. Mr Sidneyhas gone round to meet him. '

'Ill news, I wonder?' Humphrey said. 

'Nay, only some trifle about the tourney, belike a change in the colour ofthe armour, or some such folly. '

Mary and her little son and Lucy were now standing at the end of theterrace walk of smooth turf, which is raised some feet above the widepleasance below. 

'Await the Countess's pleasure here, ' Humphrey said. 'She is engaged intalk 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 daughterwere threading the narrow paths of the pleasance and chatting gaily witheach other, the bright dresses of the ladies, rivalling the colour of thespring flowers in the beds, while the jewelled hilts of the gentlemen'sswords 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 ofsong, 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 takepart. 

The picturesque side of the home of the Sidneys, which faces thispleasance, was in shadow, and made a background to the gay scene, whichaccentuated the brilliant effect of the gay throng below it. 

On the terrace Mary Gifford stood in her black garments, relieved by a longwhite veil, holding her impatient boy by the hand, while Lucy, no lessimpatient, was hoping every minute that she should receive a message fromLady Pembroke. The group at last caught the attention of Lady Mary, who hadbeen in earnest conversation with her daughter. 

'Ah! there is Mistress Gifford, ' she exclaimed, 'and the little sister ofwhom Philip spoke as suitable to be one of your waiting-women. Let ushasten 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 soundingfor dinner in the hall, shall we not bid them sit down at the board? Theymust needs be weary after their long walk, and the service, to say naughtof the sermon, ' Lady Pembroke added, laughing. 

'Hush, then; I see the good minister coming towards us. He means well, andis a godly man. '

'I do not doubt it, sweet mother; but let us mount the steps to theterrace, and show some courtesy to those waiting our pleasure there. '

'They are coming towards us, Mary. Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, 'come forward andmeet them. '

'Yes, mother, ' Ambrose said fretfully, dragging at his mother's hand. 'Ithought I was to see Mr Sidney, and that he would let me ride again. I amso weary and so hungry. '

Lady Pembroke soon tripped up the stone steps, Lady Mary following moreslowly. Lady Pembroke had all the graceful courtesy which distinguished herbrother; and that high-bred manner which, quite apart from anything likepatronage, always sets those who may be on a lower rung of the socialladder at ease in casual intercourse. 

[Illustration: PENSHURST CASTLE, FROM THE PARK. ]

There are many who aspire to be thought 'aristocratic' in their manners, and who may very successfully imitate the dress and surroundings of theold noblesse. But this gift, which showed so conspicuously in the family ofthe Sidneys, is an inheritance, and cannot be really copied. It is so easyto patronise from a lofty vantage ground, so difficult to make those belowit feel that the distance is not thought of as an impassable gulf, but isbridged over by the true politeness which lies not on the surface, but hasits root deep in the consideration for others, which finds expression inforgetfulness of self, and in remembering the feelings and tastes of thosewith whom we are brought in contact. 

Like the mists of morning under the warm beams of the sun, Mary Gifford'srestraint and shy reserve vanished when Lady Pembroke exclaimed, --

'Ah, here is the little knight that Philip told me of. See, mother, he mustbe a playfellow for your Thomas. '

Lady Mary was somewhat breathless. She could not climb the steep, stonestairs as quickly as her daughter. 

'Mistress Gifford must stay and dine with us, Mary, and then Thomas shallshow 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, wasstill making its loud, sonorous clang, and Lady Mary, taking Ambrose by thehand led him along the terrace, his mother at the other side, and Lucyfollowing with Lady Pembroke. 

Instead of immediately beginning to discuss the probability of Lucy's beingplaced 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 littlesister. 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 inwisdom as well as in stature. '

'I would fain grow in the first, madam, ' Lucy said, 'if only to pleaseMary, 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 andcranks like a saint. I cannot do so. '

'It is well to try to bear what you term quips and cranks. But we mustrepair to the hall now, ' Lady Pembroke said; and then, addressing agentlewoman 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 Forresterat your side. She dines here to-day with Mistress Gifford. '

Mary already had her place pointed out to her, a little higher up the boardwith Ambrose; and the Countess of Pembroke, with a smile, said, as shepassed 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 theserving-men. '

The family and principal guests sat at the upper end of the hall, andamongst them was Mr Sidney's lifelong friend, Sir Fulke Greville. 

There was a few moments' silence, when the chaplain, raising his hand, saida Latin grace; and then there was a clatter of trenchers, and the quickpassing to and fro of the serving-men, and the sound of many voices as themeal proceeded. 

That hospitable board of the Sidneys was always well spread, and to-day, atthe upper end, Lady Mary had provided the best of viands for theentertainment of her daughter, and of her favourite son and his friend. 

Lady Mary's face was shining with motherly pride as she looked at Philipand her fair daughter, who joined with keen delight in the conversation inwhich the two friends took the lead--her quick and ready appreciation ofthe subjects under discussion winning a smile from her brother, whocontinually referred to her, if on any point he and his friend helddifferent opinions. Indeed, the Countess of Pembroke was not far behind herbrother in intellectual gifts. The French and Italian literature, in whichhe delighted, were familiar to her also; and the _Divina Commedia_ and the_Vita Nuova_ were, we may well believe, amongst her favourite works. Thegreat Poet of the Unseen must have had an especial charm for the lovers ofliterature in those times of awakening. 

The mystic and allegorical style, the quaint and grotesque imagery in whichDante delighted, must have touched an answering chord in the hearts ofscholars like Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke. 

That Philip Sidney was deeply versed in the story of Beatrice--followingher 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 againstdefeat, in the struggle between love and duty, striving to keep theabsorbing passion for his Stella within the bounds which the laws of honourand chivalry demanded, at whatever cost. No one can read the later stanzas, which are amongst the most beautiful in _Stella and Astrophel_, withoutfeeling 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 Masterthrough those mysterious realms, guided by the lady of his love, pure andfree from the fetters of earthly passion, Philip Sidney would long withunutterable longing that his love might be also as wings to bear himheavenward, like that of Dante for his Beatrice, whose name is for all timeimmortal like his own. 

When the grace was said, the company at the upper end of the great hallrose, and left it by the staircase which led to the private apartments ofthe spacious house. 

The ladies passed out first, and the Countess of Pembroke, turning at thefoot of the stairs, said, --

'Mistress Crawley, bid Lucy Forrester to follow us with Mistress Giffordand the boy. '

But Lucy was thinking more of Mr Philip Sidney than of her summons toattend his sister. She was hoping for a smile from him, and felt a thrillof disappointment as he put his arm through Sir Fulke Greville's and turnedaway to the principal entrance with his friend. 

Lucy's eyes followed them, and she was roused from her dream by a sharp tapon her shoulder. 

'Did you not hear my lady's order, child? Methinks you will need to mendyour manners if you wish to enter her service. '

Lucy's face grew crimson, and she gave Mistress Crawley a look, which, ifshe 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 manyadmirers in the neighbourhood besides George Ratcliffe, and one of themsaid 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 ammistaken. '

George resented any interference about Lucy from another man, and hegreatly objected to hear her called 'a little beauty;' for George's lovefor 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 maygo, and she will serve the Countess of Pembroke rather than MistressCrawley. '

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. Theymay sit and stitch tapestry till they are half blind, and stoop over thelace pillow till they grow crooked, for all my lady knows about it. AskMistress Betty here, she knows what a life Mistress Crawley can lead herslaves. '

The person addressed as Mistress Betty was beginning to answer, when Georgeturned away to go to the stables, where he thought Mr Sidney had probablypreceded him with Sir Fulke Greville, to examine the points of the twofresh steeds he had purchased for the tournament. But he could see nothingof Mr Sidney, and, meeting his brother Humphrey, he heard from him that hehad walked away down the avenue with Sir Fulke Greville, apparently inearnest conversation, and that they would not care to be disturbed. 

George lingered about disconsolately, and at last left the Park and wenttowards the river, which he knew Mary Gifford and Lucy must cross on theirhomeward way. At least he would have the chance of mounting guard overLucy, and be present if the man who had so lightly spoken of her should beso presumptuous as to follow her. 

After long waiting, George saw Lucy and her sister and Ambrose coming outof the gateway leading from the Park, and he was well satisfied to see thathis brother Humphrey, and no other squire, was in attendance. 

Ambrose was tired and a little querulous, and dragged heavily at hismother's hand. Humphrey offered to carry the boy, but he resented that asan indignity, and murmured that he had not seen Mr Sidney, and he wanted toride his horse again. 

'Mr Sidney has other matters on hand than to look after a tired, crossboy, ' his mother said. 'Come, my son, quicken your pace somewhat, or weshall not be at home for supper. It was a grand treat for you to beentertained 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 theburden was, --

'I want to ride on Mr Sidney's horse, ' and he dragged back morepersistently than ever, till his mother's fair face flushed with theexertion of pulling him up the steep hill, over which the low westering sunwas casting a glow, which was hot for the time of year. 

Humphrey at last settled the matter by lifting Ambrose, in spite of hisstruggles, upon his shoulders, and saying, --

'You will never be a true knight, boy, like Mr Sidney, if you growl andscold 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 forhis 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'sbroad shoulder, and soon forgot his vexation in watching the rapidevolutions of a hawk in chase of a flight of small birds, one of which atlast was made its prey. 

'See, see, mother; hark, that is the cry of the little bird, the hawk hasgot it. '

Mary Gifford stopped, and, looking up, saw the hawk in full swing, not manyhundred yards distant, with the bird in its beak, fluttering and strugglingin 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 wouldfain make my boy a page in attendance. Oh! I cannot, I dare not part withhim, he is my all--my all. '

'Nor shall you part from him, ' Humphrey said. 'No one could wish to forceyou to do so. '

'No one--no one; but if a trap were laid, if a net were spread, if aruthless 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 thewords of Holy Scripture, that such should be utterly abolished, but, ' shecontinued, changing her tone and speaking cheerfully, 'see how Lucy lagsbehind, poor child! Methinks her heart misgives her as the parting is nowcertain. She is to enter on her duties when the Countess goes to Londonwith Lady Mary Sidney, one day in this week. May God keep her safe. Youwill 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, norask for my guerdon till such time as 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 passbetween you and me. Did I not tell you, did I not warn you that so it mustbe. 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 nearlyat 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 wasscarcely more, but his mother rushed after him, calling him by name tostop. 

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 cannotfollow. '

It needed only a few of Humphrey Ratcliffe's long, quick strides toovertake Ambrose, and seize him by the arm. 

'What a plague you are to your mother, child; first you can't walk, andthen 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 oldtree 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 wenttowards the house. 

CHAPTER V

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 Lucyat the gate of Ford Place. 

From a barn came the sound of voices singing a psalm, in not very musicaltones. 

Mistress Forrester was engaging in a Puritan service with a few of thechosen ones, who would not join in what they deemed the Popish ceremoniesof the church in the valley. These stern dissenters from the reformedreligion were keeping alive that spark which, fanned into a flame somefifty years later, was to sweep through the land and devastate churches, and destroy every outward sign in crucifix, and pictured saint in faircarved niche, and image of seer or king, which were in their eyes the tokenof that Babylon which was answerable for the blood of the faithfulwitnesses for Christ!

The stern creed of the followers of Calvin had a charm for natures likeMistress Forrester, who, secure in her own salvation, could afford to lookdown on those outside the groove in which she walked; and with neitherimagination nor any love of the beautiful, she felt a gruesome satisfactionin what was ugly in her own dress and appearance, and a contempt for otherswho 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 andhad a pain in her head; she said she needed no supper, and went up to herlittle attic chamber in the roof of the house. 

Mary Gifford laid aside her long veil, and made a bowl of milk and brownbread ready for her boy; and then, while he ate it, pausing between everyspoonful to ask his mother some question, she prepared the board for theguests, whom she knew her stepmother would probably bring in from the barnwhen the long prayer was over. 

Ambrose was always full of inquiries on many subjects, and this evening hehad much to say about the picture-book Master Tom Sidney showed him--theman in the lions' den, and why they did not eat him up; the men in a bigfire that were not burned, because God kept them safe. And then he returnedto the hawk and the little bird, and wondered how many more the cruel hawkhad eaten for his supper; and, finally, wished God would take care of thelittle birds, and let the hawk live on mice like the old white owl in thebarn. The child's prattle was not heeded as much as sometimes, and Mary'sanswers 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 hishands, made him repeat a little prayer, and then he murmured out in asing-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. 

Almost before the last word was said, the white lids closed over the violeteyes, and Ambrose was asleep. Mary stood over him for a minute with claspedhands. 

'Ah! God keep him safe, nor suffer him to stray where danger lurks, ' shesaid. 

Voices below and the sound of heavy feet warned her that the meeting in thebarn was over, and her stepmother would require her presence. 

The little company which had met in the barn was composed of labourers andshepherds, with one or two of the better sort of work-people holdingsuperior positions on the estate of the Sidneys. 

Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal twang to bless thehumble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before thebenches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread andmilk, flavoured with strips of onion, were attacked by the hungry brethrenwith 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 hismouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysteriouswhisper, --

'There's a nest of Papists hiding in Tunbridge, and one of those emissariesof the Evil One is lurking about here, Mistress Forrester. Let us all be onguard. '

'Ay, ' said another, 'I've seen him. He wears the priest's garb, and he isplotting mischief. What can he want here?'

'He can work us no harm; the tables are turned now, and the Papists aregetting their deserts, ' Mistress Forrester said. 

'I wouldn't trust them, ' said the first speaker. 'They would as lief setfire to this house or yon barn as to a stake where the blessed martyrs werebound. 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, inmany cases, homeless and dying of hunger. '

'Mary consorts with grand folks down at the great house, ' MistressForrester said, 'who look with as little favour on us, or less, than on thePapists. For my part, I see but small difference between the bowings, andscrapings and mummeries practised in the church down yonder, and the massin the Papists' worship. '

'You are near right, Mistress Forrester; and those who are aiding andabetting the Queen in her marriage with a Popish prince have much to answerfor. '

'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 themen sent by the brother of the murderous French king?'

'I never heard tell on't, ' gasped an old dame. 'Dear heart! what will thecountry come to?'

'_Ruin!_' was the answer. 'And tell me not a man is godly who has orderedthe Maypole to be set up this coming first of May, and gives countenance byhis presence on the Sabbath day to the wrestling games of the villagelouts, 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, andhave neither part nor lot in these evil doings and vain sports, workingdays or Sabbath!'

Fervent Amens were uttered, and, wrapt in the mantle of self-satisfactionthat they were not as other men, the company gathered in the kitchen ofFord Manor broke up, and, in the gathering twilight, dispersed to theirhomes. 

Mary Gifford hastened to put away the remnants of the supper, and reservedthe broken fragments for the early breakfast of the poultry the nextmorning. 

Mistress Forrester did not seem inclined for conversation, and yawnedaudibly, 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 Lucyto-morrow. Jabez Coleman says we are sending her to the jaws of the lion bythis 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 tobear, I'd like to know, with a roof over your head, and your child fed andclothed? Bear indeed!' and with a low, mocking laugh, Mistress Forresterstumped with her heavy tread up the stairs which led to the upper floorfrom the further end of the kitchen. 

Mary went into the porch, and the peaceful landscape before her seemed toquiet her troubled spirit. She was so keenly alive to all that wasbeautiful in nature; her education had been imperfect, but she was open toreceive all impressions, and, during her short married life, she had beenbrought into contact with the people who were attached to the Earl ofLeicester's household, and had read books which had quickened her poetictaste and given a colour to her life. 

It is difficult for those who live in these times to realise the fervourwith which the few books then brought within the reach of the people werereceived by those who were hungry for self-culture. The Queen was anaccomplished scholar, and did her best to encourage the spread ofliterature in the country. But though the tide had set in with anever-increasing flow, the flood had not as yet reached the women in MaryForrester's position. Thus, when she married Ambrose Gifford, a new worldwas opened to her by such books as Surrey's _Translation of the Æneid_, andPainter's _Tales from Boccaccio_. She had an excellent memory, and hadlearned by heart Wyatt's _Translation of the Psalms_, and many parts ofSpenser's _Shepherd's Calendar_. This evening she took from the folds ofher gown a small book in a brown cover, which had been a gift to her thatvery day from Mary, Countess of Pembroke. 

It was the Psalms in English verse, which the brother and sister hadproduced together in the preceding year when Philip Sidney, weary of theCourt, and burdened with the weight of his love for Stella, had soothed hisspirit by this joint work with his sister as they walked together in thewide domain of Wilton, the home to which Mary Sidney went from her nativePenshurst, and which was scarcely less fair and beautiful than that whichshe left to become the wife of the Earl of Pembroke. 

It was at Wilton that _The Arcadia_ had its birth, and the description ofthe fair country where Sir Philip Sidney and his sister placed the heroesand heroines of the story may well answer as a description of both places, as they write of proud heights, garnished with stately trees; and humblevalleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; the meadowsenamelled with all sorts of flowers; the fields garnished with roses, whichmade the earth blush as bashful at its own beauty--with other imagerywhich, after the lapse of more than three hundred years, shines out throughthe tangled labyrinth of the story of _The 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, whichwas so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. Andnow, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had beenthe gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dimwaning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the linesprinted close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the bookfell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle nearand a soft tread of stealthy footsteps. 

In another moment the tall black figure Lucy had spoken of stood beforeher. 

Her heart beat fast, and it needed all her courage not to cry aloud withfear. 

'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 hitherto 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 Heavenand earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies. '

'We shall see, ' was the cool reply. 'Hearken, Mary! I left the countryafter that fray with the man you know of. They left me for dead, but I roseand escaped. The man lay dead--that consoles me--his wife--'

'Do not go over the miserable wickedness of your life. You were coveredwith dishonour, and you betrayed me. I would die sooner than give up mychild 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 theshelter of the Holy Catholic Church, and I am absolved from my sins bypenance and fasting. The unhappy woman for whom I sinned is now a professednun in a convent. I shall never look on her face again. I have joined thepriests at Douay; one Dr Allan has the control of the school. It is thereI will 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 Iwill hold him, by God's grace, safe from your evil designs. Ah, Ambrose, benot so pitiless; be merciful. '

'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; youscorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give youyour choice--commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will findmeans 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. Youbetrayed 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 Iwill keep him, God helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy bycommitting 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 shestood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and whowas the father of her child. 

The mother, roused in defence of her boy--from what she considered dangerboth 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 aday or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution from thelove he offered her, and which she could not accept. 

What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if shehad 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 oneof the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he haddied. 

The next moment the very thought was dismissed, with a prayer for grace toresist temptation, and pardon even for the thought, and Mary Gifford washer true self again. 

With the fading light of the April evening on her face--pale as death, butno longer resentful--her heart no longer filled with passionate anger andshrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stoodbefore him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly anddeceitful 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 achild's voice--a low murmur at first, then growing louder--as the dreampassed into reality. 

'Mother, mother! Ambrose wants mother!'

Then, without another word, Mary Gifford bowed her head, and, passing intothe kitchen, closed and barred the door; and, hastening to her room, threwherself 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 turnedtowards 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, andsent a sharp thrill of pain through his heart. 

Perhaps there never was a moment in his life when he felt so utterlyashamed and miserable. 

He felt the great gulf which lay between him and the pure woman whom he hadso cruelly deserted--a gulf, too, separating him from the child in hisinnocent childhood--the possession of whom he so greatly coveted. For amoment or two softer feelings got the mastery, and Ambrose Gifford stoodthere, under the starlit sky, almost resolved to relinquish his purpose, and leave the boy to his mother. But that better feeling soon passed, andthe specious reasoning, that he was doing the best for the child to havehim brought up a good Catholic, and educated as his mother could nevereducate him, and that the end justified the means, and that he was bound tocarry 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 thesaints I will do it!'

 * * * * *

The next few days passed without any summons for Lucy to join the householdat Penshurst. 

She became restless and uneasy, fearing that, after all, she might misswhat she had set her heart upon. 

Troubles, too, arose about her dress. She had been conscious on Sunday thatthe ladies in attendance were far smarter than she was; and she hadoverheard the maiden, who was addressed as 'Betty, ' say, --

'That country child is vain of her gown, but it might have been puttogether in the reign of our Queen's grandmother. And who ever saw a ruffthat shape; it is just half as thick as it ought to be. '

Poor little Lucy had other causes, as she thought, for discontent. The longdelay 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 bylittle Ambrose to see a grand lady on a white horse, who asked if MistressLucy Ratcliffe had gone to London. 

Lucy ran out in eager haste, hoping almost against hope that it was somelady from Penshurst, sent by the Countess to make the final arrangements. 

To her dismay she found Dorothy Ratcliffe being lifted from the pillion bya serving man, attired in a smart riding-robe of crimson with gold buttonsand a hood of the same material to protect her head from the sun and thekeen 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, withheightened colour. 'The tourney has been put off. '

'As we all know, ' Dorothy remarked, 'but it is well to be lodged in goodtime, 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 offone's shoulders. '

Lucy was unpleasantly conscious that she was in her ordinary dress, thather blue homespun was old and faded, that her sleeves were tucked up, andthat there was neither ruff at her throat nor ruffles at her sleeves, thather somewhat disordered locks were covered with a thick linen cap, whileMistress Ratcliffe was smartly equipped for riding after the fashion of theladies of the time. 

'Well-a-day, ' Dorothy said. 'I am vexed you are disappointed. We are off atsunrise 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 fatherhave business to go through about me and my jointure, for, after all, forpeace's sake, I shall have to wed with George, unless, ' with a toss of herhead, 'I choose another suitor in London. '

Dorothy's small eyes were fastened on Lucy as she spoke. If she hoped theinformation she had given would be unwelcome, she must have beendisappointed. Lucy was herself again, and forgot her shabby gown andwork-a-day attire, in the secret amusement she felt in Dorothy's way oftelling her proposed marriage with George Ratcliffe. 

'It will save all further plague of suitors, ' Dorothy continued, 'and thereis nought against George. If he is somewhat of a boor in manners, I cancure him, and, come what may, I dare to say he will be a better husband inthe 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 arewell thought of by everyone. '

'Ay, so I believe; but now tell me how comes it you are left out in thecold like this? I vow I did my best to wheedle the old aunt yonder to letyou come in our train, but she is as hard as a rock when she chooses. WhenI get to Hillbrow there won't be two mistresses, I warrant. One of us willhave to give in, and it won't be your humble servant! As I say I am sorryyou have lost your chance of this jaunt. It's a pity, and if I could put ina good word for you I would. I am on my way now to Penshurst Place to paymy dutiful respects to my Lady Mary Sidney. My good aunt was not ready whenI started, so I thought to tarry here to await her coming. I hear thehorse's feet, I think, in the lane. I must not make her as cross as twosticks by keeping her fuming at my delay, so good-day, Mistress Lucy. I ammightily sorry for you, but I will put in a word for you if I can. '

'I pray you not to mention my name, Mistress Dorothy, ' Lucy said. 'You arequite wrong, I am only waiting for my summons from the Countess, and I amprepared 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 theruffs either of squires or ladies are above a certain height they shall beclipped down by shearers hired for the purpose--willy nilly. As you have noruffs, it seems, this order will not touch your comfort. Good-day. '

Lucy looked after her departing visitor, seated on a pillion with theserving-man, with a scornful smile. 

It was irritating, no doubt, to be pitied by Dorothy Ratcliffe, and to haveto 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 neversuffer himself to be entrapped into a marriage with his cousin, even thoughshe had bags of gold, and finally--and that was perhaps the sweetestthought of all--did she not know whether in faded homespun, guiltless oflace or ruffle, or in her best array, no one could look twice at DorothyRatcliffe while she was by. 

So the poor little vain heart was comforted, as Lucy turned to Mary, whohad been in the bakehouse kneading flour for the coarse, brown breadconsumed by the household at Ford Manor far too quickly to please MistressForrester, with a merry laugh, --

'To think on't, Mary. Doll Ratcliffe has been visiting me to tell me she isto marry George, and be the fair mistress of Hillbrow. I could split mysides 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 LadyPembroke, 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 willwant my pity--not I hers. '

'Go and finish your work, Lucy, ' Mary said. 'Strive after a gentler andmore patient spirit. It fills me with foreboding when you give your tonguesuch licence. '

'Mary!' Lucy said, with a sudden vehemence. 'Mary! I heard you sobbing lastnight--I know I did. I heard you praying for help. Oh! Mary, I love you--Ilove you, and I would fain know why you are more unhappy than you were awhile agone. Has it aught to do with that black, dreadful man I saw on thehill?'

'Do not speak of him--not a soul must know of him. Promise, Lucy!' Marysaid. 

'But George Ratcliffe knows how he scared me that day, though he did notsee 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 thehead 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 haveyou 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. 'Mygood, brave boy!'

'Yes; I stayed, ' the child said, 'because I promised, you know. I didn'tlike it--and when a lady rode up on a big grey horse, I did begin to rundown, and then I stopped and went back to the lattice, and only looked ather. It was not a horse like Mr Sidney's, and I should not care to ride ona pillion--I like to sit square, like Mr Sidney does. When will he comeagain? If he comes, will you tell him I am learning to be a dutiful boy? Hetold me to be a dutiful boy, because I had no father; and I _will_ bedutiful and take care of you, sweet mother!'

'Ah, Ambrose! Ambrose!' Mary said, 'you are my joy and pride, when you aregood and obedient, and we will take care of each other, sweetheart, andnever part--'

'Not till I am a big man, ' Ambrose said, doubtfully, 'not till I am a bigman, then--'

'We will not speak of that day yet--it is so far off. Now we must set theboard for dinner, and you shall help me to do it, for it is near eleveno'clock. '

CHAPTER VI

THREE FRIENDS

 'To lose good days that might be better spent, To waste long nights in pensive discontent, To speed to-day--to be put back to-morrow-- To feed on hope--and pine with fear and sorrow. '

 SPENSER. 

The gentlewomen in attendance on the Queen had a sorry time of it duringPhilip Sidney's absence from the Court. 

She was irritable and dissatisfied with herself and everyone besides. Fearing lest the French Ambassador should not be received with due pomp inLondon, and sending for Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester again andagain to amend the marriage contract which was to be discussed with theDuke of Anjou's delegates. 

Secret misgivings were doubtless the reason of the Queen's uneasy mood, andshe vented her ill-humour upon her tire-women, boxing their ears if theyfailed to please her in the erection of her head-gear, or did not arrangethe stiff folds of her gold-embroidered brocade over the hoop, to herentire satisfaction. 

Messengers were despatched several times during the process of the Queen'stoilette on this May morning to inquire if Mr Philip Sidney had returnedfrom Penshurst. 

'Not returned yet!' she exclaimed, 'nor Fulke Greville with him. What keepsthem against my will? I will make 'em both rue their conduct. '

'Methinks, Madam, ' one of the ladies ventured to say, 'Mr Philip Sidney iswholly given up to the effort he is making that the coming tourney may beas brilliant as the occasion demands, and that keeps him away from Court. '

'A likely matter! You are a little fool, and had best hold your tongue ifyou can say nought more to the purpose. '

'I know Mr Sidney spares no pains to the end he has in view, Madam, and hedesires to get finer horses for his retinue. '

'You think you are in his confidence, then, ' the Queen said, angrily. 'Youare a greater fool than I thought you. I warrant you think Philip Sidney isin love with you--you are in love with him, as the whole pack of you are, Idoubt not, and so much the worse for you. '

Then the Queen having, by this sally, brought the hot tears to the lady'seyes, recovered her composure and her temper, and proceeded to take hermorning draught of spiced wine, with sweet biscuits, and then resorted tothe Council chamber, where all matters of the State were brought before herby her ministers. Here Elizabeth was the really wise and able monarch, whoearnestly desired the good of her people; here her counsellors were oftenfairly amazed at her far-seeing intelligence and her wide culture. Nocontrast could be greater than between the middle-aged Maiden Queen plumingher feathers to win the hearts of her courtiers, and listening withsatisfaction to the broadest flattery with which they could approach her, and the sovereign of a nation in times which must ever stand out in thehistory of England as the most remarkable the country has ever known, gravely deliberating with such men as Lord Burleigh and Sir FrancisWalsingham on the affairs of State at home and abroad. 

Elizabeth had scarcely seated herself in her chair, and was about to summonSir Francis Walsingham, when one of the pages-in-waiting came in, and, bending his knee, said, --

'Mr Philip Sidney craves an audience with your Highness. '

Philip was only waiting in the ante-chamber to be announced, and, beingsecure of his welcome, had followed the page into the Queen's presence, and, before Elizabeth had time to speak, he was on his knees before her, kissing the hand she held out to him. 

'Nay, Philip, I scarce know whether I will receive you--a truant should bewhipped as a punishment--but, mayhap, this will do as well for the nonce, 'and the Queen stroked Philip Sidney on both cheeks, saying, 'The gem of myCourt, how has it fared with him?'

'As well as with any man while absent from you, fair Queen. Gems, ' he addedplayfully, 'do not shine in the dark, they need the sun to call forth theirbrightness, and you are my sun; apart from you, how can I shine?'

'A pretty conceit, ' Elizabeth said. 'But tell me, Philip, are things put intrain for the due observance of such an event as the coming of thedelegates from France? It is a momentous occasion to all concerned. '

'It is, indeed, Madam, ' Philip Sidney said, 'and I pray it may result inhappiness for you and this kingdom. '

'Nay, now, Philip, are you going back to what you dared to say ofdisapproval of this marriage three years ago? I would fain hope not, foryour own sake. '

'Madam, I then, in all humility, delivered to you my sentiments. You werenot pleased to hear them, and I was so miserable as to offend you. '

'Yes, and, ' using her favourite oath 'you will again offend me if yourevive the old protest, so have a care. We exercise our royal prerogativein the matter of marriage, and I purpose to wed with the Duke of Anjou, come what may. '

'I know it, Madam, and, as your faithful subject, I am doing my utmost tomake the coming jousts worthy of your approval and worthy of the occasion. The Fortress of Beauty is erected, and the mound raised, and I would fainhope that you will be pleased to honour the victors with a smile. '

'And with something more valuable; but tell me, Philip, how does it farewith my Lady Rich? Rumour is busy, and there are tale-bearers, who haveneither clean hearts nor clean tongues. Sure you can pick and chooseamongst many ladies dying for your favour; sure your Queen may lay claim toyour devotion. Why waste your sighs on the wife of Lord Rich?'

Immediately Philip Sidney's manner changed. Not even from the Queen couldhe bear to have this sore wound touched. He rose from his half-kneeling, half-sitting position at the Queen's feet, and said in a grave voice, --

'I await your commands, Madam, which I shall hold sacred to my latestbreath, but pardon me if I beseech your Highness to refrain from themention of one whom I have lost by my own blind folly, and so madeshipwreck. '

'Tut, tut, Philip; this is vain talking for my fine scholar and statesman. Shipwreck, forsooth! Nay, your craft shall sail with flying colours yet. But I hear the voices of Burleigh and Leicester in the ante-chamber! Yourgood uncle is like to die of jealousy; if he finds I am closeted with youhe will come to the Council in an ill temper, and rouse the lion in me. So, farewell till the evening, when I command your presence at the banquet. '

'Madam, there is yet one word I would say. It is upon my good father'saffairs. '

'What now? Henry Sidney is always complaining--no money, no favour! As tothe money, he has spent a goodly sum in Ireland, and yet cries out formore, and would fain go thither again, and take you with him, to squandermore coin. '

'I have no desire, Madam, either for him to go to Ireland or for myself toaccompany him. But I pray you to consider how small a pittance he receivesas Lord President of Wales. It is ever a struggle for my mother to maintainthe dignity of your representative there. She is wearing out her life in avain effort, and you, Madam, surely know that her nature is noble, and thatshe seeks only to promote the welfare of others. '

'Ay! Mary Sidney is well enough. We will think over the matter. Command herto come to Court for this Whitsuntide, there is a chamber at her service. Now, I must to business. Stay if it suits you; you have more wits than allthe rest of us put together. Yes, that is Leicester's step and voice. '

Philip knew better than to remain without express invitation to do so fromhis uncle, the Earl of Leicester. It was, perhaps, only natural that theelder man should be jealous of the younger, who had, when scarcelyfour-and-twenty, already gained a reputation for statesmanship at home andabroad. Brilliant as Leicester was, he was secretly conscious that therewere heights which he had failed to reach, and that his nephew, PhilipSidney, had won a place in the favour of his sovereign, which even thehonest protest he had made against this marriage with the Duke of Anjou hadfailed to destroy; a high place also in the esteem of the world by thepurity of his life and the nobleness of a nature which commended itselfalike to gentle and simple; while he had the reputation of a true knightand brave soldier, pure, and without reproach, as well as a scholar versedin the literature of other countries, and foremost himself amongst thescholars and poets of the day. 

Philip Sidney left the presence-chamber by another door as his uncle andLord Burleigh entered it, and went to his own apartments, where he expectedto meet some friends, and discuss with them topics more interesting andprofitable than the intrigues of the Court and the Queen's matrimonialprojects. 

Edmund Spenser's dedication to the _Shepherd's Calendar_ is well known, andthere can be no doubt that he owed much to Sidney's discriminatingpatronage. 

That dedication was no empty compliment to win favour, and the friendshipbetween Edmund Spenser and Philip Sidney gathered strength with time. Theyhad often walked together under the trees at Penshurst, and a sort of clubhad been established, of which the members were Gabriel Harvey, EdwardDyer, Fulke Greville and others, intended for the formation of a new schoolof poetry. Philip Sidney was the president, and Spenser, the youngest andmost enthusiastic member, while Gabriel Harvey, who was the oldest, wasmost strict in enforcing the rules laid down, and ready with counsel andencouragement. 

The result of all the deliberations of this club were very curious, and theattempt made to force the English tongue into hexameters and iambicssignally failed. 

Philip Sidney and Spenser were the first to discover that the hexametercould never take its place in English verse, and they had to endure someopposition and even raillery from Gabriel Harvey, who was especiallyannoyed at Edmund Spenser's desertion; and had bid him farewell till God orsome good angel put him in a better mind. 

This literary club had broken up three years before this time, but EdmundSpenser and Sir Fulke Greville still corresponded or met at intervals withSidney to compare their literary efforts and criticise them freely, Spenser's always being pronounced, as doubtless they were, far above theothers in beauty of style and poetical conception. 

By Philip Sidney's influence Spenser had been sent to Ireland as secretaryto Lord Grey of Wilton, whose recall was now considered certain. Sir HenrySidney would have been willing to return as Deputy with his son under him;but, having been badly supported in the past, he stipulated that the Queenshould reward his long service by a peerage and a grant of money or landsas a public mark of her confidence. 

Philip found Sir Fulke Greville in his room, and with him Edward Dyer, whohad come to discuss a letter from Edmund Spenser, which he wished hisfriends to hear. 

'He fears he shall lose his place if Lord Grey be recalled, and beseechesme, ' Philip said, 'to do my best that he should remain secretary towhomsoever the Queen may appoint. '

'And that will be an easy matter, methinks, ' Dyer said, 'if the rumour istrue that your good father is again to be appointed Deputy of Ireland, withyou for his helper. '

'Contradict that rumour, good Ned, ' Philip said. 'There is but the barestchance of the Queen's reinstating my father, and if, indeed, it happenedso, I should not accept the post under him. I will write to our friendSpenser and bid him take courage. His friends will not desert him. But Ihave here a stanza or two of the _Fairie Queene_, for which Edmund begs meto seek your approval or condemnation. '

'It will be the first, ' Fulke Greville said, 'as he very well knows, and itwill not surprise me to find our good friend Harvey at last giving him hismeed of praise, albeit he was so rash as to say that hexameters in Englishare either like a lame gosling that draweth one leg after, or like a lamedog that holdeth one leg up. '

Fulke Greville laughed, saying, --

'A very apt simile; at least, for any attempt I was bold enow to make; butread on, Philip. I see a whole page of Edmund's somewhat cramped writing. '

'It is but a fragment, ' Philip said, 'but Edmund makes a note below that hehad in his mind a fair morning, when we walked together at Penshurst, andthat the sounds and sights he here describes in verse are wafted to himfrom that time. '

'Why do you sigh as you say that, Philip? Come, man, let us have nomelancholy remembrances, when all ought to be bright and gay. '

'The past time has ever somewhat of sadness as we live in it again. Haveyou never heard, Fulke, of the hope deferred that maketh a sick heart, norof the hunger of the soul for the tree of life, which is to be everdenied?'

'I am in no mood for such melancholy, ' was the answer. 'Let us hear whatSpenser saith of that time of which you speak. I'll warrant we shall findit hard to pick out faults in what he writes therein. 

Then Philip read, --

 'Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as att once might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee, For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee-- Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree. 

 'The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheerefull shade, Their notes unto the voyce attempred sweet, Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters' fall, The waters' fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call, The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. '

We may well think that these stanzas, which form a part of the 12th cantoof the Second Book of the _Faerie Queene_ have seldom been read to a moreappreciative audience, nor by a more musical voice. After a moment'ssilence, Edward Dyer said, --

'I find nought to complain of in all these lines. They flow like the streamrippling adown from the mountain side--a stream as pure as the fountainwhence it springs. '

'Ay, ' Fulke Greville said; 'that is true. Methinks the hypercritic mightsay there should not be two words of the same spelling and sound andmeaning, to make the rhyme, as in the lines ending with meet. '

'A truce to such comment, Fulke, ' Philip said. 'Rhyme is not of necessitypoetry, nor poetry rhyme. There be many true poets who never strung arhyme, and rhymers who know nought of poetry. '

'But, hearken; Edmund has wrote more verses on the further side of thissheet. I will e'en read them, if it pleases you to hear. '

Fulke Greville made a gesture of assent, and Philip Sidney read, with adepth of pathos in his voice which thrilled the listeners, --

 'Ah! see, whoso faire thing dost faine to see, In springing flowre the image of thy day! Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee Doth first peepe foorth with bashful modestee, That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may! Lo! see soone after how more bold and free Her bared bosome she doth broad display. Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away!

 'So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre, No more doth flourish after first decay. That erst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a ladie, and many a paramoure! Gather, therefore, the rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age that will her pride deflowre; Gather the rose of love, whilst yet is time, Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime. '

These last verses were received in silence. There was no remark made onthem, and no criticism. 

Probably both Sidney's friends felt that they referred to what was toosacred to be touched by a careless hand; and, indeed, there was no one, even amongst Philip's dearest friends, except his sister Mary, the Countessof Pembroke, who ever approached the subject of his love for Stella--thatrose which Philip had not gathered when within his reach, and which was nowdrooping under an influence more merciless than that of age--the banefulinfluence of a most unhappy marriage. 

The Queen had that very morning spoken out with a pitiless bluntness, whichhad made Philip unusually thoughtful. The very words the Queen had usedhaunted him--'tale-bearers, who had neither clean hearts nor cleantongue. '

Edward Dyer, according to the custom of the friends when they met, readsome verses he had lately composed, and Fulke Greville followed. 

Then Philip Sidney was called upon to contribute a sonnet or stanza. 

If he never reached the highest standard of poetry, and, even in his beststanzas of _Stella and Astrophel_, rivalled the sweet flow of EdmundSpenser's verse, he had the gift of making his verses vividly express whatwas uppermost in his mind at the moment, as many of the _Stella andAstrophel_ poems abundantly testify. 

In early youth Philip Sidney had been influenced by a distinguished convertto the Reformed Faith, Hubert Languet, whom he met at Frankfort. Betweenthis man of fifty-four and the boy of eighteen, who had gone abroad forthoughtful travel and diligent study, a strong--even a romantic--friendshiphad sprung up, and the letters which have been preserved show howunwavering Hubert Languet was in his devotion to the young Englishman, whose fine and noble qualities he had been quick to discover. 

About this time Philip was anxious as to the health of his old friend. Hisletters had been less frequent, and the last he had received during thepresent year, had seemed to tell of failing powers of body, though the mindwas as vigorous as ever. 

Thus, the two verses which Philip now read from his _Arcadia_ had referenceto his old and dearly-loved counsellor and friend, and were inspired bythe lifelong gratitude he felt for him. They are clothed, as was the twofrequent custom of the time, in pastoral images; but Fulke Greville andEdward Dyer listened spellbound as the words were uttered, in musicaltones, with a strength of feeling underlying them, which gave every line adeep significance. 

 'The song I sang, old Languet had me taught, Languet, the shepherd, best swift Ister knew; For, clerkly read, and hating what is naught For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true, With his sweet skill my skilless youth he drew, To have a feeling taste of Him that sits Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits. 

 'He said the music best those powers pleased, Was jump accord between our wit and will, Where highest notes to godliness are raised, And lowest sink, not down to jot of ill, With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill, How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive, Spoiling their flock, or while 'twixt them they strive. '

'There is naught to complain of in those verses, Philip, ' Fulke Grevillesaid. 'He must be a sharp censor, indeed, who could find fault with them. We must do our best to bring good old Gabriel Harvey back to join ourAreopagus, as Edmund Spenser is bold enough to call it. '

'Have you heard aught of the friend in whose praise the verses wereindited?' Edward Dyer asked. 

'Nay, as I said, I have had but one letter from Languet for many months. As soon as this tourney is over I must get leave to make a journey toHolland to assure myself of his condition. '

'The Queen will rebel against your absence, Philip. You are in higherfavour than ever, methinks; nor do I grudge you the honour, as, I fear, some I could name grudge it. '

Philip rose quickly, as if unwilling to enter into the subject, and, gathering together their papers, the three friends broke up their meetingand separated till the evening. 

Anyone who had seen Philip Sidney as he threw himself on a settle whenFulke Greville and Edward Dyer had left him, and had watched the profoundsadness of his face as he gave himself up to meditation on the sorrow whichoppressed him, would have found it difficult to imagine how the gracefulcourtier, who that evening after the banquet at Whitehall led the Queen, asa mark of especial favour, through the mazes of the dance, could ever haveso completely thrown off the melancholy mood for one of gaiety and apparentjoyousness. How many looked at him with envy when the Queen gave him herhand in the dance then much in fashion called the 'Brawl!' This dance hadbeen lately introduced, and the Queen delighted in it, as it gave her theopportunity of distinguishing the reigning favourite with an especial markof her favour. 

This evening the ring was formed of ladies and gentlemen chosen byElizabeth, who gorgeously attired, her hoop and stiff brocade making awide circle in the centre of the ring, called upon Philip Sidney to standthere with her. 

The Queen then, giving her hand to Philip, pirouetted with him to the soundof the music, and, stopping before the gentleman she singled out for herfavour, kissed him on the left cheek, while Philip, bending on his knee, performed the same ceremony with the lady who had been the partner of thegentleman before whom the Queen had stopped. By the rules of the dance, thecouple who stood in the centre of the ring now changed places with thosewho had been saluted, but this did not suit the Queen's mind this evening. 

She always delighted to display her dancing powers before her admiringcourtiers, exciting, as she believed, the jealousy of the ladies, who couldnot have the same opportunity of showing their graceful movements in the'Brawl. '

The Queen selected Lord Leicester and Christopher Hatton and Fulke Grevilleand several other gentlemen, and curtseyed and tripped like a girl ofsixteen instead of a mature lady of forty-nine. 

Elizabeth's caprice made her pass over again and again several courtierswho were burning with ill-concealed anger as they saw Leicester and hisnephew chosen again and again, while they were passed over. 

At last the Queen was tired, and ordered the music to cease. She was led byLeicester to the raised dais at the end of the withdrawing-room where thedancing took place, and then, at her command, Philip Sidney sang to themandoline some laudatory verses which he had composed in her honour. 

The Queen contrived to keep him near her for most of the evening, but heescaped now and then to circulate amongst the ladies of the Court and toanswer questions about the coming tournament. 

In one of the alcoves formed by the deep bay of one of the windows Philipfound his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, who was purposely waiting thereto see him alone, if possible. 

'I have been waiting for you, Philip, ' she said, 'to ask who will arrangethe position my gentlewomen will occupy at the tourney. I have severaleager to see the show, more eager, methinks, than their mistress, amongstthem the little country maiden, Lucy Forrester, whom you know of. '

'I will give what orders I can to those who control such matters. But, mysweet sister, you look graver than your wont. '

'Do I, Philip? Perhaps there is a reason; I would I could feel happy in theassurance that you have freed yourself from the bonds which I know in yourbetter moments you feel irksome. You will have no real peace of mind tillyou have freed yourself, and that I know well. '

'I am in no mood for reproaches to-night, Mary, ' Philip said, with moreheat than he often showed when speaking to his dearly-loved sister. 'Letme have respite till this tournament is over at least. ' And as he spoke, his eyes were following Lady Rich as she moved through the mazes of aSaraband--a stately Spanish dance introduced to the English Court whenPhilip was the consort of poor Queen Mary. 

'I might now be in the coveted position of Charles Blount in yonder dance, 'Philip said. 'I refrained from claiming my right to take it, and camehither to you instead. '

'Your right! Nay, Philip, you have no right. Dear brother, does it neverseem to you that you do her whom you love harm by persisting in that verylove which is--yes, Philip, I must say it--unlawful? See, now, I am struckwith the change in her since I beheld her last. The modesty which charmedme in Penelope Devereux seems vanished. Even now I hear her laugh, hollowand unreal, as she coquettes and lays herself out for the admiring noticeof the gentlemen who are watching her movements. Yes, Philip, nothing butharm can come of persisting in this unhappy passion. '

'Harm to her! Nay, I would die sooner than that harm should befall herthrough me. I pray you, Mary, let us speak of other matters. ' But though hedid begin to discuss the affairs of his father, and to beg Lady Pembroke toadvise his mother to be wary in what she urged when the Queen gave her aninterview, it was evident to his sister that his thoughts were in thedirection of his eyes, and that she could not hope to get from him the wiseadvice as to her father's embarrassments which she had expected. 

But the gently exercised influence of his pure and high-minded sister hadits effect, and long after the sounds of revelry had died away, and thequiet of night had fallen upon the palace, there was one who could notsleep. 

Philip Sidney was restlessly pacing to and fro in the confined space of thechamber allotted to him at Whitehall, and this sonnet, one of the mostbeautiful which he ever wrote, will express better than any other wordswhat effect his sister's counsel had upon him. 

 'Leave me, oh! Love! which reachest but to dust, And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things, Grow rich in that, which never taketh rust. Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. 

 Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might, To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedoms be, Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light That doth both shine and give us sight to see. 

 Oh! take fast hold! let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to Death, And think how evil becometh him to slide Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see; Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me. '

The clouds were soon to break and the light shine upon the way in that'small course' which yet lay before him. 

We who can look onward to the few years yet left to Philip Sidney, and caneven now lament that they were so few, know how his aspirations wereabundantly fulfilled, and that Love Eternal did indeed maintain its life inhis noble and true heart. 

CHAPTER VII

WHITSUNTIDE, 1581

 'The greater stroke astonisheth the more; Astonishment takes from us sense of pain; I stood amazed when others' tears begun, And now begin to weep, when they have done. '

 HENRY CONSTABLE, 1586. 

After Lucy's departure from Penshurst, Mary Gifford kept her boycontinually in sight, and, however restive Ambrose might be under thecontrol which his grandmother exercised over him, he was generally obedientto his mother. 

His high spirit was curbed by a look from her, and, having promised that hewould not go beyond the gate leading from the farmyard on one side of FordManor, or into the lane which led to the highroad on the other, Ambroseheld that promise sacred. 

He trotted along by his mother's side as she performed the duties in thedairy and poultry-yard, which Lucy's absence in the household had made itnecessary for her to undertake. Although it was a relief that peace reignednow that the wranglings between their stepmother and Lucy had ceased, Maryfound the additional work a great strain upon her, however glad she was tohave her hands well occupied, that she might have less time to brood overthe fears which her husband's visit and threats had aroused. 

Two weeks had now gone by, and these fears were comparatively laid to rest. Mary thought that her husband would not risk being seen in theneighbourhood, as news came through the Puritan friends of Mrs Forresterthat several Papists had been seized at Tunbridge, and had been thrown intoprison, on the suspicion that they were concerned in one of the Popishplots of which the Protestants were continually in dread, and in one ofwhich Edmund Campion was implicated. 

Indeed, there was an almost universal feeling throughout the country thatthe Papists cherished evil designs against the Queen's life, and that theywere only biding their time to league with those who wished to place thecaptive Queen of Scotland on the throne, and so restore England to herallegiance to the Pope. 

News of the imprisonment of this celebrated Edmund Campion had beencirculated about this time through the country, and stories of the mannerin which he had been mercilessly tortured to extract from him theconfession of a plot against Elizabeth's life. 

On the Sunday after Ascension Day there were to be great shows and games inthe village of Penshurst, and Ambrose, hearing of them from his friend Nedthe cowherd, on Saturday evening, begged his mother to let him see thesports. 

'There's a wrestling match, ' he urged, 'on the green, and a tilting betweenhorsemen in the outer park. Mother, I'd like to see it; do take me down tosee it. Oh! mother, do; I'll hold your hand all the time; I won't run awayfrom you, no, not an inch. I am six years old. I am big enough now to takecare of _you_, if there's a crowd or the horses plunge and kick. Ned saysit will be a brave show. '

'I will go down to church with you, Ambrose, ' his mother said, 'and if Ican secure a safe place I will wait for a part of the sports, but you mustnot fret if I do not stay to see the sports end, for I am tired, Ambrose, and I would fain have rest on Sunday. '

The child looked wistfully into his mother's face. 

'I'll be a very good boy, mother. I _have_ been a good boy, ' he said, 'andyou will tell Mr Sidney that I didn't plague you, and tell Master Humphreytoo. He said I was a plague to you, and I hate him for saying it. '

'Hush, Ambrose, Master Ratcliffe will be a good friend to you, if--'

'If what? if _I_ am good?

'I meant, if ever you had no mother to care for you. '

'No mother!' the child repeated, only dimly catching her meaning. 'Nomother!' and there was a sudden change in his voice, which told ofsomething that was partly fear and partly incredulity. 'No mother! but yousaid we should always have each other. I have you, and you have me. Yousaid I must not leave you, and, ' with vehemence, 'you _sha'n't_ leave me. '

'Ambrose, God's will must be done, let us trust him. '

But the boy's serious mood passed, and he was now capering about andsinging as he went in a joyous monotone as he went to find Ned in thefarmyard. 

'I am to see the sports on the morrow. I'm to see the sports on the green. '

The words reached other ears than Ned's. His grandmother came out of thebakehouse, where she had been storing piles of loaves on a high shelf, which had just been taken from the oven, and called out, --

'Sports on the Lord's Day, what does the child say? No one who eats mybread shall see that day profaned. The wrath of the Almighty will fall ontheir heads, whoever they be, mind that, Mary Gifford, mind that! Ay, Iknow what you will say, that the Queen lends her countenance to them, andyour grand folk in the great house, but as sure as you live, Mary Gifford, a curse will fall on your head if you let that child witness thiswickedness. '

Mary took refuge in silence, but her stepmother's words sounded in her earslike a knell. 

For herself she would willingly have dispensed with games and sports onSundays. Her sympathies were with those who, taking the just view of theseventh day, believed that God had ordained it for the refreshment both ofbody and soul--a day when, free from the labours of this toilsome world, the body should rest, and the soul have quiet and leisure for meditation inprivate, and for prayer and praise in the services appointed by the Church. 

Sports and merry-making were quite as much out of harmony with MaryGifford's feelings as they were with her stepmother's, but, in the dueobservance of Sunday, as in many other things, the extreme Puritan failedto influence those around them by their harsh insistence on the letterwhich killeth, and the utter absence of that spirit of love which givethlife. 

The villagers assembled in the churchyard on this Sunday morning were notso numerous as sometimes, and the pew occupied by the Sidneys, when thefamily was in residence at the Park, was empty. 

Mary Gifford and her boy, as they knelt together by a bench near thechancel steps, attracted the attention of the old Rector. He had seen thembefore, and had many times exchanged a kindly greeting with Mary andcomplimented Lucy on her 'lilies and roses, ' and asked in a jocose way forthat good and amiable lady, their stepmother! But there was something inMary's attitude and rapt devotion as the light of the east window fell onher, that struck the good old man as unusual. 

When the service was over, he stepped up to her as she was crossing thechurchyard, and asked her to come into the Rectory garden to rest. 

'For, ' he added, 'you look a-weary, Mistress Gifford, and need refreshmentere you climb the hill again. '

The Rectory garden was an Eden of delight to little Ambrose. His mother lethim wander away in the winding paths, intersecting the close-cut yewhedges, with no fear of lurking danger, while, at the Rector's invitation, she sat with him in a bower, over which a tangle of early roses andhoneysuckle hung, and filled the air with fragrance. A rosy-cheeked maidenwith bare arms, in a blue kirtle scarcely reaching below the knees, whichdisplayed a pair of sturdy legs cased in leather boots, brought a woodentrencher of bread and cheese, with a large mug of spiced ale, and set themdown on the table, fixed to the floor of the summer bower, with a broadsmile. 

As Ambrose ran past, chasing a pair of white butterflies, the Rectorsaid, --

'That is a fine boy, Mistress Gifford. I doubt not, doubly precious, as theonly son of his mother, who is a widow. I hear Master Philip Sidney looksat him with favour; and, no doubt, he will see that he is well trained inservice which will stand him in good stead in life. '

'Ambrose is my only joy, sir, ' Mary replied. 'All that is left to me ofearthly joy, I would say. I pray to be helped to bring him up in thenurture and admonition of the Lord. But it is a great charge. '

'Take heart, Mistress Gifford; there are many childless folk who would envyyou your charge, but, methinks, you have the air of one who is burdenedwith a hidden grief. Now, if I can, by hearing it, assuage it, and youwould fain bring it to me, I would do what in me lies as a minister ofChrist to give you counsel. '

'You are very good, kind sir, but there are griefs which no human hand cantouch. '

'I know it, I know it, for I have had experience therein. There was one Iloved beyond all words, and God gave her to me. I fell under heavydispleasure for daring to break through the old custom of theChurch--before she was purged of many abuses, which forbids the marriage ofher priests--and my beloved was snatched from me by ruthless hands, even aswe stood before the altar of God. 

'She died broken-hearted. It is forty years come Michaelmas, but the woundis fresh; and I yet need to go to the Physician of Souls for healing. 

'When the hard times of persecution came, and our blessed young King died, and I had to flee for my life, I could thank God she was spared the miseryof being turned out in the wide world to beg her bread, with the childrenGod might have given us. Then, when the sun shone on us Protestants, andour present Queen--God bless her!--ascended the throne, and I came hither, the hungry longing for my lost one oppressed me. But the Lord gives, andthe Lord takes away: let us both say, "Blessed be His holy name. " Now, summon the boy to partake of this simple fare, and remember, MistressGifford, if you want a friend, you can resort to me. I am now bound forthe parish of Leigh, where I say evensong at five o'clock. '

Mary called Ambrose, and said, --

'Bless my child, sir, and bless me also. '

Ambrose, at his mother's bidding, knelt by her side, and the Rectorpronounced the blessing, which has always a peculiar significance for thosewho are troubled in spirit. 

'To the Lord's gracious keeping I commit you. The Lord bless you and keepyou. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and give youpeace--now, and for evermore. '

A fervid 'Amen' came from the mother's lips, and was echoed by the child's, as the old man's footsteps were heard on the path as he returned to theRectory. 

It was a very happy afternoon for Ambrose. He enjoyed his dinner of wheatenbread and creamy cheese; and his mother smiled to see him as he buried hisface in the large mug, and, after a good draught of the spiced drink, smacked his lips, saying, --

'That is good drink, sweeter than the sour cider of which grandmother givesme a sup. Aunt Lou says it is as sour as grandmother, who brews it. AuntLucy is having sweet drinks now, and pasties, and all manner of nicethings. Why can't we go to London, mother, you and I?'

'Not yet, my boy, not yet. '

And then Ambrose subsided into a noonday sleep, curled up on the rudebench which was fixed round the summer bower. His mother put her arm roundhim, and he nestled close to her. 

Peace! the peace the old Rector had called down upon her seemed to fillMary Gifford's heart; and that quiet hour of the Sunday noontide remainedin her memory in the coming days, as the last she was to know for many along year. 

'The sports, mother!' Ambrose said, rousing himself at last, and strugglingto his feet. 'Let us go to see the sports. '

'Would you please me, Ambrose, by going home instead?'

Ambrose's lips quivered, and the colour rushed to his face. 

'I want to see the sports, ' he said; 'you promised you would take me. '

Then Mary Gifford rose, and, looking down on the child's troubled face, where keen disappointment was written, she took his hand, saying, --

'Come, then; but if the crowd is great, and you are jostled and pushed, youmust come away, nor plague me to stay. I am not stout enough to battle witha throng, and it may be that harm will come to you. '

They were at the Rectory gates now, and people were seen in all theirSunday trim hurrying towards the field where the tilting match was to takeplace. 

Mary turned towards the square, on either side of which stood the oldtimbered houses by the lych gate, and asked a man she knew, if the horsemenwho were to tilt in the field were to pass that way. 

'For, ' she added, 'I would fain wait here till they have ridden on. I mightget into danger with the child from the horses' feet. '

'Better have a care, mistress, ' was the reply, and he added; 'scantblessings come to those who turn Sunday into a day of revelry. '

'Ah!' said another voice, 'you be one of the saints, Jeremy; but why behard on country folk for a little merry-making, when the Queen and all thegrand nobles and ladies do the same, so I've heard, at Court. '

'I tell you, ' was the reply, 'it's the old Popish custom--mass in themorning, and feasting and revelling all the rest of the day. I tell you, itis these licences which make the Nonconformists our bitter foes. '

'Foes!' the other said. 'Ay, there's a pack of 'em all round. Some seen, some unseen--Papists and Puritans--but, thank the stars, I care not a groatfor either. I am contented, any way. Saint or sinner, Puritan or Papist, Isay, let 'em alone, if they'll let me alone. '

'Ay, there's the rub, ' said the other, 'there's no letting alone. You and Imay live to see the fires kindled again, and burn ourselves, for thatmatter. '

[Illustration: OLD HOUSES BY THE LYCH GATE, PENSHURST. ]

'I sha'n't burn. I know a way out of that. I watch the tide, and turn mycraft to sail along with it. '

And this easy-going time-server, of whom there are a good many descendantsin the present day, laughed a careless laugh, and then, as the sound ofhorses' feet was heard, and that of the crowd drawing near, hegood-naturedly lifted Ambrose on his shoulder, and, planting his broad backagainst the trunk of the great overshadowing elm, he told the boy to sitsteady, and he would carry him to the wall skirting the field, where hecould see all that was going on. 

Mary Gifford followed, and, feeling Ambrose was safe, was glad he should begratified with so little trouble and risk. She rested herself on a largestone by the wall, Ambrose standing above her, held there by the strong armof the man who had befriended them. 

The tilt was not very exciting, for many of the best horses and men hadbeen called into requisition by the gentry of the neighbourhood, for thefar grander and more important show to come off at Whitehall in thefollowing week. 

The spectators, however, seemed well satisfied, to judge by their huzzasand cheers which hailed the victor in every passage of arms--cheers inwhich little Ambrose, from his vantage ground, heartily joined. 

At last it was over, and the throng came out of the field, the victorbearing on the point of his tilting pole a crown made of gilded leaves, which was a good deal battered, and had been competed for by these villageknights on several former occasions. 

Like the challenge cups and shields of a later time, these trophies wereheld as the property of the conqueror, till, perhaps, at a future trial, hewas vanquished, and then the crown passed into the keeping of anothervictor. 

Mary Gifford thanked the man, who had been so kind to her boy, with one ofher sweetest smiles, and Ambrose, at her bidding, said, --

'Thank you, kind sir, for letting me see the show. I'd like to see the gameof bowls now where all the folk are going. '

'No, no, Ambrose! you have had enough. We must go home, and you must get tobed early, for your little legs must be tired. '

'Tired! I'd never be tired of seeing horses gallop and prance. Only, I longto be astride of one, as I was of Mr Philip Sidney's. '

Mother and son pursued their way up the hill, Ambrose going over the eventsof the day in childish fashion--wanting no reply, nor even attention fromhis mother, while she was thinking over the different ways in matters ofreligion of those who called themselves Christians. 

These Sunday sports were denounced by some as sinful--and a sign of returnto the thraldom of Popery from which the kingdom had been delivered; otherssaw in them no harm, if they did not actually countenance them by theirpresence; while others, like herself, had many misgivings as to thedesirability of turning the day of rest into a day of merry-making, more, perhaps, from personal taste and personal feeling than from principle. 

When Mary Gifford reached Ford Manor, she found it deserted, and only oneold serving-man keeping guard. The mistress had gone with the rest of thehousehold to a prayer and praise meeting, held in the barn belonging to aneighbouring yeoman, two miles away; and he only hoped, he said, that shemight return in a sweeter temper than she went. She had rated him andscolded all round till she had scarce a breath left in her. 

The old man was, like all the other servants, devoted to the gentle ladywho had gone out from her home a fair young girl, and had returned a sadwidow with her only child, overshadowed by a great trouble, the particularsof which no one knew. 

The rest of that Sabbath day was quiet and peaceful. 

Mary read from Tyndale's version of the Testament her favourite chapterfrom the Epistle of St John, and the love of which it told seemed to fillher with confidence and descend dove-like upon her boy's turbulent youngheart. 

He was in his softest, tenderest mood, and, as Mary pressed him close toher side, she felt comforted, and said to herself, --

'While I have my boy, I can bear all things, with God's help. '

Mary Gifford was up long before sunrise the next morning, and, callingAmbrose, she bid him come out with her and see if the shepherd had broughtin a lamb which had wandered away from the fold on the previous day. Theshepherd had been afraid to tell his mistress of the loss, and Mary hadpromised to keep it from her till he had made yet another search; and then, if indeed it was hopeless, she would try to soften Mistress Forrester'sanger against him. 

'We may perchance meet him with the news that he has found the lamb, andthen there will be no need to let grannie know that it had been lost, ' shesaid. 

It was a dull morning, and the clouds lay low in a leaden sky, while a mistwas hovering over the hills and blurring out the landscape. 

The larks were soon lost to sight as they soared overhead, singing faintlyas they rose; the rooks gave prolonged and melancholy caws as they tooktheir early flight, and the cocks crowed querulously in the yard, while nowand then there was a pitiful bleat from the old ewe which had lost herlamb. 

In the intervals of sound, the stillness was more profound, and there was asense of oppression hanging over everything, which even Ambrose felt. 

The moor stretched away in the haze, which gave the hillocks of gorse andheather and the slight eminences of the open ground an unnatural size. 

Every moment Mary hoped to see the shepherd's well-known figure loomingbefore her in the mist with the lamb in his arms, but no shepherd appeared. 

'We must turn our steps back again, Ambrose. Perhaps the shepherd has gonedown into the valley, and it is chill and damp for you to be out longer;when the sun gets up it will be warmer. '

She had scarcely spoken, when a figure appeared through the haze, likeevery other object, looking unnaturally large. 

'Quick, Ambrose, ' she said, 'quick!' and, seizing the child's hand, shebegan to run at her utmost speed along the sheep-path towards the stileleading into the Manor grounds, near the farmyard. 

The child looked behind to see what had frightened his mother. 

'It's the big black man!' he said. 

But Mary made no answer. She ran on, regardless of hillocks and bigstones--heedless of her steps, and thinking only of her pursuer. 

Presently her foot caught in a tangle of heather, and she fell heavily, asshe was running at full speed, and struck her head against some sharpstones lying in a heap at the edge of the track, which could hardly becalled a path. 

'Mother! mother!' Ambrose called; and in another moment a hand was laid onhis shoulder--a strong hand, with a grasp which the child felt it washopeless to resist. 'Mother! mother!'

The cry of distress might well have softened the hardest heart; but menlike Ambrose Gifford are not troubled with what is commonly understood bya heart. He spoke, however, in gentle tones. 

'My poor child, your mother is much hurt. We must seek for the aid of asurgeon. We must get help to carry her home. Come with me, and we will soonget help. '

'No, no; I will not leave my mother, ' Ambrose said, throwing himself on theground by her side. 'Why doesn't she speak or move? _Mother!_'

Alas! there was no answer; and a little red stream trickling down from awound on the forehead frightened Ambrose still more. 

'It is blood!' he cried, with the natural shrinking which children alwaysshow when their own fingers are cut. 'It is blood! Oh, mother!'

But Ambrose was now quietly lifted in a pair of strong arms, and the wordsspoken in his ear, --

'We must seek help; we will get a surgeon. Your mother will die if we donot get help, boy. Hush! If you cry out your mother may hear, and you willdistress her. Hush!'

Poor little Ambrose now subsided into a low wail of agony as he felthimself borne along. 

'Where are you going, sir? Set me down, set me down. '

'We go for help for your mother. Let that suffice. '

Ambrose now made a renewed struggle for freedom. It was the last; he feltsomething put over his face, so that he could neither see where he wasgoing nor utter another cry; he only knew he was being carried off by thisstrange man he knew not where, and that he had left his mother lying paleand still, with that terrible red stream trickling from her forehead, onthe hillock of heather on the moor. 

It is said, and perhaps with truth, that the bitterest hate is felt by thesinner against the sufferer for his sin. This hatred was in AmbroseGifford's heart, and was the primary cause of his thus forcibly taking fromthe wife whom he had so cruelly betrayed, the child who was so infinitelyprecious to her. 

Ambrose Gifford had, no doubt, by subtle casuistry persuaded himself thathe was doing good to the boy. He would be educated by the Jesuits, withwhom he had cast in his lot; he would be trained as a son of the CatholicChurch, and by this he hoped to gain favour, and strike off a few years ofpurgatorial fire for his past sins!

He had confessed and done penance for the disgraceful acts of which he hadbeen guilty, and he had been received into the refuge the Roman Church wasready to offer to him. 

At this time she was making every effort to strengthen her outposts, and toprepare for the struggle which at any moment she might be called upon tomake to regain her coveted ascendency in England. 

The seminary founded at Douay by a certain Dr Allen, a fine scholar, whowas educated at Oxford, was much resorted to by persecuted Catholics whosought a refuge there. Or by men like Ambrose Gifford, who, obliged toleave the country under the shadow of a crime committed, were glad to throwthemselves into the arms ready to receive them, and, as they would haveexpressed it, find pardon and peace by fasting and penance in the bosom ofthe Catholic Church. Doubtless, the great majority of those who gathered atDouay at this time were devout and persecuted members of the Church, fromthe bondage of which Elizabeth had delivered her country, with the heartyapprobation of her loyal subjects. 

But, black sheep like Ambrose Gifford went thither to be washed andoutwardly reformed; and he, being a man of considerable ability andshrewdness, had after a time of probation been despatched to England tobeat up recruits and to bring back word how the Catholic cause wasprospering there. 

He had, therefore, every reason to wish to take with him his own boy, whosefine physique and noble air he had noted with pride as he had, unseen, watched him for the last few weeks when haunting the neighbourhood like anevil spirit. 

He would do him credit, and reward all the pains taken to educate him andbring him up as a good Catholic. 

The motives which prompted him to this were mixed, and revenge against hiswife was perhaps the dominant feeling. She loved that boy better thananything on earth; she would bring him up in the faith of the ReformedChurch, and teach him, probably, to hate his father. 

He would, at any rate, get possession of this her idol, and punish her forthe words she had spoken to him by the porch of the farm, on that summerevening now more than two weeks ago. 

Ambrose Gifford had deceived Mary from the first, professing to be aProtestant while it served his purpose to win favour in the household ofthe Earl of Leicester, but in reality he was a Catholic, and only waitedthe turn of the tide to declare himself. He led a bad, immoral life, and itwas scarcely more than two years after her marriage that Mary Gifford'seyes were opened to the true character of the man who had won her in herinexperienced girlhood by his handsome person--in which the boy resembledhim--his suave manner, and his passionate protestations of devotion to her. 

Many women have had a like bitter lesson to learn, but perhaps few havefelt as Mary did, humbled in the very dust, when she awoke to the realityof her position, that the love offered her had been unworthy the name, andthat she had been betrayed and deceived by a man who, as soon as the firstglamour of his passion was over, showed himself in his true colours, andexpected her to take his conduct as a matter of course, leaving her free, as he basely insinuated, to console herself as she liked with otheradmirers. 

To the absolutely pure woman this was the final death-blow of all hope forthe future, and all peace in the present. Mary fled to her old home withher boy, and soon after heard the report that her husband had been killedin a fray, and that if he had lived he would have been arrested andcondemned for the secret attack made on his victim, and also as a disguisedCatholic supposed to be in league with those who were then plotting againstthe life of the Queen. 

About a year before this time, a gentleman of the Earl of Leicester'shousehold, when at Penshurst, had told Mary Gifford that Ambrose Giffordwas alive--that he had escaped to join the Jesuits at Douay, and wasemployed by them as one of their most shrewd and able emissaries. From thatmoment her peace of mind was gone, and the change that had come over herhad been apparent to everyone. 

The sadness in her sweet face deepened, and a melancholy oppressed her, except, indeed, when with her boy, who was a source of unfailing delight, mingled with fear, lest she should lose him, by his father's machinations. 

 * * * * *

It was not till fully half-an-hour after Ambrose had been carried away, that the shepherd, with his staff in his hand and the lost lamb thrown overhis shoulder, came to the place where Mary was lying. 

She had recovered consciousness, but was quite unable to move. Besides thecut on her forehead, she had sprained her ankle, and the attempt to risehad given her such agony that she had fallen back again. 

'Ay, then! lack-a-day, Mistress Gifford, ' the shepherd said, 'how did thiscome about. Dear heart alive! you look like a ghost. '

'I have fallen, ' gasped Mary. 'But where is my boy--where is Ambrose? Getme tidings of him, I pray you, good Jenkyns. '

'Lord! I must get help for you before I think of the boy. He has run home, I dare to say, the young urchin; he is safe enough. '

'No, no, ' Mary said. 'Oh! Jenkyns, for the love of Heaven, hasten to findmy boy, or I shall die of grief. '

The worthy shepherd needed no further entreaty. He hastened away, takingthe stile with a great stride, and, going up to the back door of the house, he called Mistress Forrester to come as quick as she could, for there wastrouble on the moor. 

Mistress Forrester was at this moment engaged in superintending the feedingof a couple of fine young pigs, which had been bought in Tunbridge a fewdays before. Her skirts were tucked up to her waist, and she had a largehood over her head, which added to her grotesque appearance. 

'Another lamb lost? I protest, Jenkyns, if you go on losing lambs afterthis fashion you may find somebody else's lambs to lose, and leave minealone. A little more barleymeal in that trough, Ned--the porkers must bewell fed if I am to make a profit of 'em and not a loss. '

'Hearken, Madam Forrester, ' Jenkyns said, 'the lamb is safe, but MistressGifford is lying yonder more dead than alive. Ned, there! come and help meto lift her home--and where's the boy, eh?'

'What boy?' Mrs Forrester asked sharply. 

'Mistress Gifford's son, ' Jenkyns said, 'his mother is crying out for himamain, poor soul! She is in a bad case--you'd best look after her, there'sblood running down from a cut on her forehead. Here!' calling to one of thewomen, 'here, if the Mistress won't come, you'd best do so--and bring apitcher of water with you, for she is like to swoon, by the looks of her. '

'You mind your own business, Amice, ' Mistress Forrester said, as shesmoothed down her coarse homespun skirt, and settled the hood on her head. 'You bide where you are, and see the poultry are fed, as she who ought tohave fed 'em isn't here. '

'Nor ever will be again, mayhap, ' said Jenkyns wrathfully. 'Come on, Ned, it will take two to bear her home, poor thing. Don't let the boy see hertill we've washed her face--blood always scares children. '

'I daresay it's a scratch, ' Mistress Forrester said, as she filled a pewterpot with water, and followed the shepherd and Ned to the place where Marylay. 

Even Mistress Forrester was moved to pity as she looked down on herstepdaughter's face, and heard her murmur. 

'Ambrose! my boy! He is stolen from me. Oh! for pity's sake, find him. '

'Stolen! stolen! not a bit of it, ' Mistress Forrester said. 'I warrant heis a-bed and asleep, for he is seldom up till sunrise. '

'He was with me, ' Mary gasped, 'he was with me, when I fell. I was runningfrom _him_--and--he has stolen him from me. '

'Dear sake! who would care to steal a child? There, there, you arelight-headed. Drink a drop of water, and we'll get you home and a-bed. I'llplaister the cut with lily leaves and vinegar, and I warrant you'll be wellin a trice. '

They moistened Mary's lips with water, and Jenkyns sprinkled her forehead;and then Jenkyns, with Ned's help, raised Mary from the ground and carriedher towards the house. 

A cry of suppressed agony told of the pain movement caused her, andMistress Forrester said, --

'Where's the pain, Mary? Sure you haven't broke your leg?'

But Mary could not reply. A deadly faintness almost deprived her of thepower of speaking. 

As they passed through the yard the lamb, which Jenkyns had set down therewhen he passed through, came trotting towards him, the long thick tailvibrating like a pendulum as it bleated piteously for its mother. 

Mary turned her large sorrowful eyes upon it, and whispered, --

'The lost lamb is found. Let it go to its mother. Oh! kind people, find--find my boy, and bring him back to me--to me, his mother. '

By this time there was great excitement amongst the people employed on thefarm, and a knot of men and maidens were standing by the back door, regardless of their mistress's anger that they should dare to idle away afew minutes of the morning. 

'Back to your work, you fools!' she said. 'Do you think to do any good bystaring like a parcel of idiots at Mistress Gifford. Ask the Lord to helpher to bear her pain, and go and bring her boy to her, Amice. '

But no one had seen the child that morning, and Amice declared he was notin the house. 

They carried Mary to her chamber, and laid her down on the low truckle bed, the shepherd moving as gently as he could, and doing his best to preventher from suffering. 

But placing her on the bed again wrung from her a bitter cry, and Jenkynssaid, --

'You must e'en get a surgeon to her, Mistress, for I believe she is sorelyhurt. '

'A surgeon! And, prithee, where am I to find one?'

'As luck will have it, ' Jenkyns said, 'Master Burt from Tunbridge puts upat the hostel every Monday in Penshurst. '

'Send Ned down into the village and fetch him, then, ' Mistress Forrestersaid, who was now really frightened at Mary's ghastly face, which wasconvulsed with pain. 'Send quick! I can deal with the cut on her forehead, but I can't set a broken limb. '

'Stop!' Mary cried, as Jenkyns was leaving the room to despatch Ned on hiserrand. 'Stop!' Then with a great effort she raised herself to speak in anaudible voice. 'Hearken! My boy was stolen from me by a tall man in a longblack cloak. Search the country, search, and, oh! if you can, find him. '

This effort was too much for her, and as poor Jenkyns bent down to catchthe feeble halting words, Mary fell back in a deep swoon again, and was, for another brief space, mercifully unconscious of both bodily and mentalagony. Hers was literally the stroke which, by the suddenness of the blow, deadens the present sense of pain; that was to come later, and the loss ofher boy would bring with it the relief of tears when others had driedtheirs and accepted with calmness the inevitable. 

CHAPTER VIII

DEFEAT

 'In one thing only failing of the best-- That he was not as happy as the rest. '

 EDMUND SPENSER. 

The court of Queen Elizabeth was well used to witness splendid shows andpassages-of-arms, masques, and other entertainments organised by thenoblemen chiefly, to whose houses--like Kenilworth--the Queen was oftenpleased to make long visits. 

The Queen always expected to be amused, and those who wished to court herfavour took care that no pains should be wanting on their part to pleaseher. Indeed, the courtiers vied with each other in their efforts to win thegreatest praise from their sovereign lady, who dearly liked to beentertained in some novel manner. 

This visit of the French Ambassadors to London, headed by Francis deBourbon, was considered a very important event. It was supposed thatElizabeth was really in earnest about the marriage with the Duke of Anjou, whose cause these Frenchmen had been commissioned by their Sovereign toplead. They were also to have a careful eye to his interests in the treatythey were to make with so shrewd a maiden lady as the Queen of England, whowas known always to have the great question of money prominently before herin all her negotiations, matrimonial and otherwise. 

The Earl of Arundel, Lord Windsor, Philip Sidney and Fulke Grevilleundertook to impress the visitors with a magnificent display worthy of theoccasion which brought them to London. 

In the tilt-yard at Whitehall, nearest to the Queen's windows, a 'Fortressof Perfect Beauty' was erected, and the four knights were to win it byforce of arms. 

All that the ingenuity of the artificers of the time could do was done. TheFortress of Beauty was made of canvas stretched on wooden poles, gailypainted with many quaint devices, and wreathed about with evergreens andgarlands, which were suspended from the roof. It was erected on anartificial mound; and, as the day drew near, those who had to control theadmission of the hundreds who clamoured to be allowed to be spectators ofthe tournament, were at their wit's end to gratify the aspirants for goodplaces. 

The ladies about the Court were, of course, well provided with seats in thetemporary booths erected round the tilt-yard, and the Countess of Pembrokeand her following of gentlewomen in attendance occupied a prominentposition. Lady Mary Sidney and her youngest son, Thomas, were also present. Robert was in his brother's train. Lady Rich, blazing with diamonds, wasthe admired of many eyes--upon whose young, fair face might be seen thetrace of that unsatisfied longing and discontent with her lot, for whichthe splendour of her jewels and richness of the lace of her embroideredbodice were but a poor compensation. Amongst Lady Pembroke's attendantsthere was one to whom all the show had the charm of novelty. 

Lucy Forrester could scarcely believe that she was actually to be a witnessof all the magnificence of which she had dreamed on the hillside abovePenshurst. Her young heart throbbed with triumph as she saw MistressRatcliffe and Dorothy vainly struggling to gain admittance at one of theentrances, and at last, hustled and jostled, only allowed to stand on thesteps of one of the booths by Humphrey's help, who was awaiting the signalfrom Philip's chief esquire to go and prepare his horse for thepassage-of-arms. 

Lucy had gone through some troubles that morning with Mistress Crawley, whom she did not find easy to please at any time, and who, seeing Lucy wasin favour with the Countess of Pembroke, did her best to prevent her fromtaking too exalted a view of her own merits. 

She had ordered that Lucy, as the youngest of the bower-women, should takea back bench in the booth, where it was difficult to see or to be seen, butLady Pembroke had over-ruled this by saying, --

[Illustration: THE TILT YARD, WHITEHALL]

'There is room for all in the front row, good Crawley. Suffer MistressLucy to come forward. '

And then Lucy, beaming with delight, had a full view of the fortress, andfound herself placed exactly opposite the window at which the Queen was tosit with her favourites to watch the show. 

'Tell me, I pray you, the name of that grand lady whose jewels are flashingin the sunshine?'

Lucy said this to her companion, who bid her sit as close as she could, andnot squeeze her hoop, and take care not to lean over the edge of the boothso as to obstruct her own view of the people who were rapidly filling upthe seats. 

'And forsooth, Mistress Forrester, you must not speak in a loud voice. It'scountry-bred manners to do so. '

Lucy pouted, but was presently consoled by a smile from Philip Sidney, whocame across the yard to exchange a word with his sister, and to ask if hisyoung brother was able to get a good view. 

Lucy was much elated by that recognition, and her companion said in a lowvoice, --

'You ask who yonder lady is? Watch, now, and I'll tell you. ' For Philiphad, in returning, stopped before the booth where Lady Rich sat, and shehad bent forward to speak to him. Only a few words passed, but when Philiphad moved away there was a change in Lady Rich's face, and the lines ofdiscontent and the restless glance of her dark eyes, seeking foradmiration, were exchanged for a satisfied smile, which had something alsoof sadness in it. 

'That lady is Lord Rich's wife, and Mr Sidney's love. He will never lookwith favour on anyone besides. The pity of it! And, ' she added in a lowvoice, 'the shame too!'

'But, hush!' as Lucy was about to respond. 'We may be heard, and that wouldanger my lady, who has no cause to love my Lady Rich, and would not care tohear her spoken of in the same breath as Mr Sidney. '

The waiting time for spectacles is apt to grow wearisome; and some of thespectators were yawning, and a few of the elder ladies resigning themselvesto a quiet nap, their heads heavy with the ale of the morning meal, swayingfrom side to side, and endangering the stiff folds of the ruffs, which madea sort of cradle for their cheeks and chins. Lucy, however, knew nothing offatigue; she was too much elated with her position, too earnestly employedin scanning the dresses of the ladies, and admiring the grand equipments ofthe gentlemen, to feel tired. 

At length the blast of trumpets announced the coming of the Queen to thebalcony before the window whence she was to see the pageant. A burst ofapplause and loud cries of 'God save the Queen' greeted Elizabeth, who, gorgeously arrayed, smiled and bowed graciously to the assembled people. Behind her was the Earl of Leicester, and Lord Burleigh and the FrenchAmbassador at either side, with a bevy of ladies-in-waiting in thebackground. The large window had a temporary balcony erected before it, andthose who occupied it were for a few minutes the centre of observation. 

Lucy Forrester had never before had so good a view of the Queen, and herastonishment was great when she saw, with the critical eye of youth, thelady about whose beauty and charms so many sonnets and verses had beenwritten by every rhymester in the land, as well as by the chief poets ofthe day. It was a generally accepted fact throughout the country, that theQueen was as beautiful as she was wise, and that her charms led captivemany a noble suitor, who pined, perhaps in vain, for her favours. 

Lucy whispered to her companion, --

'I thought to see a young and fair Queen, and she is old and--'

'Peace, I tell you!' said her companion sharply. 'You are a little fool todare to say that! You had best hold your tongue!'

Lucy ventured at no further remark, and very soon the heralds came ridinginto the tilt-yard and proclaimed the coming of the four knights who wereto carry the Fortress of Beauty by their prowess against those who defendedit; and summoned the Queen to surrender her Fortress to the Four FosterChildren of Desire. 

The Earl of Arundel led the way with Lord Windsor, both magnificentlyattired, with a large following of attendant esquires. But Lucy's eyesdilated with an admiration that was too deep for words, as Philip Sidneyrode into the yard in blue and gilt armour, seated on a splendid horse, onwhich he sat with graceful ease as it curveted and pranced, perfectlycontrolled by the skill of its rider. Four spare horses, richlycaparisoned, were led behind him by pages, and thirty gentlemen and yeomen, amongst whom were Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, with four trumpetersdressed in cassock coats and caps, Venetian hose of yellow velvet adornedwith silver lace, and white buskins. A silver band passing like a scarfover the shoulder and under the arm bore the motto--_Sic nos non nobis_. Lucy had no eyes for anyone but her ideal knight, and Fulke Greville, inhis gilded armour, with his followers in gorgeous array, had passed byalmost unheeded. 

Speeches were made, and songs sung, and then the challengers marched up anddown the yard, and at last proceeded to 'run tilt, ' each in his turn, against an opponent, each running six times. The opponents were numerous, and the four, before nightfall, were seriously discomfited. 

The show was over for that day, and the Queen commanded that the tiltshould be run again on the following morning, which was Whit-Tuesday. Aftera great many more speeches and confessions of weariness, the four knightsfell to work with such renewed energy that, we are told, what withshivering swords and lusty blows, it was as if the Greeks were aliveagain, and the Trojan war renewed--ending in the defeat of the Four FosterChildren of Desire, who were, as was only probable, beaten in the unequalcontest. 

The Queen was loud in her praise of the 'pleasant sport, ' which haddelighted the gentlemen in whose honour it had been all arranged; and shecalled up Philip Sidney for especial thanks, and, tapping him on theshoulder, bid him repair to the banqueting-hall and discourse some sweetmusic on his mandoline, and converse with the French Ambassadors. For, shesaid, speaking herself in fluent and excellent French, --

'This good Mr Philip Sidney, I would have you to know, has the command ofmany foreign tongues, and there are few to match him in Latin and Greek, aswell as those languages spoken in our own time in divers countries. '

'Ah, madam!' Philip said, 'there is one who surpasses not only my poor selfin learning, but surpasses also the finest scholars that the world canproduce. Need I name that one, gentlemen, ' he said, with a courtly bow andkneeling as he kissed the Queen's hand, 'for she it is who has to-day beenpleased to give, even to us, Four Children of Desire--defeated as weare--the meed of praise, which is, from her, a priceless dower. '

This flattery was precisely what Elizabeth hoped for, and she was wellpleased that it should be offered in the hearing of those ambassadors, whowould, doubtless, repeat it in the ears of the Duke of Anjou. 

In reply, one of the soft-spoken Frenchmen said, --

'Mr Sidney's fame has reached our ears, Madam. We know him to be what youare pleased to call him; nor will we for a moment dispute his assertionthat, learned as he is, he must yield the palm to his gracious Sovereign. '

A few more flattering speeches were tendered; but a keen observer mighthave noticed that there was a touch of irony, even of distrust, in thetone, if not in the words, of the ambassadors' chief spokesman. 

For if Philip Sidney's fame as a scholar and a statesman had reachedFrance, his fame also as a staunch defender of the Reformed Faith had alsoreached it, with the report that he had been, a few years before, boldenough to remonstrate with the Queen when the proposal of her marriage withthe Duke had been formally made, and that his opposition had been strongenough to turn the scale against it, at the time. 

 * * * * *

The silence of night had fallen over Whitehall, and those who had won, andthose who had been beaten in the tourney were resting their tired, and, inmany cases, their bruised limbs, in profound repose, when the porter of thequarters assigned to Philip Sidney's gentlemen and esquires was roused fromhis nap by loud and continued knocking at the gate. 

The porter was very wrathful at being disturbed, and looking out at thesmall iron grating by the side of the gate, he asked, --

'Who goes there?'

'One who wants speech with Master Humphrey Ratcliffe. '

'It will keep till morning, be off; you may bide my time, ' and with thatthe porter shambled back to his seat in a recess of the entrance, andcomposed himself to sleep again. But the man who sought admittance was notto be so easily discouraged. He began to knock again with the staff in hishand, more loudly than before. 

The porter in vain tried to take no further notice, and finding itimpossible to resume his sleep, heavy as it was with the strong potationsof the previous night, he rose once more, and, going to the grating, pouredout a volley of oaths upon the would-be intruder, which was enough to scareaway the boldest suitor for admission. 

His loud voice, combined with the thundering rap on the heavy oaken gate ordoor which still continued, roused Humphrey Ratcliffe from his dreams, onthe upper floor, and he presently appeared on the stone staircase which ledinto the outer hall, where the porter kept guard, and said, --

'What is all this commotion about? Who demands admission? Open the gate, and let us see. '

'Open the gate, Master, yourself, ' was the rough reply, 'and let in aparcel of murderers or thieves, for all I care. You're welcome. '

'Hold your tongue, you knave, ' Humphrey said; 'you are half-drunk now, Iwarrant, ' and Humphrey, going to the grating, asked, --

'Who craves admission at this hour of the night?'

'An it please you, Master, it is near cock-crow, ' was the answer, 'and dayis breaking. I have ill news for Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and mustdeliver my message to his ear. '

'Ill news!' Humphrey repeated the words. His thoughts went first to hismother, and then he remembered that she was safe in lodgings with Dorothyand George. 

'I am one, Ned Barton, cowherd to one Mistress Forrester. I've trudged manya mile at the bidding of Mistress Gifford, who is in a sore plight. '

Humphrey did not hesitate now, he drew back the heavy bolts, and turned thehuge, rusty key in the lock, and threw open one side of the gate. 

'Come in, ' he said, 'and deliver your message. '

Ned, in his coarse smock, which was much travel-stained and worn, pulledthe lock of red hair which shadowed his forehead, in token of respect, andshambled into the hall. 

He was footsore and weary, and said, --

'By your leave, Master, I would be glad to rest, for I warrant my bonesache. '

Humphrey pointed to a bench which was but dimly discernible in the darkhall, lighted only by a thin wick floating in a small pan of oil, and bidNed seat himself, while he drew a mugful of ale from the barrel, which wassupposed to keep up the porter's strength and spirits during thenight-watch, and put it to Ned's lips. 

He drank eagerly, and then said, --

'I've a letter for you, Master, in my pouch, but I was to say you were tokeep it to yourself. Mistress Gifford could scarce write it, for she issick, and no wonder. Look here, Master, I'd tramp twice twenty miles toserve her, and find the boy. '

'Find the boy! You speak in riddles. '

Ned nodded till his abundant red hair fell in more than one stray lock overhis sunburnt, freckled face. 

'Are there eavesdroppers at hand?' he asked. 

The porter was snoring loudly, but Humphrey felt uncertain whether he wasfeigning sleep, or had really resumed his broken slumber. He therefore bidthe boy follow him upstairs, first replacing bolt and bar, to make allsecure till the morning. 

When he reached his room, which was up more than one flight of the windingstone stairs, Ned stumbling after him, he struck a light with a flint andkindled a small lamp, which hung from an iron hook in the roof. 

'Throw yourself on that settle, my good fellow; but give me the letterfirst. When I have read it, you shall tell me all you know. '

The letter was written on thin parchment, and was scarcely legible, blotted, as it was, with tears, and the penmanship irregular and feeble. 

 * * * * *

'To Master Humphrey Ratcliffe--My Good Friend, --This comes from one nearlydistraught with grief of mind and sickness of body. My boy, my boy! Theyhave stolen him from me. Can you find him for me? He is in the hands ofJesuits--it may be at Douay--I dare say no more. I cannot say more. GoodNed, Heaven bless him, will find you out, and give you this. Pray to Godfor me. He alone can bind the broken heart of one who is yours, in soreneed. 

 'M. G. 

'I lost him this day se'nnight; it is as a hundred years to me. Tears aremy meat. God's hand is heavy upon me. '

 * * * * *

Humphrey read and re-read the letter, and again and again pressed itpassionately to his lips. 

'Find him! Find her boy; yes, God helping me, I will track him out, aliveor dead. '

Then he turned to Ned, --

'Now, tell me all you know of this calamity. '

Ned told the story in a few simple words. The black man had been skulkingabout Penshurst for some time. He had scared Mistress Lucy, and the boy hadseen him near the house. Mistress Gifford had gone out early to look afterthe shepherd, who was seeking a lost lamb, and the black man had come outof a hollow. Then Mistress Gifford had run with all her might, and, worseluck, she stumbled and fell in a swoon, and when Jenkyns found her she hadcome out of it, but was moaning with pain, and grieving for the boy. 

'And no wonder, ' Ned said; 'there's not a soul at the farm that didn'tthink a mighty deal of that child. He was a plague sometimes, I'll warrant, but--' and Ned drew his sleeve across his eyes, and his low guttural voicefaltered, as he said, --'Folks must be made of stone if they don't feel fitto thrash that popish devil for kidnapping him, and going near to breakMadam Gifford's heart, who is a saint on earth. '

'You are a good fellow, ' Humphrey said fervently. 'Now, take off thoseheavy boots and rest, while I tax my brains, till I decide what is best todo. '

With a mighty kick Ned sent his rough boots flying, one after the other, across the room, and then, without more ado, curled up his ungainly figureon the settle, and before Humphrey could have believed it possible, he wassnoring loudly, his arm thrown under his head, and his tawny red locks in atangled mass, spread upon the softest cushion on which the cowboy had everrested. 

Humphrey Ratcliffe paced the chamber at intervals till daybreak, and wasonly longing for action, to be able to do something to relieve Mary'sdistress--to scour the country till he found a trace of the villain, andrescue the boy from his clutches. 

This must be his immediate aim; but to do this he must gain leave from hischief. 

The tournament was over, but the Queen would most certainly require MrSidney's attendance at Hampton Court Palace, whither it was rumoured shewas shortly to go in state, in the royal barge, with the French Ambassador. 

Humphrey grew feverishly anxious for the time when he could see Mr Sidney, and hailed the noises in the courtyard and the voices of the grooms, whowere rubbing down the tired horses after the conflicts of the previous day, and examining their hurts received in the fray, which were in some casesvery severe. 

Mr Sidney's rooms were reached by another staircase, and as the big clockof the palace struck five, Humphrey went down into the porter's hall andinquired of one of the attendants if Mr Sidney was stirring. 

'He isn't stirring, for he hasn't been a-bed, ' was the answer. 

'Then I shall gain admittance?'

'Most like, ' was the reply, with a prolonged yawn. 

'Those are lucky who can slumber undisturbed, whether a-bed or up. Yesterday's show fell hard on those who had to work at it. '

'I hear you let in a vagrant last night, Master Ratcliffe. The porter saithif harm comes of it he won't take the blame. Most like a rascally Jesuitcome to spy out some ways to brew mischief. '

'A harmless country lout is not likely to brew mischief, ' Humphrey saidsharply. 'The man came on urgent business, in which none here but myselfhave concern, ' and then he crossed to the door leading to the apartmentsoccupied by Mr Sydney and Sir Fulke Greville. 

Humphrey Ratcliffe had not to wait for admittance to Philip Sidney's room. 

He answered the tap at the door with a ready 'Enter, ' and Humphrey foundhim seated before a table covered with papers, the morning light upon hisgold-coloured hair, and on his beautiful face. 

Humphrey Ratcliffe stopped short on the threshold of the door beforeclosing it behind him, and how often, in the years that were to come, didPhilip Sidney's figure, as he saw it then, return to him as a vivid realityfrom which time had no power to steal its charm. 

Philip looked up with a smile, saying, --

'Well, my good Humphrey, you are astir early. '

'And you, sir, have been astir all night!'

'Sleep would not come at my bidding, Humphrey, and it is in vain to courther. She is a coy mistress, who will not be caught by any wiles till shecomes of her own sweet will. But is aught amiss, Humphrey, that you seek meso soon? Hero, my good horse, came out of the fray untouched. I assuredmyself of that ere I came hither last night. '

'There is nothing wrong with Hero, sir, that I know of. I dare to seek youfor counsel in a matter which causes me great distress. '

Philip Sidney had many great gifts, but perhaps none bound his friends anddependants more closely to him, nor won their allegiance more fully, thanthe sympathy with which he entered into all their cares and joys, theirsorrows or their pleasures. 

Immediately, as Humphrey told his story, he was listening with profoundattention, and Humphrey's burden seemed to grow lighter as he felt itshared with his chief. 

'You know her, sir! You can believe how sore my heart is for her. In allthe sorrows which have well nigh crushed her, this boy has been her oneconsolation and joy, and he is stolen from her. '

'Yes, ' Philip Sidney said, 'I do know Mistress Gifford, and have alwayspleased myself with the thought that she would put aside the weeds ofwidowhood and make you happy some day, good Humphrey. '

'Nay, sir; she has given me too plainly to understand this is impossible. She is as a saint in Heaven to me. I love her with my whole heart, andyet--yet--I feel she is too far above me, and that I shall never call hermine. '

'Well, well, let us hope you may yet attain unto your heart's desire, norhave it ever denied, as is God's will for me. But now, as to the boy--itpuzzles me why any man should kidnap a child of these tender years. Whatcan be the motive?'

'I know not, sir, unless it be the greedy desire of the Papists to gainover, and educate in their false doctrines and evil practices, childrenlikely to serve their ends. Mistress Gifford's husband was, so it is said, a Papist from the first moment that he married her, but hid it from her, and played his part well. '

'I do not doubt it. While in the service of my Uncle Leicester, it was hispolicy to profess the Reformed Faith. Failing to obtain what he wanted, hethrew off disguise, and, as I understand, after an intrigue with anotherman's wife, had a fierce fight with the injured husband, so deadly thatboth lost their lives in the fray. '

'Some said this Gifford, fearing disgrace, had left the country, othersthat he died. Mistress Gifford must believe the last to be true or shewould not, methinks, have clothed herself in the weeds of widowhood. '

'But now, my good Humphrey, you would fain have leave to prosecute yourinquiries. God speed you in them, and may they be successful. MistressGifford's reference to Douay makes me think she may have some notion, toconnect this centre of the Papists with the disappearance of her boy. Atany rate, see her, and, if it is advisable for you to repair to Douay, go, but beware you are not entrapped by any of those Jesuits' snares. '

'I am loth to leave you, sir, ' Humphrey said, 'yet I feel bound to do whatin me lies to rescue this boy. A goodly child he is, full of spirit, and, though wild at times as a young colt, obedient to his mother. Alack!'Humphrey continued, 'his poor bereft mother. Would to God I knew how tocomfort her. '

It was then arranged that Humphrey should set off, without loss of time, for Penshurst, stopping at Tunbridge on the road to institute inquiriesthere. 

George Ratcliffe was also returning home with several horses which had beenover-strained in the tourney of the day before, and both brothers leftLondon together, with Ned on the baggage horse with the serving-man, beforenoon, George scarcely less heavy-hearted than Humphrey, and too muchabsorbed in his own troubles to be alive to his brother's. What was theloss of little Ambrose when compared with the utter hopelessness he feltabout Lucy. 

George rode moodily by his brother's side, scarcely heeding what he saw, and torturing himself with the careless indifference with which Lucy hadtreated him. 

He had asked her to come to his mother's lodgings, and she had refused, saying, --

'You have Mistress Dorothy here, you cannot want me. Besides, I am underorders, and Crawley must be obeyed. '

Then, in the intervals of the tournament, George had seen the eyes ofseveral gallants directed towards Lady Pembroke's booth, and heard one mansay, --

'There is a pretty maiden in the Countess's following. I lay a wager I willget a smile from her. '

'Not you, ' was the reply; 'she has eyes for no one but Mr Sidney. Shefollows him with admiring glances; no one else has a chance. '

While George was inwardly fuming against the two men, one rode up to thebooth, and bowing low, till his head nearly swept his horse's neck, hepresented a posy, tied with a blue riband, to Lucy, who smiled and blushedwith delight, quite indifferent to the scowl on George's face, as he satgrimly on his horse at the further end of the tilting-yard, where he wasstationed, with several others, with a relay of horses in case fresh onesshould be wanted by the combatants. 

Unversed in the ways of the Court, George did not know that it was thehabit of gallants to present posies, as they would have said, at the shrineof beauty. From the Maiden Queen upon the throne to the pretty bower-womanat her needle, this homage was expected, and received almost as a matter ofcourse. But George, like many other men of his age, had his specialdivinity, and could not endure to see other worshippers at her feet. 

All these memories of the two days' tournament occupied George Ratcliffeduring his ride by his brother's side, and kept up a sort of accompanimentto the measured trot of the horses as they were brought up in the rear bythe servants in charge of them. After a long silence, George said, --

'Did you see Mistress Lucy ere we started, Humphrey, to let her know of hersister's trouble. '

'No, ' was the answer. 'No; I could not get permission to do so, but I senta letter by the hand of one of Lord Pembroke's esquires, which would tellher of her sister's trouble. '

'It was an ill day for me, ' George said, 'when Lucy Ratcliffe came to theCourt. I have lost her now. '

'Nay now, George, do not be a craven and lose heart. You may win yet. Thereis time, and to spare, before you. '

Thereupon George gave his sturdy roan steed a sharp cut with the whip, which surprised him greatly. He resented the indignity by plunging fromside to side of the rugged road, and by his heavy gambols sending the otherhorses off in a variety of antics. 

When the horses were quieted down again, Humphrey said, laughing, --

'Poor old fellow! he doesn't understand why his master should punish himfor the offences of Mistress Lucy Ratcliffe. ' Then, more seriously, 'My ownheart is heavy within me, but I try to ease the burden by doing what I canto relieve the pain of her whom I love. Action is the best cure for heartsickness. '

'But action is impossible for me, Humphrey. I have only to endure. Here amI, riding back to our home to eat the bread of disappointment, leaving her, for whom I would gladly die, to the temptations of the Court. She willlisten to the wooing of some gallant, and my Lady Pembroke will abet it, and then--'

'Then bear it like a man, George; nor break your heart for a maiden, whenthere are, I doubt not, many who are worthier and--'

'That's fine talking, ' poor George said wrathfully. 'What if I were to tellyou there are many worthier than the widow of Ambrose Gifford. There aresome who say that she was not--'

Humphrey's eyes had an angry light in them as he turned them full on hisbrother. 

'Not a word more, George, of _her_. I will not brook it; her name is sacredto me as the name of any saint in Heaven. '

George felt he dare say no more, and, after another silence, Humphreyasked, --

'When does our mother propose to return?'

'Not for a month. She has made friends with a draper in the Chepe, who is arelation of our father's. He has a little, ill-favoured son, and I think Isaw signs of his wishing to win Dorothy Ratcliffe's favour. I would toHeaven he may do so, and then I shall at any rate have peace and quiet, andbe free from hearing my mother lay plans of what she will do when I bringDorothy as mistress of Hillside. Marry Dorothy, forsooth! I pity any manwho is tied to that shrew for life. '

'Even the ill-favoured cousin you speak of in the Chepe, ' Humphrey said, laughing in spite of himself. 'Nay, George, bear yourself as a man, and Idare to say little Mistress Lucy will come round to your wishes. '

'I would that I could hope, but despair has seized me ever since the day ofthat tourney. Did you ever see anyone look fairer than she did that dayseated amongst all the grand folks? There was not one to compare with her, and I caught words in several quarters which showed me I am not wrong inmy estimate of her. '

'Ah, George, ' his brother said, 'we are all wont to think our own idols arebeyond compare; it is a common illusion--or delusion. But we are nearingTunbridge. Here we must part, for I must tarry here to pursue inquiries, while you proceed homewards. The horses must be baited, and we must getsome refreshments at the hostel. It may be that in the inn kitchen I maypick up some information that may be of service. I shall not ride toPenshurst till nightfall, or may be the morrow, but I must confide a letterto the care of that trusty Ned who I see coming up behind us but slowly onyonder sturdy steed. '

Humphrey dismounted in the yard of the hostel and gave orders to his groom, while George went into the kitchen and bid the hostess spread a good mealfor the whole party. 

Humphrey waited outside till the baggage horse, on which Ned was seatedcame up. 

Poor Ned was entirely unused to travel on horseback, and had found joltingand bumping on the sturdy mare's back over the rough road far more painfulthan his long march of the previous day and night. He was the butt of theother servants, who laughed more loudly than politely as he was set on hislegs in the yard. 

He was so stiff from the confined position, that he staggered and wouldhave fallen, amidst the boisterous jeers of the spectators, had notHumphrey caught him, and, trying to steady him, said, --

'Peace, ye varlets; this good fellow has done me a real service, anddeserves better at your hands than gibes and scoffs. Come hither, Ned. Ihave yet something further for you to do for me. '

Ned followed Humphrey with halting steps, shaking first one leg and thenanother, as if to assure himself that they still belonged to him. 

'I'll do all you ask, Master, ' Ned said, 'but ride a-horseback. I will walkfifty miles sooner. My legs are full of pins and needles, and it will takea deal of shaking and rubbing before I can call 'em my own again. '

Humphrey could not resist laughing, for Ned's face was comical in itscontortions, as he stamped his feet and rubbed his shins with mutteredexclamations that, as long as his name was Ned, he would never get upon ahorse's back again. 

'You've got a fit of the cramp, ' Humphrey said, 'it will soon pass. Now, after you have had a good meal, take this letter which is tied and sealed, and put it into the hands of Mistress Gifford. It will tell her all I canyet tell her in answer to the letter you brought me. At least she will knowby it that I will do my utmost to serve her, and find her son. '

Ned took the letter with his large brown fingers, and, putting it into thepouch in the breast of his smock, he said, --

'I'll carry it safe, Master, and I'll be off at once. '

'Not till you have broken your long fast in the kitchen of the hostel. '

'An it please you, Master, I would sooner be off, if I get a cake to eat onthe way, and a draft of ale before I start; that will serve me. Do notorder me, I pray you, to sit down with those gibing villains--no, nor orderme, kind sir, to mount a horse again. If I live to be three score, I prayHeaven I may never sit a-horseback again. '

CHAPTER IX

ACROSS THE FORD

 'Farewell to you! my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams. Farewell self-pleasing thoughts! which quietness brings forth, And farewell friendship's sacred league! uniting minds of worth. '

 SIR F. GREVILLE, 1591. 

Lucy Forrester was mending the lace of one of Lady Pembroke's ruffs whichhad been torn at the edge on the previous day, when a page brought inHumphrey's letter, saying, 'For Mistress Forrester. '

'Hand it hither, ' Mistress Crawley said. 'It will keep till that lace ismended, and I'd have you to know, Mistress Lucy, my lady is very carefulthat there should be no billets passing between the young gentlewomen ofher household and idle gallants about the Court. A pack of rubbish is inthat letter, I'll warrant; some rhymes about your bright eyes and cherrycheeks, or some such stuff. '

'If you please, Madam, I desire to have my letter, and, if you will notgive it to me, I will go to my lady and tell her you refuse to let me haveit. '

'You little sauce-box! Do you think my lady has nought to do but attend tothe whimsies of chits like you? Go on with your work. Do you hear?'

Lucy was burning with indignation, and, moreover, her curiosity wasawakened to know who had written to her, and what were the contents of theletter. 

The spirit which had rebelled against her stepmother now asserted itself, and she pushed back the stool on which she was sitting with such violencethat it fell with a crash on the floor, and, as it fell, knocked againstthe spindle at which another of the maidens was sitting, and the threadsnapped in two. 

In the confusion which ensued Lucy escaped, and went into the gallery whichran round the house, and meeting Mr Sidney, she stopped short. 

'Whither away, Mistress Lucy? My sister wishes to see you. '

'And I wish to see my lady, ' Lucy said, her breast heaving with suppressedexcitement. 'I was running to seek her. '

Mistress Crawley now appeared, and, seizing Lucy by the shoulder, exclaimed, --

'You impudent child! How dare you stop Mr Sidney? Return at once, or I'llhave you dismissed. '

'Gently, good Mistress Crawley, ' Philip Sidney said. 'It was I who wasseeking Mistress Lucy. Allow me to take her to the Countess's apartment, where I fear ill news awaits her concerning her family at Penshurst. '

Philip Sidney's voice and manner had almost a magic power. 

Mistress Crawley begged his pardon, nor would she wish to interfere withher lady's orders. She would take another opportunity of reporting MistressForrester's conduct to her. And, with a profound curtsey to Philip, and anangry glance at Lucy, she retreated from the field to renew her attack at amore convenient season. 

'Oh! sir, ' Lucy began, 'a letter was brought for me, and Mistress Crawleywould not suffer me to have it. I was angry--' and Lucy cast down her eyes, the long lashes wet with tears; she could not meet the calm, grave facelooking down on her. 

Yet through all, there was the sense of infinite delight that Mr Sidney washer friend, and that Mistress Crawley was discomfited. 

'My poor child, ' he said, 'I am sorry for you, if, as I think, the lettercontains news of your sister's illness and of her great trouble. '

'Mary, is it Mary who is sick, sir?'

'Yes, and worse than that, her boy has been stolen from her. '

'Then I know who has done it, ' Lucy exclaimed. 'I know it was that dreadfulman with the cruel eyes who scared me almost to death a month ago. He saidhe wanted to see Ambrose, and now he has stolen him. '

They were at the door of Lady Pembroke's room by this time, and PhilipSidney drew aside the over arras hanging on it to let Lucy pass in. To herdisappointment he said, --

'I will leave you now to the Countess for comfort and counsel, ' and thenthe arras fell, and Lucy was called by Lady Pembroke to the further end ofthe room, where she was sitting with parchment and pen before her. 

'Is that you, Mistress Forrester?' she said. 'Come hither. Mr Sidney hasbrought tidings of Mistress Gifford, which are very grievous. MasterHumphrey Ratcliffe has gone to Penshurst, and will use every effort torecover the boy, who--may God help her--has been stolen from his mother. She is, I fear, very sick in body as well as mind, and I am debatingwhether it would not be well for you to return to Penshurst under care ofsome of the servants, who will be sent thither on the morrow. It would be acomfort, surely, to your sister to have your presence. '

Poor Lucy! This unexpected end to her bright hopes was too much for her. Tears coursed each other down her cheeks, as much for her owndisappointment as sorrow for her sister. She stood before Lady Pembroke, unable to utter a word. 

'Sit down, poor child, ' Lady Pembroke said kindly. 'Yes, Crawley, what isit?'

For Mistress Crawley now appeared with the letter in her hand, and, with alow curtsey, presented it to Lady Pembroke. 

'An' it please you, Madam, I cannot put up with Mistress Lucy's impudence. There'll be no law and order amongst the young gentlewomen, over whom youare pleased to set me, if this young woman is to put me at defiance. Vanityand thinking of nought but gew-gaws and finery and looking out foradmiration, don't go to make a bower-woman such as a noble lady likeyourself might wish to have in her household. I would humbly say to you, mylady, that I am not the one to put up with sauce and impudence from alittle country-bred maid you are pleased to take under your patronage. '

'Dear Crawley, ' Lady Pembroke said, 'Mistress Forrester is ill at ease atthis moment; the news from her home may well cause her dismay and grief;leave her to me, and I will let you hear later to what conclusion I havearrived. '

Mistress Crawley curtseyed again even more profoundly than before, and, asshe left the room, murmured something about 'favourite, ' which did notreach Lady Pembroke's ear, or, if it did, passed unheeded. 

Lady Pembroke was sweet and gentle in her manner to all who served her, butshe was not weakly indulgent. Although her heart went out in pity towardspoor Lucy, whom she had watched on the previous day, in the full flush ofdelight at her first taste of Court pageantry, and had seen, with someuneasiness, that her beauty had attracted many eyes, she said gravely, --

'Try to stop weeping, Lucy, and let us think what it will be best to do. It is well always to look at duty first, and strive after its performance, with God's help; and I think it will be your duty to return to your sisterin her distress. '

'And leave you for ever, Madam!' Lucy exclaimed passionately. 

'Nay, I did not say as much; but, my child, if you return to my household, it must be understood that you be submissive to Mistress Crawley--an oldand tried friend and servant--who commands respect, and must have itrendered her. '

'Oh, Madam, I will, I will be submissive, only do not send me quite away. '

It did not escape Lady Pembroke's notice that Lucy's tears and distresswere more for herself and her disappointment than for her sister. Lucy hadnever learned a lesson of unselfishness, and she had thought chiefly of herown pleasure, and how she could escape from the life at Ford Manor. And nowthat she had escaped, now that a bright future had opened before her, suddenly that future was clouded, and she was to return whence she came, and would, doubtless, have to bear the gibes of her stepmother, who had, atparting, said, 'She would be back in a trice, like a bad penny, returned asworthless. '

A prophecy fulfilled sooner than she had expected. 

All this time Humphrey's letter had not been opened, and Lady Pembrokesaid, --

'Let us know Master Ratcliffe's wishes; he is, as I know, a good friend toyour sister. '

'He will sure tell me to go back, but I cannot find little Ambrose; and Iam not skilled in nursing the sick, Madam, I know. Goody Pearse, in thevillage, would tend Mary better. I love Mary. I love her dearly; and Igrieve about Ambrose, but--'

'But you love yourself better than either your sister or her boy, ' LadyPembroke said. 'Now, cut the string of that letter and let me know itscontents. '

Lucy did as she was bid. Something in Lady Pembroke's grave manner made herfeel that she was not pleased with her, and, of all things, she longed towin favour with her--Mr Sidney's sister!

There were only a few words on the piece of folded parchment. 

 * * * * *

'Mistress Lucy, you must crave leave of my lady, the Countess of Pembroke, to return to Ford Manor. Your sister is in sore distress--her boy lost, andshe is lying sick and sad. Hasten to get leave to return on the morrow withthe gentlewomen and esquires, who are to reach Penshurst with my LadySidney and Master Thomas. I am now, by leave of Mr Sidney, starting on thequest for your nephew Ambrose Gifford. Pray God I may find him. 

 'Yours to command, and in haste. 'HUMPHREY RATCLIFFE. '

 * * * * *

'This letter from so wise a gentleman leaves no alternative, ' Lady Pembrokesaid, as she scanned its contents, and then handed it back to Lucy. 

'Orders shall be given for your joining the retinue which sets off forPenshurst the morrow. Meantime, Lucy, return to your duties, and cravepardon of Mistress Crawley for your insubordination. '

'And I may return? Oh! Madam, I pray you, say I may return to you. Do notcast me off. '

'I shall be at Wilton for some months, and thither I may send for you, if, as I trust, you will not be needed at Ford Manor. '

Lucy still lingered. 

'Forgive me, Madam; do not dismiss me without forgiveness. '

'Nay, surely, dear child, ' Lady Pembroke said. 'I would fain see you happy, and content with the lot appointed you by God. There are manifoldtemptations in this world for us all. We need grasp the hand of One whowill not fail to lead us safely in prosperity, and by the waters of comfortin adversity. Seek Him, Lucy, with your whole heart, and I pray God tobless you. '

Lucy kissed the hand held out to her with passionate fervour, and then wentback to do Lady Pembroke's bidding. 

The expedition to Hampton Court was the topic of conversation amongst theladies of the household. 

Several of the elder ones were to accompany Lady Pembroke in the earl'sbarge; and Lucy heard the glowing accounts of the splendour of theentertainment there, related in triumphant tones by those who werefortunate enough to be selected to accompany the Countess. 

They dilated on the theme with some satisfaction, as poor Lucy sat at herlace-mending, too proud to show her mortification, and yet inwardly chafingagainst the hard fate, which had prevented her from being one of the party. 

'Better never to have tasted the sweets of a bright, gay life, than be sosuddenly snatched from it, ' she thought. But her better self asserteditself as she thought of Mary's distress in the loss of Ambrose. 

For Lucy had a better self, and she was not without higher aims. Shepossessed natural gifts which, though perhaps inferior to her sister's, only wanted cultivation. She eagerly devoured any books that came in herway; and she had a keen perception of all that was beautiful--perhaps it issafer to say, all that was grand and imposing. 

She loved to dream of herself as the lady of some fine house, surrounded byall that wealth and rank could give. 

The ideal knight who was to endow her with this splendour was partly ideal, but he took the form of Mr Sidney. She dare scarcely acknowledge this toherself. He was set on high, so far above her, it is true; yet he was nevertoo high above her to forget her presence. His smile was a guerdon whichshe craved to win; the glance of his grave, beautiful eyes thrilled throughher; the sound of his voice was music, stirring within her an answeringchord, the echo of which was ever sweet and sweeter every time it wasawakened. 

It was, she felt sure, by his kind offices she had been placed in LadyPembroke's household. And did he not seem sad--sorry for her--when MistressCrawley pursued her in the gallery? Did he not call her 'My poor child!'looking down at her with that light of sympathy in his eyes which seemed atthe moment to compensate for all else?

Perhaps unconsciously to himself, Philip Sydney touched the hearts of manya fair dame and youthful beauty about the Court of Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, we know it to have been so, and that the charm he exercised was as subtleas it was irresistible. This charm increased year by year, and perhapsnever was greater than at the time of which we are writing, when thestruggle within--a struggle in which he was to come out the victor--gave apathetic earnestness to his manner, and quickened his sympathies for everykind and degree of sorrow or disappointment. 

It was as poor little Lucy said: 'He was not too high to stoop to care forher, or for others. '

In the early morning of the next day Lucy stood disconsolately in thecourtyard of Lord Pembroke's city house watching the packing of thebaggage, and awaiting the orders of the gentleman who was Master ThomasSydney's tutor, and was in command for the journey. 

All was in the bustle of departure, and Lucy felt that no one cared onwhich pillion she was to ride, nor where her own modest packages were to bestowed. 

She wore a scarlet riding-robe, with a hood which was lined with whitetaffeta. It fell back, and made a background to her shining hair, anddefined the outline of her small, well-shaped head as she leaned againstthe doorway in listless dejection, which was a contrast indeed to herbright, sparkling mood as she bent over the edge of the booth at thetournament. 

A sharp altercation was going on between two of the servants, each wishingto have the honour of taking Lady Mary Sidney's youngest son on hispillion. 

Presently the boy himself appeared in his black velvet riding suit, bootedand spurred, his red-gold locks--the true Sidney badge--falling over hisshoulders from under the stiff, pointed cap which shaded his forehead. 

'I am to ride alongside of you, not on the pillion like a babe. Peace! Itell you, Mr Philip saith so. I am to ride Joan, the black mare, MasterPaynter saith it is Mr Philip's order. '

'Philip, ' the boy said, springing towards his brother who now came into theyard, 'Philip, do not let them treat me as an infant. '

Thomas Sidney was very small for his age, and was treated as youngestchildren often are treated by the elders of a family, as if he were muchyounger than his years. 

His delicacy appealed particularly to his brother Philip, who was alwaysready to stand his friend, when his elder brother Robin was inclined toexercise a boyish tyranny over him. 

'Yes, forsooth, Thomas, you shall ride old Joan. Come, let me see youmount. That is it, spring into the saddle; nay, do not take the rein soslackly, and settle firmly in the saddle, nor use the stirrup for support. A man should be able to ride with nothing but himself to trust to for asafe seat. '

Thomas was triumphant, and resisted his governess's attempts to throw acape over his shoulders, saying, --

'The wind was in the east, and would be like to bite their heads off whenthey turned into the country. '

But Thomas threw off the wrap with an impatient gesture, and, in falling, it hit the good woman on the face. 

'Ask pardon at once, Thomas, ' Philip said sternly; 'nor forget the mannersof a gentleman, while you aspire to ride as one. '

The colour rose to the boy's fair face, and, stooping from the saddle, hesaid, --

'I am sorry I was rude, Mistress Margery, but oh! I hate to be treated as ababe. '

Mistress Margery was easily mollified. She conspired with the rest of thefamily to spoil the boy, of whom it was said that he resembled his sisterAmbrosia, who died of wasting sickness and was buried at Ludlow. 

But Thomas had a brave spirit if his body was weak, and to all therefinement of his race he added indomitable courage and a perseverancewhich surmounted what seemed insuperable barriers. 

When the avant-couriers had ridden off, Philip turned to Lucy. 

'On which horse are you to ride, Mistress Forrester? Let me lift you toyour place. '

Lucy was trembling with joy that Mr Sidney should care for her comfort, and, as we all know, joy lies very near the fount of tears. 

She dare scarcely trust herself to speak, as she heard Mr Sidney call agroom to bring up the grey horse, Prince, for Mistress Forrester. 

'Poor old Prince!' Philip said, stroking the horse's neck, who knew hishand and bowed his head in acknowledgment, 'he has been a trusty servant, and will carry you safely, I know. But bring hither another cushion for thepillion, ' he called to an attendant, 'and put a package below, for MistressForrester's feet to rest upon. '

Then he lifted Lucy to her place, saying, as he did so, --

'Methinks Prince will not complain of the burden he has to carry to-day, itis but a feather's weight. See, place your feet on this roll, and let mecover them with the haircloth--so; does that suit you?'

The groom was about to take his place on the side of the pillion nearestthe horse's head, when he remembered he had forgotten to fill the powderflask, for no horseman ever ventured on the Queen's highway withoutabundant supply for the musket, which lay across the saddle bow. 

The delay caused by this gave Mr Sidney time to say, --

'Heaven grant you may find Mistress Gifford in better case than we fear. You do well to go to her, and comfort her; commend me to her, and sayHumphrey Ratcliffe has my freely-given permission to scour the country tofind her lost boy. He will do so if he is to be found, and it will be adouble grace if he does, for we may be able to unearth some of these foxyJesuits who are lying in wait in every hole and corner. '

Then, as Lucy did not speak, Philip laid his hand gently on hers as heleaned against the horse, with one arm caressing his old favourite's neck. 

'Smile on me before you set off, Mistress Lucy, nor look so doleful. Theclouds will clear away, I doubt not, and you will return to my sister, theCountess, to be blythe and happy in learning all Mistress Crawley wouldfain teach you of handicraft, and still more, all my sister can instructyou in, for she is ever ready to give out the treasures which she hasstored up in her brain and heart. '

And now the groom appeared, and mounted to his place, and still Lucy couldnot find any words. 

'God speed you in your journey, ' was Philip's good-bye, and Lucy could onlymurmur a few half-inaudible words, as she looked down on the true knightwho filled her girlish dreams, and to whom there never was, and never couldbe, any rival. 

And as the steady-going Prince footed it with even steps over the stones, and trotted along the somewhat rugged roads on the way to Tunbridge, Lucytormented herself with her folly in never telling Mr Sidney in so manywords how grateful she was to him. 

'Fool that I was!' she thought. 'And he so tender and careful for mycomfort. What a poor idiot I must have seemed! Yet, sure, I must findfavour in his eyes, or he would not have wrapt the cloth so deftly round myfeet. Oh, is he not noble and beautiful beyond all men who ever lived? Ihear them say the Queen calls him "her Philip" and "her bright gem, " andthat he is the wisest statesman, and grandest poet and finest scholar ofthe age, and yet he is not too great to be good to me--little LucyForrester. And it may be I shall never see him again--never return to LadyPembroke--live up on that hill all my days, and get as stupid and dull asthe old brindled cow that stares with big, dull eyes straight before her, and sees nought, nor cares for nought but to chew her food. 

'Alack! I am right sorry for Mary's grief. But I wish, if Ambrose was to bestolen, she had not fallen sick, so that I must needs go and tend her. I ama selfish hussy to feel this--selfish and hard-hearted! But, oh, was everanyone more grievously disappointed than I am. A few short, bright days, and then back, back to the old, dreary life. Still, I am young; yes, and Iam fair too. I know it, and I may yet be happy. '

Lucy's meditations continued in this strain, in alternate fears and hopes, for some time. 

The cavalcade stopped at intervals at wayside hostels to bait the horses, and to refresh the travellers with draughts of ale and cider. One of thesepotations had a soporific effect on Lucy, and, after drinking it, shebecame oblivious of jolts and stoppages, of the fair country through whichshe passed, and was wrapped in profound slumber, her head resting againstthe broad back of the servant who held the reins, and urged on old Prince'ssomewhat slow steps by a succession of monotonous sounds, which now andagain broke into the refrain of a song, one of the ballads familiar toKentish men, and handed down from father to son for many generations. 

 * * * * *

Humphrey had reached Ford Manor late on the previous evening. He had riddenhard and fast to Tunbridge, and had heard from Dorothy Ratcliffe's fatherthat the Papists' colony was supposed to be broken up, and that they hadescaped to Southampton, and taken ship for France. 

Two priests had been seized and thrown into prison at Canterbury, and thiswas supposed to have caused the dispersion of their followers, who hadevaded pursuit, and were now thought to be beyond the reach of theirpersecutors. But neither from his old uncle, Edgar Ratcliffe, nor from anyother source could Humphrey glean any information which might throw lighton the disappearance of little Ambrose Gifford. 

Nor did the intelligence of his loss seem greatly to affect the old man, nor indeed to be of any interest to the few people at Tunbridge of whomHumphrey made inquiries. 

They were far more anxious to hear news from the Court, and of thetournament, and whether Mr Sidney had won fresh laurels, and if the Queenwas really going to wed with a Popish prince. This was what the Papistsbuilt their hopes upon, and then it would be their turn to trample on theProtestants. 

As Humphrey rode through Penshurst, the village was wrapt in profoundrepose, for in those times people went to bed and rose with the sun. Artificial light was scarcely known in the farms and homesteads of countrydistricts, and there was only one twinkling light in the window of thehostel in the street to show belated travellers that if they desiredshelter and rest they might find it there. 

Humphrey rode slowly as he got nearer his destination, feeling reluctanceto be the bearer of no good news to one, who he knew was eagerly lookingfor him. 

The waters of the little Medway were low, for the season had been unusuallydry, and Humphrey's horse knew the ford well, and easily stepped over it, his hoofs making a dull splash in the rippling stream. 

The stars were bright overhead and a crescent moon gave a silvery light. The stillness was profound. At the entrance of the lane leading to FordManor the horse stopped short; he evidently wanted to go to his own stableon the crest of the hill. 

In that momentary pause Humphrey turned in the saddle, and, looking back, saw the dark outline of the grand old home of the Sidneys and the darkmasses of the stately trees which surround it, clear cut against the sky, in which the moon hung like a silver lamp. 

The peace which reigned seemed to strike him as a sharp contrast with theturmoil and noise of the city he had lately left. The Court, so full ofheart-burnings and jealousies and strivings to win a higher place in thefavour of those who were in favour with the Queen. The image of him whowas, perhaps, at that time Elizabeth's chief favourite rose before him, andhe thought how far happier he would be to live, apart from Court favour andrivalries, in the stately home which was the pride, not only of the Sidneysthemselves, but of everyone of their tenants and dependents on theirwide-stretching domain. For Humphrey could not hide from himself that hischief was often sad at heart, and that sometimes, in uncontrollableweariness, he would say that he would fain lead a retired life in hisbeloved Penshurst. His moods were, it is true, variable, and at times hewas the centre of everything that was bright and gay at Court, sought afteras one who could discourse sweetest music, the most graceful figure in thedance, the most accomplished poet who could quickly improvise a verse inpraise of his Queen, or a rhyme to commemorate some feat of arms at joustor tourney, like that of the preceding day. 

Humphrey Ratcliffe thought that he held the solution of his Master'salternations of sadness and cheerfulness, and, as he rode up to the Manor, he sighed as he remembered Philip Sidney's words. 

'Let us hope you may attain your heart's desire, nor have it ever deniedyou, as is God's will for me. '

'Denied to me also, but yet I have a hope, Mr Sidney cannot have; noimpassable barrier rises between me and Mary. If I find her boy I may reapmy reward. '

At the sound of the horse's feet the casement above the porch was opened, and a woman's head was thrust out. 

'Who goes there?'

'It is I, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I have an errand to Mistress Gifford. '

'She is sick, and can't hear aught to-night. It is near midnight. Go yourway, and return in the morning, Master Ratcliffe. '

Then there was a pause, the woman's head was withdrawn, and Humphrey'sear, quickened by love, heard Mary's voice in pathetic pleading. Presentlythe head re-appeared. 

'Mistress Gifford says, "Do you bring news?"'

'I would fain see her, if possible. I cannot speak of such matters here. '

'Then you must wait till the morrow, nor parley any longer. '

The casement was shut with a sharp click, and there was nothing left forHumphrey but to pursue his way to his own home, whither George--who hadparted from him at Tunbridge--and his servants had preceded him earlier inthe day. 

Mary Gifford lay sleepless and restless all through the long hours of thenight, watching for the dawn. She longed, and yet half dreaded her meetingwith Humphrey. She felt so utterly weak and broken-hearted, so forlorn anddeserted--what if he again urged his suit!--what if she had now to tell himwhat had been at their last interview only a probability, and was now acertainty! Her husband was no vague, shadowy personality; he was alive andstrong, to work for her the greatest evil that could befall her in stealingher boy from her. 

When Mistress Forrester came in, on her way to the dairy, to see how itfared with Mary, she found her, to her surprise, dressed, while GoodyPearse was snoring peacefully on the pallet bed, where Ambrose had sleptnear his mother. 

'Dear heart! Mary Gifford, what do you mean by getting up like this? Ithought, forsooth, you were so sick you had need of a nurse, to take a fewmore shillings out of my pocket, and here you are at five o'clock, up andspry. Well-a-day, I never did come to the bottom of you. Deep waters, theysay, make no noise. '

Mary had braced herself to bear anything and everything, and was strangelyunmoved by her stepmother's innuendoes, of which she took no notice, andonly said, in a gentle voice, --

'Is Ned astir yet?'

'I don't know. He came hobbling in after his goose-chase to London on youraccount, losing a couple of days' work; and I warrant he will have to beshaken before he gets about his business. '

'I can get downstairs, ' Mary said, 'if Ned will help to carry me. I fear Icannot put my leg to the ground yet. '

'No; and you may give up the notion. If you come down, you may as lief dowithout a nurse, and take to your lawful business. It is a prettything!--one of you gadding off to town and thinking herself a fine lady, and t'other laming herself and wanting to be tended by a paid woman. '

At this juncture Goody Pearse awoke, bewildered and much alarmed by thepresence of Mistress Forrester. She expected a sharp reprimand, butMistress Forrester left the room without another word either to nurse orpatient. 

'Dear heart! what made you get up afore I was ready? You'll have ragingpain in your foot again, sure as fate. '

'I must get downstairs to-day to see Master Humphrey Ratcliffe. Ned willhelp me. '

Mary's resolution did not falter. Her humble and faithful admirer, Ned, appeared at the attic door, when summoned by Goody Pearse, to help herdownstairs. Ned made short work of it; he lifted Mary in his arms, andtrudged down the creaking steps with her without a single halt, and placedher by her desire on the settle, where her leg could rest. Mary's smile wasa sufficient reward for Ned. But when Mary held out her hand, and said sheowed him more than tongue could tell for going to London, Ned wasspeechless with emotion. At last he blurted out, --

'I'd walk a hundred miles to serve you, Mistress; I'd even ride 'em foryour sake. But, oh, Lord! I am sore to-day with the cramp I gota-horseback. Here is a letter from Master Ratcliffe; he bid me put intoyour hands and into none other, and I have kept to the order. Take it, Mistress. '

Mary held out her hand, and took the much crumpled and soiled letter fromNed's large, brown fingers. But she had not opened it when HumphreyRatcliffe himself came up to the porch, and stopped short on the thresholdas if struck by some sudden blow. 

He was not prepared to see so great a change in Mary in so short a time. Pain of body, however severe, nor the deep cut in her forehead, couldhardly have left such traces of suffering on her face--still, inHumphrey's eyes, beautiful, though with lines of sorrow round her mouth andeyes. 

'Enter, my kind friend, ' Mary said, in a low, sweet voice, holding out herhand to him. 'This good Ned, ' she said, 'has faithfully performed hiserrand, and deserves our thanks. ' Ned, bashful and awkward, made for thedoor and disappeared. 'But what news? Is there aught to tell me of mychild?'

Humphrey had by this time advanced to the settle, and, kneeling by it, hetook Mary's hand in his, and kissed it gently and reverently. 

'I could find no trace of the boy in Tunbridge. The whole colony of Papistshas broken up and fled. Some of their number have been thrown into prison, awaiting judgment for conspiracy. I did not tarry, therefore, at Tunbridge, but rode on here last night. '

'Yes, ' Mary said. 'I heard your voice; and now--now what next?'

'It is my purpose to follow that villain who kidnapped the boy, and regainpossession of him. It is a puzzle to me to understand why he should stealhim. '

'He is so handsome, so clever, ' his mother said. 'Humphrey, I cannot, Icannot lose him. I must find him; and he will break his heart for hismother, ' she said passionately. 'His mother! bereft and desolate withouthim. '

'We will find him, ' Humphrey said, 'never fear. My noble master has givenme leave to go on the quest to France, or, it may be, the Low Countries, for the Papists have schools and centres of worship in all the Protestanttowns. '

'The Low Countries, ' Mary said, 'I have a friend there, at Arnhem, oneGeorge Gifford; he is an honest and godly minister. In my first grief anddespair years ago, I sent a letter to him for counsel. He was then inEngland, and acted a father's part by me, though only my husband's uncle. Yes, I will go to him as soon as I can put my foot on the ground. I willleave all things, and go on the quest myself--alone. '

'Not alone!' Humphrey said, 'not alone, but with me. Oh, Mary! I will tendyou and care for you, and we will seek together for _our_ boy--mine asyours, yours as mine. We will go to this good man of whom you speak, andall will be well. God will speed us. '

'Nay, dear friend, ' Mary said. 'Nay, it cannot be. I can never be yourwife. '

'And, by Heaven, why not? What hinders? Something tells me, presumptuousthough it may be, that you might give me a little--a little love, in returnfor mine. Why is it beyond hope?'

'Hush!' Mary said, 'you do not know why it is beyond hope. '

Humphrey's brow darkened, and he bit his under lip to restrain hisirritation. 

Presently Mary laid her hand on his shoulder as he knelt by her. 

'It is beyond hope, ' she said, 'because the man who stole my child from meis my husband. '

Humphrey started to his feet, and said in a voice of mingled rage anddespair, --

'The villain! the despicable villain! I will run him through the body an Iget the chance. '

'Nay, Humphrey, ' Mary said in pleading tones, 'do not make my burdenheavier by these wild words. Rumours had reached me in the winter of lastyear, when the Earl of Leicester with his large following were atPenshurst, that my husband was alive. Since then I have never felt secure;yet I did not dare to doff my widow's garments, fearing--hoping the reportwas false. As soon as I heard of this man lurking about the countryside, ahorrible dread possessed me. He asked Lucy to bring Ambrose to meethim--this strengthened my fears. From that moment I never let the boy outof my sight. Thus, on that morning of doom, I took him with me to look forthe shepherd and the lost lamb. Ah! woe is me! He was lying in wait. He hadtold me, when as I sat late in the porch one evening, that he would have myboy, and I knew he would wreak his vengeance on me by this cruel deed. Iseized Ambrose by the hand and ran--you know the rest--I fell unconscious;and when I awoke from my stupor, the light of my eyes was gone from me. 

'Ah! if God had taken my boy by death; if I had seen him laid in the coldgrave, at least I could have wept, and committed him to safe keeping inthe hands of his Heavenly Father--safe in Paradise from all sin. Butnow--now he will be taught to lie; and to hate what is good; and be broughtup a Papist; and bidden to forget his mother--his _mother_!'

Humphrey Ratcliffe listened, as Mary spoke, like one in a dream. 

He must be forgiven if, for the moment, the mother's grief for the loss ofher boy seemed a small matter, when compared with his despair that he hadlost her. 

For a few moments neither spoke, and then with a great rush of passionateemotion, Humphrey flung himself on his knees by Mary's side, crying out, --

'Mary! Mary! say one word to comfort me. Say, at least, if it werepossible, you could love me. Why should you be loyal to that faithlessvillain? Come to me, Mary. '

The poor, desolate heart, that was pierced with so many wounds, craved, hungered for the love offered her. How gladly would she have gone toHumphrey, how thankfully felt the support of his honest and steadfast love. But Mary Gifford was not a weak woman--swayed hither and thither by thepassing emotion of the moment. Clear before her, even in her sorrow, wasthe line of duty. The sacred crown of motherhood was on her brow, andshould she dare to dim its brightness by yielding to the temptation which, it is not too much to say, Humphrey's words put before her. 

She gathered all her strength, and said in a calm voice, --

'You must never speak thus to me again, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I am--God helpme--the wife of Ambrose Gifford, and, ' she paused, and then with patheticearnestness, '_I am the mother of his son. _ Let that suffice. '

Again there was a long silence. From without came the monotonous cawing ofthe rooks in the elm trees, the occasional bleating of the lambs in thepastures seeking their mother's side, and the voices of the shepherd'schildren, who had come down to fetch the thin butter-milk which MistressForrester measured out to the precise value of the small coin theshepherd's wife sent in exchange. 

It was a sore struggle, but it was over at last. 

When Humphrey Ratcliffe rose from his knees, Mary had the reward which agood and true woman may ever expect sooner or later to receive from anoble-hearted man, in a like case. 

'You are right, Mary, ' he said, 'as you ever are. Forgive me, and in tokenthereof let us now proceed to discuss the plans for the rescue of yourboy. '

This was now done with surprising calmness on both sides. 

Humphrey decided to start first for Douay, and then, failing to trace anytidings of the boy, he would proceed to Arnhem, and enlist the sympathiesand help of the good man, George Gifford, to get upon the right track forthe recovery of his nephew's child. 

'He is a just man, and will tender the best advice, ' Mary said. 'It is truethat a father has a right to his own son, but sure I have a right, and aright to save him from the hands of Papists. But I have little hope--it isdead within me--quite dead. My last hope for this world died when I lost myboy. '

'God grant I may kindle that hope into life once more, ' Humphrey said, in avoice of restrained emotion, and not daring to trust himself to say anotherword, he bent his knee again before Mary, took the long, slender handswhich hung listlessly at her side, and bowing his head for a moment overthem, Humphrey Ratcliffe was gone!

Mary neither spoke nor moved, and when Goody Pearse came with a bowl ofmilk and bread she found her in a deadly swoon, from which it was hard torecall her. Mistress Forrester came at the old woman's call, and burntfeathers under Mary's nose, and, with a somewhat ruthless hand, dashed coldwater over her pale, wan face, calling her loudly by name; and, when atlast she recovered, she scolded her for attempting to come downstairs, andsaid she had no patience with sick folk giving double trouble by wilfulways. Better things were expected of grown women than to behave likechildren, with a great deal more to the same purpose, which seemed to haveno effect on Mary, who lay with large wistful eyes gazing out at the opendoor through which Humphrey had passed--large tearless eyes looking invain for her boy, who would never gladden them again!

'The light of mine eyes!' she whispered; 'the light of mine eyes!'

'Shut the door, ' Mistress Forrester said to her serving-maid, Avice, whostood with her large, red arms folded, looking with awe at the pallid facebefore her. 'She calls out that the light dazes her; methinks she must begot back to bed, and kept there. '

The heavy wooden door was closed, and but a subdued light came in throughthe small diamond panes of thick, greenish glass which filled the lattice. Presently the large weary eyes closed, and with a gentle sigh, she said, --

'I am tired; let me sleep, if sleep will come. '

The business of the poultry-yard and dairy were far too important to befurther neglected, and Mistress Forrester, sharply calling Avice to mindher work, nor stand gaping there like a gander on a common, left GoodyPearse with her patient. 

The old crone did her best, though that best was poor. 

Nursing in the days of Queen Elizabeth was of a very rough and readycharacter, and even in high circles, there was often gross ignorancedisplayed in the treatment of the sick. 

The village nurse had her own nostrums and lotions, and the countryapothecary, or leech as he was called, who led very often a nomadic life, taking rounds in certain districts, and visiting at intervals lonelyhomesteads and hamlets, was obliged, and perhaps content, to leave hispatient to her care, and very often her treatment was as likely to bebeneficial as his own. 

Goody Pearse, to do her justice, had that great requisite for a nurse, inevery age and time--a kind heart. 

She felt very sorry for Mary, and, when Mistress Forrester was gone, shecrooned over her, and smoothed the pillow at her head, and then proceededto examine her foot, and bind it up afresh in rags steeped in one of herown lotions. 

The doctor had ordered potations of wine for Mary, and Mistress Forresterhad produced a bottle of sack from her stores, a mugful of which GoodyPearse now held to Mary's pale lips. 

'I only want quiet, ' she said, in a low, pathetic voice; 'quiet, and, ifGod please, sleep. '

'And this will help it, dear heart, ' the old woman said. 'Sup it up, like agood child, for, Heaven help you, you are young enow. '

Mary smiled faintly. 

'Young! nay; was I ever young and glad?'

'Yes, my dearie, and you'll be young and glad again afore long. There! youare better already, and Ned shall carry you up again when there's peace andquiet. '

It was evening, and Mary Gifford had been laid again on her own bed, whenquick footsteps were heard before the house, and Lucy's voice, --

'How fares it with Mary?'

Goody Pearse was on the watch at the casement above, and called out, --

'Come up and see for yourself, Lucy Forrester. '

Lucy was up the crooked, uneven stairs in a moment, and Mary, stretchingout her arms, said, --

'Oh! Lucy, Lucy. '

The two sisters were locked in a long embrace. 

'I am sorry you are fetched back from all your pleasures, little sister, 'Mary said at last. 

'Nay, I am glad to come. I have had a taste of happiness, and it will lasttill you are well, and we both go away from here, and the boy is found--forhe will be found--Humphrey Ratcliffe will scour the world ere he gives upfinding him, and Mr Sidney has granted him leave to go whither he lists, toget hold of that wicked man with his horrible, cruel, black eyes. How Ihate him!'

'Do not speak of him, ' Mary said, shuddering; 'do not speak of him, ' andshe put her hand to her side, as if the very mention of him sent a pangthrough her heart. 'Let me look at you, Lucy, ' she said presently. 'Turnyour face to the light that I may scan it. Ah!' she said, 'still my little, innocent sister, and with a happy light in her eyes. '

Lucy's face grew crimson. 

'Yes, ' she said. 'I have been happy, though there have been some crooks andquips to bear from old Mother Crawley. Yet, oh, Mary! when there is one bigheart-joy, everything else seems so small, and poor, and mean. '

'Have you made George Ratcliffe happy, then, with a promise to requite hislove?'

'George Ratcliffe!' Lucy exclaimed. 'Nay, Mary--not for a lap full ofgold. '

'Who, then, is it? for there is someone? Who is it, Lucy? I pray God he isa noble Christian gentleman. '

'He is the noblest, and best, and highest that ever lived. Hearken, Mary!and do not scoff at me--nor scorn me. No, you can never do that, I know. Myknight is far above me--so far, it may be, that he will never stoop so lowas to give me more than passing signs of his good-will. But I _have had_these. He has shone on me with his smile, he has thought of my comfort, hedid not deem the country maiden of no account, when grand ladies wereogling him, and trying to win his favour, he did not think me beneathnotice when he lifted me on the saddle this very morning, and covered mewith a warm cloth, and bade me "God speed. " If nought else comes--well, Iwill live on what I have had from him. The crumbs of bread from him aresweeter and richer than a feast from another. As I have jogged hitherto-day, there has been the thought of him to make me willing to give upeverything to gain his approval--his meed of praise. He bid me come to you, and I came. Nay, it was my Lady Pembroke who _bid_ me come--it was HumphreyRatcliffe who said I _must_ e'en come--but it was my knight who told me I_did well_ to come. And at these words a new feeling quickened in me aboutit. 

'You do not understand, Mary, I see you do not understand. You think mesilly, and vain, and selfish--and you are right. I am all three. I havebeen all three, and hot-tempered, and saucy, and oh! a hundred otherthings, but now I have an aim to be good and act in all things as my knightwould have me. Oh, Mary, could you have seen him as he rode into thetilt-yard on Whit-Monday, in his blue and gold armour, sitting on his finehorse, so stately and grand--could you have seen him break lance afterlance, his face shining like the sun, you would know what it is for me tofeel such an one can give a thought to me--even a passing thought. 

'Mary! Mary! I cannot help it. I love him--I worship him--and there is anend of the whole matter. It will make no odds whether what looks impossiblebecomes possible--he is to me what no one beside can ever be. There, it isout now, and I pray you do not despise me. I will be ever so patient now. Iwill do all I am bidden, and one day, Mary, we will leave this place--it isno home now, and I will return to my Lady Pembroke, and Humphrey Ratcliffewill find Ambrose, and you will be his wife, and--'

'Hush, Lucy; not a word more. I will keep sacred and secret in my heartwhat you have told me, dear child. I will not judge you hardly. You areyoung--so young--as young as I was when I went forth to sorrow and misery. For you, even though I think your dream baseless, and that you are feedinghope on what may turn out to be the ashes of disappointment, I will notdespair. I know your idol is worthy, and love for one who is pure and noblecannot work ill in the end. I will keep your secret; now, Lucy, littlesister--keep mine. I can never wed with another man, for my husbandlives--and has stolen from me my boy. '

'Mary, Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister'spillow. 'Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only ofmyself--I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really soheartless and vain, I will be good and comfort you, Mary. '

Mary Gifford stroked Lucy's brown head, and murmured, --

'Dear child! dear child! we will help each other now as we have never donebefore. '

From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forresterseemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seekinggirlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and riverof womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares--others withreluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to facewith the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly findthemselves on the other side to return no more. 

BOOK II

 Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve As nature's work, why should we fear to die? Since fear is vain but when it may preserve, Why should we fear that which we cannot fly? Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, Disarming human minds of native might; While each conceit an ugly figure bears Which were we ill, well viewed in reason's light. Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be, And scarce discern the dawn of coming day, Let them be cleared, and now begin to see Our life is but a step in dusty way, Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind; Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find. --_Arcadia_, p. 457. 

 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

CHAPTER X

AT WILTON

 'The silk well could they twist and twine, And make the fair march pine, And with the needle work; And they could help the priest to say His matins on a holy day, And sing a psalm at kirk. '

 _November 1585. _ _Old Rhyme. _

The chastened sunshine of an All Saints' summer was lying upon the fairlawns 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 wereapparently ready to believe that winter was passed over and spring hadcome. 

The thrushes and blackbirds were answering each other from the trees, andthe air was filled with their melody and with the scent of the late flowersin the pleasance, lying close under the cloisters, facing the beautifulundulating grounds of Lord Pembroke's mansion near Salisbury. 

The graceful figure of a lady was coming down the grassy slope towards thehouse; a boy of five or six years old, with a miniature bow and arrow inhis 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 comesto-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 atSalisbury, 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 riddeninto the courtyard to announce his Master's speedy arrival. '

'Then I will not go till I have seen Uncle Philip!' and Will dragged atLucy's hand as she attempted to lead him towards the house. 

'Nay, Will, ' his mother said, 'you must do as you are bid. ' And forthwiththe boy pouted; yet he knew to resist his mother's will was useless. Butpresently 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 littlenephew in his arms, and, saluting him, set him on his feet again. Then, with a bow and smile to Lucy, he bent his knee with his accustomed gracebefore his sister, who stooped down and kissed him lovingly, with thewords, --

'Welcome! welcome! dear Philip. Thrice welcome, to confirm the good news ofwhich my lord had notice yester even. '

'Yes; I have come to say much, and to discuss many schemes with you. I staybut till the morrow, when I would fain you got ready to see me later atPenshurst. '

'At Penshurst!'

'Yes. I have set my heart on meeting all my kindred--more especially ourfather and mother--there ere I depart. Now, now, Will! wherefore all thisstruggling to resist Mistress Forrester? Fie, fie! for shame!'

'It is the attraction of your presence, Philip, which is too much forWill, ' Lady Pembroke said. 

'Then, if I am the culprit, I will do penance, and take the boy in handmyself. See, Will, you are to come with me to your tasks, nor give MistressForrester so much trouble. ' And Lucy found herself free from the child'sdetaining hand, as Sir Philip went, with swift steps, towards thehouse--his little nephew running fast to keep up with him. 

Lucy followed, and met Sir Philip in the hall, where the tutor had capturedthe truant. 

'Any news from Arnhem, Mistress Forrester?' Sir Philip asked. 'Any goodnews from Mistress Gifford?'

'Nay, sir, no news of the boy; and even our good friend Master HumphreyRatcliffe is ready to give up the quest. '

'Nay, it shall not be given up. I am starting in a few days to the LowCountries, 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, heshall 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 soleagued with Spain and all her evil machinations. '

Lucy curtseyed, and, with a gentle 'Good-morning to you, sir, ' she went toher duties under Mistress Crawley. 

Lucy had changed from the impetuous child in the first flush of her youthand consciousness of beauty, into a woman almost graver than her years, andso little disposed to accept any overtures of marriage, that the ladies ofthe Countess of Pembroke's household called her the little nun. 

One after another they drifted off as the wives of the gentlemen andesquires, who were retainers of the Earl; but Lucy Forrester remained, highin favour with her lady, and even spoken of by Mistress Crawley as 'cleverenough, and civil spoken, ' the real truth being that she had becomeindispensable to Mistress Crawley, and was trusted by her to take in handthe instruction of the young maidens who came from the homes of the gentryand nobility, in a long succession, to enter the household of LadyPembroke, which was an honour greatly coveted by many. 

Soon after Mary Gifford's great sorrow in the loss of her child, MistressForrester astonished her step-daughter by announcing her marriage to one ofher Puritan neighbours, who was, in truth, but a herdsman on one of thefarms, but who had acquired a notoriety by a certain rough eloquence inpreaching and praying at the secret meetings held in Mistress Forrester'sbarn. He was well pleased to give up his earthly calling at MistressForrester's bidding, for he would scarcely have presumed to address her asa suitor without very marked encouragement. He fell into very comfortablequarters, 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 torepresent their right in their father's house, and left it with very littleregret on their side, and supreme satisfaction on their stepmother's. Lucyreturned to Lady Pembroke's household, and Mary Gifford, through theever-ready help of Humphrey Ratcliffe, broken down as she was prematurelyin 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 vaininquiries to lead to the discovery of her boy, which hitherto had provedfruitless. 

True and loyal to her interests, Humphrey Ratcliffe never again approachedher with passionate declarations of love. He was one of those men who canbe faithful unto death, and give unfaltering allegiance to the woman theyfeel it is hopeless to win. Loving her well, but loving honour, hers andhis own, more, Humphrey went bravely on the straight road of duty, with noregretful, backward glances, no murmurs at the roughness of the way, takingeach step as it came with unfaltering resolutions, with a heavy heart attimes; but what did that matter? And in all this determination to act as abrave, true man should act, Humphrey Ratcliffe had ever before him theexample of his master, Sir Philip Sidney. Second only to his love for MaryGifford was his devotion to him. It is said that scarcely an instance isrecorded of any of those who were closely associated with Sir Philip Sidneywho did not, in those last years of his short life, feel ennobled by hisinfluence. And Humphrey Ratcliffe was no exception to this all butuniversal law. 

Mean men, with base, low aims and motives, shunned the society of thisnoble Christian gentleman. His clever and accomplished uncle, the brilliantand unscrupulous Earl of Leicester, must often have been constrained tofeel, and perhaps acknowledge, that there was something in his nephew whichraised him to a height he had never attained--with all his success atCourt, his Queen's devotion, and the fame which ranked him in foreigncountries as the most successful of all Elizabeth's favourites. 

Lady Pembroke awaited her brother's return from the house. Going towardsit 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 togetherso often, Philip. '

'Yes, ' he said, 'all these fair slopes and pleasant prospects bring back tome, Mary, the days, the many days, when I found my best comforter in you. How fares it with the _Arcadia_?'

'It is winding out its long story, ' Lady Pembroke said, laughing. 'Toolong, methinks, for there is much that I would blot out if I dare essay todo so. But tell me, Philip, of this great appointment. Are you not glad nowthat the design respecting Sir Francis Drake's expedition fell to nought. Iever thought that expedition, at the best, one of uncertain issue and greatrisk. Sure, Philip, you are of my mind now. '

'Nay, Mary, not altogether. I hailed the chance of getting free fromidleness and the shackles of the Court. And moreover, ' he said, 'it is asplendid venture, and my heart swelled with triumph as I saw that grandarmament ready to sail from Plymouth. Methinks, even now, I feel a burningdesire to be one of those brave men who are crossing the seas with Drake tothose 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 boyishenthusiasm, and the ardent young soldier, eager, and almost wild, to setsail across the great dividing sea, seemed to replace for the moment themore 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 mydisappointment. It is somewhat hard to forgive Drake for what I must thinkfalse dealing with me, for I know well by whose means those mandates cameto Plymouth from the Queen. There was nought left for me but to obey, fordisobedience would have kept back the whole fleet; but the wholetransaction has left a sore--'

'Which will rapidly heal, Philip, in this new, and to my mind at least, fargrander 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 proudand pleased; more proud of you than ever before, were that possible. '

They had reached a favourite spot now, where, from a slightly risingground, 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, readsme 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 theupward glance of a steadfast faith. 

'Yes, ' Sir Philip said, 'I am happy in this lot which has fallen to me, andI pray God I may avenge the cause of those who are trodden down by thetyranny of Spain. The Queen's noble words inspired me with great confidencein the righteousness of the cause for which I am to fight. Her Grace saidher object was a holy one--even to procure peace to the holders of theReformed Faith, restoration of their time-honoured rights in theNetherlands, 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 herchristening to be performed?'

'In four days. The Queen is so gracious as to ride from Richmond to Londonto name our babe herself, and will dispense gifts in honour thereof. Mysweet Frances, the child's mother, is not as hearty as I would fain seeher, so she consents to delay her coming to Flushing till I can assuremyself 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 conveymother and child to Penshurst, where all who wish to bid me farewell willgather. Our good father and mother, who do not feel strength enough for thefestivity of the Court, even to be present at the babe's christening, proceed thither to-morrow from Ludlow. Will you join them there, oraccompany me to London?'

'I will await your coming at Penshurst, Philip. I am somewhat disturbed atthe last letters from our dear father. He speaks of being broken down inbody and dejected in spirit. Verily, I can scarce forgive the mistress hehas served so well for her treatment of him. God grant you get a betterguerdon for faithful service than our father and mother won. '

'It is true, too true, ' Sir Philip said, 'that they were ill-requited, buthas anyone ever fared better who has striven to do duty in that unhappycountry of Ireland? It needs a Hercules of strength and a Solon of wisdom, ay, and a Croesus of wealth to deal with it. In the future generations sucha 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 agogto come also, but he is too young and weakly, though he would rave if heheard me call him so. He shall follow in good time. There is a brave spiritin Thomas which is almost too great for his body, and he is not prone to beso lavish as Robert, who has the trick of getting into debt, out of which Ihave again and again helped to free him. In my youth I too had not learnedto 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 provideall 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 addedearnestly, 'happiness--rather a peaceful and contented mind--has come to meat last. When my tender wife, loyal and true, looks up at me with herguileless eyes, full of love and trust, I feel I am thrice blest inpossessing her. And, Mary, the sight of our babe thrilled me strangely. Thelittle crumpled bit of humanity, thrusting out her tiny hands, as if tofind out where she was. That quaint smile, which Frances says, is meant forher; that feeble little bleating cry--all seemed like messages to me toquit myself as a man should, and, protecting my child in her infancy, leaveto her and her mother a name which will make them proud to have been mywife 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 fordeparture, and to write a letter to her sister-in-law, with a beautifulchristening present, which she was to send by her brother's hand. 

Sir Philip lingered still in the familiar grounds of Wilton, which weredear 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 theold paths between the closely-clipped yew hedges, and scarcely left a nookor corner unvisited. 

The country lying round Wilton was also familiar to him. Many a time hehad ridden to Old Sarum, and, giving his horse to his groom, had wanderedabout in that city of the dead past, which with his keen poeticalimagination he peopled with those who had once lived within its walls, ofwhich but a few crumbling stones, turf-covered, remain. A stately churchonce 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 longsince past been 'told as a tale' in the city on the hill, as now in thecity 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 churchstood out as a new possession to take the place of the ruined temple, whichhad once lifted its head as the centre of Old Sarum. 

Sir Philip Sidney had left several of his servants at Salisbury, and, whenhe had bidden the Countess good-bye, till they met again in a few days atPenshurst, he rode back to the city, and, leaving his horse at the WhiteHart, he passed under St Anne's Gateway, and crossed the close to the southdoor of the Cathedral. 

The bell was chiming for the evensong, and Sir Philip passed in. He wasrecognised by an old verger, who, with a low bow, preceded him to thechoir. 

Lady Pembroke was right when she said that her brother looked younger thanhe had looked some years before. 

There never was a time, perhaps, in his life, when his face had been moreattractive and his bearing more distinguished than now. 

The eyes of the somewhat scanty congregation were directed to him as hestood chanting in his clear, sweet musical voice the Psalms for the secondevening of the month. 

The sun, entering at the west door, caught his 'amber locks' and made themglow like an aureole round his head, as he lifted it with glad assurancewhen the words left his lips. 

'But my trust is in Thy mercy, and my heart is joyful in Thy salvation. Iwill sing of the Lord because He hath dealt so lovingly with me; yea, Iwill praise the name of the Lord Most Highest. '

Those who saw Sir Philip Sidney that day, recalled him as he stood in theold oaken stall, only one short year later, when, with bowed head and sadhearts, they could but pray in the words of the Collect for the week, 'thatthey might follow the blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, thatthey might come to those unspeakable joys which are prepared for them thatlove God. '

Sir Philip had not time to delay, though the Dean hurried after the serviceto greet him and to offer hospitality. 

'I must be on my road to London, ' he said, 'for a great event awaits methere, Mr Dean--the baptism of my little daughter, to whom the Queen isgraciously pleased to stand godmother. '

'And God give you a safe journey, Sir Philip, and bless the child, ' thekindly Dean said. 'How fares it with the daughter of my good friend SirFrancis Walsingham? I trust she is well recovered. '

'Fairly well, ' Sir Philip replied. 'She is young and somewhat fragile, butI trust will soon be able to join me at Flushing. '

After the exchange of a few more kindly words and congratulations, SirPhilip Sidney was leaving the Cathedral, when a figure, still kneeling inthe nave, arrested his attention, and as his footsteps drew near, the bowedhead 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 youfarewell, and to assure you I will not fail to track out the villain, whomay, at least, give me tidings of Mistress Gifford's boy. I will see heralso, 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 tomy care at Penshurst, whither, I suppose, you go with the Countess on themorrow or next day. Then we shall meet again--so now, farewell. '

Years had passed since Lucy had subdued the tumultuous throb at her heartwhen in Sir Philip's presence. He was still her ideal of all that was nobleand pure and courteous; her true knight, who, having filled her childishand 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 sheand Mary Gifford had exchanged their secrets she had striven to keep herpromise, 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 aneducation to her in the best sense of the word. 

'Fare you well, sir, ' she said. 'I must hasten to find Mistress Crawley. Wecame hither to the city for something wanted from a shop ere we start onour 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 towhether Sir Philip might think she was alone in Salisbury; and somethingof relief when she exclaimed, --

'Ah, there is Mistress Crawley!' as she tripped away to meet her, SirPhilip repeating as she left him, --'Fare you well, Mistress Lucy. _Aurevoir. _'

CHAPTER XI

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 theNovember days of lengthening twilight and falling leaves, Sir PhilipSidney's friends and relatives gathered under the hospitable roof tocongratulate him on his appointment to the Governorship of Flushing andRammekins, the patent having been granted at Westminster on the seventh dayof the month. 

Sir Philip had taken leave of the Queen after she had honoured him bystanding as godmother to his little daughter. He had now brought her andher mother to Penshurst to leave them there in safety, till he had arrangedfor their reception at Flushing, and found proper accommodation for them. 

It was a goodly company that assembled in the grand old hall on the daybefore Sir Philip's departure. There were, we may be sure, many presentwhose names live on the pages of the history of the time. 

The courtly Earl of Leicester was there, who, with whatever outward show ofsatisfaction at his nephew's promotion, was never free from a latentjealousy which he was careful to hide. 

Sir Francis Walsingham was there, the proud grandfather of the tiny babewhich Lady Mary Sidney held so tenderly in her arms, scanning her featuresto discover in them a likeness to her father. Sir Henry Sidney was withher, prematurely old and feeble, trying to shake off the melancholy whichpossessed him, and striving to forget his own troubled and ill-requitedservice to the Queen, in his pride that his son was placed in a positionwhere his splendid gifts might have full play. 

'The light of his family, ' he always fondly called Philip, and he would notgrudge that this light should shed its radiance far beyond his own home andcountry. 

Was it a strange prescience of coming sorrow that made Sir Henry for themost 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 lookof sadness. 

[Illustration: THE GREAT HALL, PENSHURST CASTLE. ]

'We part from our son, good nephew, ' Lady Mary said, 'on the morrow, andpartings in old age have a greater significance than in youth. We pleaseourselves with future meetings when we are young; when we are old, weknow full well that there is but a short span of life left us, for reunionwith those who are dear to us. '

As the short day closed in, the huge logs in the centre of the hall sentforth a ruddy glow. The torches set in the iron staples on the walls werelighted, and flickered on the plentifully-spread board and on the faces ofthose 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 thegallery struck up a joyful strain, and at the foot of the stairs Sir Philippaused. 

He looked down on the faces of many friends and retainers, faithful intheir allegiance, with a proud, glad smile. Many of them were to follow himto his new post as Governor. All were ready to do so, and die in the causehe held sacred, if so it must be. 

It was not without intention that Sir Philip waited till the company hadpassed 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 toreward you for the faithful service you will render me. God grant you mayreturn in health and peace to your wives and children. If it please God, Ishall myself return in due season; but there are many chances in war, and asoldier's future must ever be doubtful. So, should I fall in the fightagainst the tyranny of Spain and the machinations of Rome, I say to you, show to this fair lady, my sweet wife, all reverent care and honour, for, forsooth, she will merit it; and as for this little lady Elizabeth, thegodchild of our gracious Sovereign, ' he continued, smiling as he took thechild from the nurse's arms, 'I commend her to you also. You see but littleof her, she is so swathed in folds of lace and what not, and, in goodsooth, there is but little to see; but she gives promise of being a daintylittle maiden, not unworthy to be the Queen's name-child, and the daughterof the gentle Dame Frances Sidney. '

'Nor unworthy to be the child of Sir Philip Sidney, a greater honour thanall 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 hiswife and child. 

The remark was received with a prolonged 'Ay, ' and a murmur of many voiceswishing Sir Philip all success and good fortune. 

There was dancing in the spacious ballroom, which was lighted for theoccasion by the three cut-glass chandeliers, surmounted by the royal crown, which were, it is said, the first made in England, and presented to SirHenry Sidney by Queen Elizabeth. Here the younger portion of the guestsenjoyed the dance then so popular, and which was known by the appropriatename of 'The Brawl. '

The elders had followed Lady Mary Sidney to the room known as QueenElizabeth's, where the chairs, draped in yellow satin, and the card-tablecovered 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 betweenthem hung the portraits of Sir Philip and his brother Robert in childhoodin their stiff and ungainly Court dress, and one of Lady Mary when she cameas a bride to Penshurst--in the pride of her youth and beauty, before thesmallpox had robbed her face of its fair complexion, and before sorrow anddisappointment had left their trace upon it. 

The Countess of Pembroke was always her mother's chief sympathiser in joyand 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 herministers for a private conversation or flirtation, as the case might be. By the opening of a panel of white Venetian glass, those who were seatedbehind the screen could watch unseen what was passing in the room beyond. 

'You look weary, dear mother, ' Lady Pembroke said--'weary and sad. Methinkspride in our Philip should overrule grief at his loss. He has been wellversed in the manners and customs of foreign courts. He is a greatfavourite, and I hope to see him return with fresh laurels at no distantdate. '

'Ah, Mary! you have, as I said to my brother but an hour ago, you have afuture; for me there is only a short span left. Yet I can rejoice in thepresent bliss of seeing Philip a proud husband and father. There was atime 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 hasproved. Look at him now!' As she spoke Sir Philip was seen coming down theroom with Lady Frances on his arm, Sir Fulke Greville on the other side, evidently some jest passing between them, for Sir Philip's face wassparkling with smiles, and his silvery laugh reached the ears of thosebehind 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 SirFrancis Walsingham's arm. He has the mien of a man many a year older thanhe 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 stillcall him, looks well. He is all agog to be off with Philip; he must tarrytill the winter is over. Robert is of a stronger build, and can weather thefrosts and bitter cold of the Low Countries. '

Lady Pembroke was now watching another couple who were passing on to theballroom. The Earl of Leicester had often been attracted by the beauty ofLucy Forrester, and had now done her the honour of begging her to dancewith him. But Lucy shrank from the open admiration and flattery of thisbrilliant courtier. While others were looking on her with envy, jealous ofthe distinction the Earl had conferred upon her, Lucy hoped she might meether mistress, and excuse herself from the dance by saying her presence wasneeded 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 ofhis short sword. 

'Pardon me, dear mother, ' Lady Pembroke said, as she rose from her seat, 'Iwill return anon, ' and then she stepped up to George, saying, --

'Have you danced this evening, Master Forrester? Come with me, and let mefind you a partner. '

George blushed crimson at the honour done him; he was no courtier, and thethanks he would fain have spoken died on his lips. 

'I have been desiring to speak with you, ' Lady Pembroke said; 'I would fainknow 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. 'Ifhe is to be tracked out, your good brother will do it. You do not followSir Philip to the Netherlands, I think. '

'Nay, Madam, I stay at home, my mother is sick, and the care of the placefalls on me heavily enow. '

When Lucy saw Lady Pembroke she disengaged her hand from the Earl's, andsaid, --

'May it please you, my Lord, to permit me to go to my Lady, she may beseeking 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 mysister 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, ' sheadded, laughing. 

It was all done so quickly that George could scarcely realise what hadhappened. 

He had been faithful to his first love, and never for a moment faltered inhis allegiance. 

Both brothers were, it may be, exceptional in the steadfastness of theirloyalty to the two sisters. But Humphrey's position was widely differentfrom that of his brother, and he had many interests and friends, yes, andflirtations and passing likings also, which prevented his thoughts fromdwelling so continually upon Mary Gifford. Moreover, he knew the gulf setbetween them was impassable, and she was really more, as he said, like asaint out of his reach, than a woman of everyday life, whom he longed tomake his wife. 

George, on his hilltop, with no companion but his querulous mother--MrsRatcliffe was for ever harping on his folly in suffering his cousinDorothy, with her full money-bags, to slip through his fingers, to blessthe draper's son in the Chepe with what would have been so valuable to himand to her--was far more to be pitied; and it was no wonder that hewithdrew more and more into himself, and grew somewhat morose and gruff inhis manner. 

It was something to watch for Lady Pembroke's visits to Penshurst, whenLucy would at least appear with the household at church, but these visitsonly 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 ofPembroke's household; and, alas! further from him than ever. 

In the dance to which George led Lucy, they found themselves opposite toHumphrey and one of the younger members of the Countess's household. 

A bright, blue-eyed, laughing girl, who rallied Lucy on her sedatebehaviour, and the profound curtseys she made to her partner, instead ofthe pirouette which she performed with Humphrey, his arm round her waist, and her little feet twinkling under the short skirt of her stiff brocade, like birds on the wing. 

When the dance was over, George said, --

'The air is hot and fevered in this room; will you take a stroll with me, Mistress Lucy, in the gallery? or is it too great a favour to ask at yourhands?'

'Nay, no favour, ' Lucy replied; 'I shall be as well pleased as you are toleave the ballroom. '

So they went together through the gallery, where, now and again, they sawcouples engrossed with each other's company in the deep recesses of thewindows. 

The young moon hung like a silver bow in the clear sky, and from thiswindow the church tower was seen beyond the pleasance, and the outline ofthe trees, behind which the moon was hastening to sink in the westernheavens. 

As Lucy gazed upon the scene before her, her large wistful eyes had in themthat 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, andpoor George felt something he could not have put into words, separating himfrom the one love of his life. His thoughts suddenly went back to thatspring evening when Lucy, in her terror, had rushed to him for protection. He recalled the sweetness of that moment, as a man perishing for thirstremembers the draught of pure water from the wayside fountain, of which hehad scarcely appreciated the value, when he held it to his lips. 

A deep sigh made Lucy turn towards him, and, to his surprise, she openedthe very subject which he had been struggling in vain to find courage tobegin. 

'George, ' she said, 'it would make me so happy if you could forget me, andthink of someone who could, and would, I doubt not, gladly return yourlove. '

'If that is all you can say to me, ' he answered gruffly, 'I would ask youto hold your peace. How can I forget at your bidding? it is folly to ask meto do so. '

'George, ' Lucy said, and her voice was tremulous, so tremulous that Georgefelt a hope springing up in his heart. --'George, it makes me unhappy when Ithink of you living alone with your mother, and--'

'You could change all that without delay, you know you could. I can't giveyou 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 finethings now; once I lived for them; that is over. '

'You love books, if not fine things, ' he went on, gathering courage as hefelt Lucy, at any rate, could think with some concern, that he was lonelyand unhappy. 'You care for books. I have saved money, and bought all Icould lay my hand on at the shop in Paul's Churchyard. More than this, Ihave tried to learn myself, and picked up my old Latin, that I got atTunbridge School. Yes, and there is a room at Hillside I call my lady'schamber. I put the books there, and quills and parchment; and I have gotsome picture tapestry for the walls, and stored a cupboard with bits ofsilver, and--'

'Oh! George, you are too good, too faithful, ' Lucy exclaimed. 'I am notworthy; you do not really know me. ' And, touched with the infinite pathosof George's voice, as he recounted all he had done in hope, for herpleasure, 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 cometo you with a true heart, I _will_ come. But this is not yet, and I shouldwrong a noble love like yours if I gave you in return a poor and meanaffection, 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 mehear by chance that you have become the wife of another man; give me fairwarning, or I swear, if the blow should fall unawares, it would kill me ordrive 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 thatsuffice. '

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 thisNovember day, there are often hidden romances, and chapters rehearsed inindividual lives, of which the majority know nor care nothing. Who amongstthat throng of courtly ladies and gay gentlemen knew aught of GeorgeRatcliffe's love story; and, if they had known, who would have cared? Tothe greater number the whole thing would have seemed a fit subject forjest, perhaps of ridicule, for self-forgetting love, which has nothing tofeed on, and no consolation except in nursing vain hopes for the fulfilmentof the heart's desire, does not appeal to the sympathy of the multitude. Such chivalrous, steadfast love was not unknown in the days of QueenElizabeth, nor is it unknown in the days of Queen Victoria. It left norecord behind it then, nor will it leave a record now. It is amongst thehidden treasures, which are never, perhaps, to see the light of day; but itis a treasure, nevertheless; and who shall say that it may not shine in apurer atmosphere and gain hereafter the meed of praise it neither soughtfor nor found here?

There was much stir and bustle in the President's Court at Penshurst's thenext morning. The gateway tower had just been completed by Sir Henry Sidneyon the old foundations, which dated from the thirteenth century. And now, from under its shadow, on this still November morning, 'the light of SirHenry's family' was to ride out with a large retinue to take up the highposition granted him by the Queen as Governor of Flushing. How young helooked as he sat erect on his noble horse, scanning his men, whose nameswere 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, itwas a goodly display of brave, stalwart followers, all faithful servants ofthe house of Sidney, bearing their badge on their arm, and the boar andporcupine on the helmets. 

The Earl of Leicester was by his nephew's side, and his gentlemen andesquires in attendance in brilliant array, for Robert, Earl of Leicester, loved display, and nothing could be more gorgeous than the trappings of hisown horse, nor the dazzling armour which he wore. 

In the background, under the main entrance of the house, Sir Henry Sidneyand Lady Mary stood with the Earl and Countess of Pembroke, and DameFrances 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, andlet 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 inprivate, and there was a general determination amongst everyone to be braveand repress any demonstration of sadness at the last moment. And indeed thesplendid military career opening before Sir Philip was a joy in the heartsof many who loved him, which silenced any expression of grief at his lossto 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 littledaughter had just been brought by her nurse. 'Nay, then, my ladyElizabeth, ' he said, 'it would ill-beseem me to forget to bid youfarewell, ' and, taking the child in his arms, he kissed her twice on thelittle puckered forehead, saying, 'Go for comfort to your sweet mother, ' ashe put her into his wife's arms, 'and God bring you both safe to me erelong. '

In another moment he had again sprung on the saddle, and, with a last lookat the group collected under the porch, he rode away with all that gallantcompany, with high hopes and courage to follow where their great chief ledthem. 

Some of the guests departed in the afternoon of the day to sleep atTunbridge, 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 ofhis sympathy, as to Sir Fulke Greville. 

Perhaps no one, except herself, had such an intimate knowledge of the depthof his learning and the wonderful versatility of his gifts. 

The beech wood was Lady Pembroke's favourite resort at all seasons when atPenshurst. It was there she had many a time played with Sir Philip as achild, and taken sweet converse with him in later years. Here many of hispoems had been rehearsed to his sister before ever they had been written onpaper. 

It was in the profound stillness of the November noontide that LadyPembroke invited Sir Fulke Greville to cross the park and wander with herin the familiar paths through the beech wood. 

The leaves were falling silently from the branches overhead, adding one byone their tribute to the thick bronze carpet which had been lying at thefeet of the stately trees for many a long year. 

The gentle rustle of a bird as it flew from the thinning branches, the softsigh 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 fellupon the ear as Lady Pembroke and Sir Fulke Greville spoke of him who wasuppermost in their thoughts. 

'It is a splendid career for him, doubtless, ' Sir Fulke was saying, 'andmarvellous that one so young should be thus distinguished as to be set overthe heads of so many who would fain have been chosen. But no man livingexcites less jealousy than Sir Philip; jealousy and scorn and mistrust diein his presence. '

'Yes, ' Lady Pembroke said, 'that is true. Yet I would that I felt moresecure as to my Uncle Leicester's attitude towards my brother. I scarce canfeel his praise is whole-hearted. Maybe it is too much to expect that itshould be as fervent as that of others. '

'The Earl is appointed Commander-in-Chief of the whole force. Sure that ishonour enough, and the sooner he hastens thither the better. He is gone todally at Court and trifle with the Queen as of old. When I see thesemiddle-aged folk, Queen and courtier, posing as lovers and indulging inyouthful follies, I ask myself, will it be so with me? shall I danceattendance on fair ladies when I have told out near fifty years of life? Ihope not. '

Lady Pembroke laughed. 

'There is no fear, methinks, for you or Philip; but, after all, it is theheart which keeps us really young, despite age, yes, and infirmity. Philip, as he rode forth this morning, looked as young, methinks, as when on thefirst expedition he went to Paris, when scarce eighteen years had passedover his head. '

'That is true, ' Sir Fulke answered, 'and none can look at Philip nowwithout seeing that happiness has the effect of renewing youth. '

'Yes, ' Lady Pembroke said; 'he is happy, as he could not be while thathunger for forbidden fruit was upon him. At times I am tempted to wishFrances had more tastes in sympathy with her husband, but one cannot haveall that is desired for them we love, and she is as loving a wife as anyman ever possessed. But, tell me sure, how fares it with the young trio ofscholars? Has aught come lately from your pens? and does the sage Harveyyet rule over your metres, and render your verses after ancient model?'

'Nay, we have withdrawn from the good old man's too overbearing rule. Asyou must know, Sir Philip has written an admirable _Defence of Poesie_, andhe there is the advocate for greater simplicity of expression. We have hadtoo much of copies from Italian models. '

'The Italians vary in merit, ' Lady Pembroke said. 'Sure Dante rises to thesublime, and Philip has been of late a devout student of the _Vita Nuova_, and caught the spirit of that mighty genius who followed Beatrice fromdepths of hell to heights of Paradise. '

'Yes, I have had the same feeling about Sir Philip which you express, ' SirFulke Greville said. 'Dante has raised love far above mere earthly passionto a religion, which can worship the pure and the spiritual rather than themere beauty of the bodily presence. This breathes in much of Philip's laterverse. You know how he says he obeyed the muse, who bid him "look in hisheart, and write, rather than go outside for models of construction. " Thatgreat work--great work of yours and Sir Philip, the _Arcadia_--teams withbeauties, and Pamela is the embodiment of pure and noble womanhood. '

'Ah!' Lady Pembroke said, 'my brother and I look forward to a time ofleisure and retirement, when we will recast that lengthy romance, andcompress it into narrower limits. We know full well it bears the stamp ofinexperience, and there is much concerning Philoclea that we shall expunge. But that time of retirement!' Lady Pembroke said, 'it seems a mockery tospeak of it, now that the chief author has just left us to plunge into thevery thick of the battle of life. '

'I am well pleased, ' Sir Fulke said, 'that Sir Philip should have so able asecretary at his elbow--Mr William Temple. The scholar's element will be arefreshment to Philip when the cares of government press heavily. MrWilliam Temple's _Dialectics_ is dedicated, with no empty profession ofrespect and affection, to one who has ever been his friend. Forsooth, ' SirFulke Greville said, 'friends, true and loyal to your brother, Madam, areas numerous as the leaves that rustle under our feet. '

'Yes, ' Lady Pembroke said; 'that is a consoling thought; and he goes tofriends, if one may judge by the terms Count Maurice of Nassau writes ofhim to the English Ambassador, Master Davison. My father has shown me acopy of that letter, which speaks of Philip as his noble brother, andhonoured companion-in-arms. '

'How proud one of the chiefest of the friends you speak of would be couldhe 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 atruer and more faithful counsellor than Philip possessed in that noble oldHuguenot. And how he loved him, and mourned his loss!'

The big bell was now sounding for the mid-day dinner, and Lady Pembrokesaid, --

'However unwillingly, we must break off our converse now. You will write tome if you repair to Flushing; or you will find a welcome at Wilton on anyday when you would fain bend your steps thither. Philip's friend must needsbe mine. '

'A double honour I cannot rate too highly, ' was the reply. 'I will ever domy best to prove worthy of it. '

CHAPTER XII

FIRE AND SWORD

 'What love hath wrought Is dearly bought. '--_Old Song_, 1596. 

Mary Gifford had found a quiet resting-place in the house of her husband'suncle, Master George Gifford, at Arnhem, and here, from time to time, shewas visited by Humphrey Ratcliffe, who, in all the tumult of the war, keptwell in view the quest for Mary's lost son. 

Again and again hope had been raised that he was in one of the Popishcentres which were scattered over the Low Countries. 

Once Mary had been taken, under Humphrey's care, to watch before the gatesof a retired house in a village near Arnhem, whence the scholars of aJesuit school sometimes passed out for exercise. 

For the Papists were under protection of the Spanish forces, and were farsafer than their Protestant neighbours. Spain had always spies on thewatch, and armed men ready in ambush to resent any interference with thepriests or Jesuit schools. 

The country was bristling with soldiers, and skirmishes were frequentbetween the English and Spaniards. Treachery and secret machinations werealways the tactics of Spain, and the bolder and more open hostility ofElizabeth's army was often defeated by cunning. 

Mary Gifford's expedition to the little town had resulted indisappointment. With eager eyes and a beating heart she had watched theboys file out in that back street towards the river, and when the boypassed whom, at a sign from Humphrey, she was especially to notice, sheturned 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, ' Humphreysaid, somewhat unwilling to give up his point. 'Methinks that stripling hasas much likeness to the child of scarce seven years old as you may expectto find. '

'Nay, ' Mary said. 'The eyes, if nought else, set the question at rest. Didyou not note how small and deep-set were the eyes which this boy turned onus 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 goodfriend, the truth gets more and more fixed in my mind that my child is safein 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 atfirst at Douay, and that his father took him thence to some hiding-placein the Netherlands. He may be nearer you than you think. I shall not havethe chance of speaking much to you for some weeks, ' Humphrey said. 'It maybe never again, for our great chief, Sir Philip, weary of inaction and sickat heart by the constant thwarts and drawbacks which he endures, isconsorting with the Count Maurice of Nassau, and both are determined tocapture Axel. The scheme has to be submitted to the Earl of Leicester, andwe only await his assent to prepare for the onset, and, by God's help, wewill take the town. Sir Philip craves for some chance of showing what hecan do. He is crippled for money and resources, and, moreover, the loss ofboth his parents weighs heavy upon him. '

'Alas! I know this must needs do so, the losses following so close, one onthe steps of the other. '

'I have had a letter of some length from Lucy concerning Sir Henry's deathat Ludlow, and I look for another ere long with a fuller account than asyet I have received of the Lady Mary's departure. '

'Verily, there is only one staff to lean on as we pass through the valleyof the shadow when all human help is vain. None need be lonely who can feelthe presence of the Lord near in life and death. We must all seek to feelthat presence with us. '

'Alas!' Humphrey said, 'this is a hard matter. It is many a year now sinceI have ventured to put the question. Do you still hold to the belief thatyour 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 theyparted--Humphrey to the active service which would make him forget for thetime the hopelessness of his quest for the boy Ambrose and his love for themother. 

Lucy Forrester had acquired, amongst other things in Lady Pembroke'sservice, the art of writing well, and she kept up communication with hersister by this means. These letters were often sent, by favour of the Earlof Pembroke, in the despatches to Sir Philip Sidney or the Earl ofLeicester, and conveyed to Mary Gifford by his servants. 

One of these letters awaited Mary this evening on her return, and it waslying on the table by Master Gifford's side, as he sat in the spotlesslyclean parlour, with the Bible open before him, and a sheet of parchment, onwhich he was jotting down the heads of his sermon to be delivered next dayin the plain unadorned room at the back of his house at Arnhem. 

Master George Gifford was a fine and venerable-looking man, with abundanceof grey hair curling low over the stiff, white collar, which contrastedwith the sombre black of his long gown made of coarse homespun. 

He had escaped to Holland in the days of the persecution of Protestants inEngland, and, having a natural gift of eloquence, had become the centreand stay of a little band of faithful followers of the Reformed Faith. 

But Master Gifford was no narrow-minded bigot, and he abhorred persecutionon the plea of religion, as utterly at variance with the Gospel of the OneLord and Saviour of all men. 

He was a dignified, courteous man, and treated Mary with the tenderconsideration which her forlorn condition seemed to demand. Amongst thosewho at intervals attended his ministry was Sir Philip Sidney, and, on thisvery day when Mary Gifford had been on her vain expedition to the littleout-of-the-way village on the river bank, the young soldier had come to laybefore him the scheme for attacking Axel, and had brought with him theletter which, on Mary's entrance, Master Gifford held towards her. 

'Here is a welcome missive, ' he said; 'but forsooth, my poor child, youlook worn and tired. Sit you down and rest. Gretchen has spread the boardfor you; I supped an hour agone. No news, I take it, Mary?' Master Giffordsaid. 

'No, no, dear uncle, and I can go on no more vain quests. Master Humphreyhas 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 poorthis 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?' saidMaster Gifford, as a squarely-built, sandy-haired Dutch woman, in her shortblue gown and large brown linen apron, and huge flapping cap came into theroom. 

Gretchen came forward to Mary with resolute steps, and said in her somewhateccentric 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, Itell you. '

Gretchen was a rough diamond, but she had a good heart. She was absolutelydevoted to her master, and with her husband, an Englishman, who had escapedwith his master as a boy many years before, served him with zeal andloyalty. 

Mary was led, whether she wished it or not, to the kitchen--that brightkitchen with its well-kept pots and pans, and its heavy delf-ware ranged onshelves, its great Dutch clock ticking loudly in the corner, and the clearfire burning merrily in the stove, which was flanked with blue and whitetiles with a variety of quaint devices. 

'Sit you down and eat this posset. I made it for you, knowing you would bemore dead than alive. Come now, and sip this cup of mead, and don't openthat letter till you have done. Take off your hood and cloak. There! nowyou are better already. Give up yawning like that, Jan, or you'll set meoff, ' Gretchen said to her husband, whose name she had changed, to suit thecountry of his adoption, from John to Jan, and who had been taking acomfortable nap on the settle by the stove, from which he had been rudelyawakened by his wife. 

Mary was obliged to do as Gretchen bid her, and was constrained toacknowledge that she felt the better for the food, of which she had been sounwilling 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 herbenevolence and tender sympathy with all who were sorrowful and oppressed. 

As was natural, therefore, she was attracted by Mary Gifford, and herfriendship had been one of the compensations Mary felt God had granted herfor the ever present loss of her boy. 

Madam Gruithuissens' house faced the street on one side and overlooked theriver on the other. The window of her long, spacious parlour opened outupon a verandah, and had a typical view of the Low Countries stretchedbefore them. A wide, far-reaching expanse of meadow-land and water--theflat country vanishing in the sky-line many miles distant. 

A contrast, indeed, to the wood-covered heights and undulating pastures ofthe fair country of Kent, where the home of the Sidneys stands in all itsstately time-honoured pride. 

Mary Gifford's thoughts were there at this moment. A summer evening cameback to her when she sat at the casement of Ford Manor with Ambrose claspedclose to her side. The years that lay between that time and the presentseemed so short, and yet how they had probably changed the child whom shehad loved so dearly. 

Humphrey Ratcliffe was right. She had not realised what that change wouldbe. 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, bythe Jesuits who had brought him up in their creed. 

She was roused from her meditations by Mistress Gruithuissens' abruptentrance. 

'Great news!' she said, 'Great news! Axel is taken, and Sir Philip Sidneyhas done wonders. A messenger has just arrived with the news at the Earl ofLeicester's quarters, and Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has been sent by bargewith others of the wounded. There has been great slaughter, and terrible itis to think of the aching hearts all around us. Women widows, childrenfatherless. Yet it is a righteous war, for Spain would massacre tenfold thenumber 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 HumphreyRatcliffe, 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 thegarrison. He bids me say he would fain see you, for he has to tell yousomewhat 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 soterror-struck, Mistress Gifford, ' Madam Gruithuissens said, 'it may, perchance, be good news. I will order the servants to make ready--or willwe 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 ofArnhem to the garrison where Humphrey lay wounded, they saw knots of peoplecollected, all talking of the great event of the taking of Axel. Some womenwere weeping and unable to gain any exact information, most of them with alook of stolid misery on their faces, with no passionate expression ofgrief, as would have been seen in a like case amongst Italian and Frenchwomen, or even amongst English sufferers in the same circumstances. 

Mary Gifford's ear had become accustomed to the Dutch language, and shespoke it with comparative ease, having, in her visits of charity amongstthe poor of Master Gifford's followers and disciples, no other means ofcommunicating with them. 

Madam Gruithuissens spoke English, for, like so many of those who soughtsafety in the Low Countries from the persecution of the Papists inEngland, 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 theliterature 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 theloss of blood. 

Mary Gifford did not lose her self-control in an emergency. Like manygentle, quiet women, her strength and courage were always ready when sheneeded them. 

'I am grieved to see you thus, ' Mary said, as she went up to the low palletwhere Humphrey lay. 

'It is nought but a scratch, ' he said, 'and it has been well worth thegaining in a noble cause and a grand victory. I have certain news of yourboy. He was in a Jesuit school. It was burnt to the ground, but the boy wassaved. In the confusion and uproar, with the flames scorching hot on us, Ifelt pity for the young creatures who were seen struggling in the burningmass. With the help of my brave companions I rescued three of the boys. Iwas 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 cameto, I found I was in a barge being brought hither with other of thewounded. '

'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 thelarge eyes you speak of dilated with fear, as the flames leaped up in thesurrounding darkness. And I verily believe the man who tore him from me washim who gave me this wound, and is the crafty wretch whom you know to beyour husband. '

'Ah me!' Mary exclaimed, 'it is but poor comfort after all. My boy may benear, but I can never see him; he who has him in his power will take carehe eludes our grasp. But I am selfish and ungrateful to you, my goodfriend. Pardon me if I seem to forget you got that sore wound in myservice. '

'Ah! Mary, ' Humphrey said, 'I would suffer ten such wounds gladly if Imight but win my guerdon. Well for me, it may be, that I swooned, or, byHeaven, 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 nextthe small one where Humphrey lay. She knew enough of Mary Gifford's historyto feel that whatever Humphrey Ratcliffe had to say to her, he would preferto say it with no listeners. 

And, full of charity and kindness, the good lady moved about amongst thewounded 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 tothe 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 willcome hither and pray by the side of those whom I hear groaning in theirpain. '

'I will e'en do as you wish, and send my servant back with cordials andlinen for bands, and such food as may support you in your watch. '

When Madam Gruithuissens departed, Humphrey and Mary Gifford were alonetogether. The servant who had been sent with the news keeping watch at thedoor outside, and Humphrey, for the time, seemed to go over, halfunconsciously, the scenes of the taking of Axel, and Mary listened to itnot exactly with half-hearted sympathy, but with the perpetually recurringcry 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. Allother cares and griefs, and grand achievements of which we hear, are but asdust in the balance, when weighed down by our own especial sorrow, orsuspense is hardest, perhaps, to bear, which is pressing upon us at thetime. 

Mary Gifford had often told herself that hope was dead within her, and thatshe had resigned her boy into God's hands, that she should never clasp himin her arms again, nor look into those lustrous eyes of which she hadspoken to Humphrey. But hope is slow to die in human hearts. It springs upagain from the very ashes of despair, and Humphrey Ratcliffe's words hadquickened it into life. Thus, as Humphrey described the events of the pastforty-eight hours, and forgot pain and weariness in the enthusiasm for thecourage and heroism of Sir Philip Sidney, his listener was picturing theblazing house, the flames, the suffocating smoke, and the boy whose facehad been revealed to Humphrey as the face of her lost child. 

She was haunted by the certainty that the man who had stabbed Humphrey washer husband, and that it was he who had called the boy by name, andsnatched him from his deliverer. 

This was the undercurrent of thought in Mary's mind, while she heardHumphrey describe to her uncle, who promptly obeyed the summons, thecapture of the four citadels and rich spoil. 

'Ours was but a little band, ' Humphrey was saying, 'but three thousand footsoldiers. I was one of the five hundred of Sir Philip's men, and proud am Ito say so. It was at his place we met, on the water in front of Flushing, and then by boat and on foot, with stealthy tread lest we should disturbthe sleepers. 

'Within a mile of Axel Sir Philip called us near, and may I never live toforget his words. They were enow to set on fire the courage of all truesoldiers. He bade us remember it was God's battle we were fighting, forQueen and country and for our Faith. He bade us remember, too, we werewaging war against the tyranny of Spain, and exhorted us to care nought fordanger or death in serving the Queen, furthering our country's honour, andhelping a people so grievously in want of aid. He said, moreover, that hiseye 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 thewalls, opened the gate for the rest. 

'The men we attacked were brave, and fought hard for victory; but they werebut just roused from slumber, it was too late to resist, and Sir Philiphad, 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 mywound in fair fight, but by the back-handed blow of a Jesuit. Some of ourmen 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 for the blessed time whenthe nations shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears intopruning-hooks, and learn war no more. '

'But it is a righteous war, sir, blessed by God. Sure, could you have heardSir Philip bid us remember this, you would not soon forget his words, hisvoice, his gallant bearing. He is ever in the front rank of danger, norspares 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 Giffordsaid, 'while we supplicate our Father in Heaven that He would look witheyes of pity and forgiveness on the wounded and the dying, the bereavedwidows and the fatherless children. '

And then the good old man poured out his soul in prayer as he knelt byHumphrey'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 othersufferers in the adjoining chamber, Mary saw, to her great relief, thatHumphrey was sleeping soundly. 

CHAPTER XIII

RESTORED

 'Good hope upholds the heart. '

 _Old Song_, 1596. 

There were great rejoicings at Arnhem when Sir Philip Sidney came back tojoin the main army, stationed there under the command of the Earl ofLeicester. 

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 thatthis mark of honour had been conferred upon him. 

The character of the Queen was full of surprising inconsistencies, and itseems incredible that she should have grudged one whom she called the gemof her Court the honour which she actually wished conferred on CountHohenlo, 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 onlylaughed at the concern Sir Francis Walsingham showed in the letter in whichhe announced it. 

'Let it not disturb your peace, ' the Earl said to Lady Frances, who, filledwith pride in her husband's achievements, was depressed when she heard herfather's report that the Queen laid the blame on Sir Philip's ambition, andimplied that he had wrung the honour from his uncle. 

'Let it not disturb your peace, ' the Earl repeated, 'any more than it doesmine. It is but part and parcel of Her Highness's ways with those whom shewould seem at times to think paragons. Do I not not know it full well? Ihave said in my despatch the truth, and I have begged your father, sweetFrances, to communicate what I say without delay to the Queen; my words forsure 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 neverambitious 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 affordto let the smiles or frowns of the Queen go by. And here he comes to attestthe truth of what I say. '

Sir Philip had often to doubt the ability of his uncle as a general, but atthis time they were on terms of greater friendliness than ever before. SirPhilip had, in a few short months, lost both father and mother, and heprobably felt the tie between him and his mother's brother to be strongerthan in former times. Had not his mother often bid him remember that hecame of the noble race of Dudley, and that he bore their crest with that ofthe Sidneys--a proud distinction. 

If there had been jealousy in the Earl's heart when he saw his nephewrising so rapidly to a foremost place in the esteem of all men--a placewhich, with all his brilliant gifts, he secretly felt he never hadfilled--it was subdued now. 

He did not grudge him the praise his splendid achievement awoke, and, inhis despatch to the English Court, he gave the whole credit of the captureof Axel to his nephew. 

The Earl always took care to have the room he inhabited, whether for alonger 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, insoft-cushioned seats, and in gold and silver plate on which the delicaciesthat were attainable were served. 

Sir Philip and Lady Frances were the Earl's guests, with the young Earl ofEssex and Mr Thomas Sidney. The elder brother, Robert, had been left incommand at Flushing with the nine hundred trusty soldiers Sir Philip hadleft in the garrison there. 

'What truth am I to attest?' Sir Philip asked, as he came up the room withhis 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 givebut half the truth; go on to say the rest. '

'Nay, ' she said, hiding her face on Sir Philip's shoulder, as he put hisarm tenderly round her. 'Nay, there is no need--'

'To tell him he is happy to possess a loyal wife? You are right, dearniece; 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 camehither to perform, and there is much to do, as you, my Lord, know fullwell. '

'Ay, surely, but we need not be rash, or in too great haste. '

'The investment of Doesburg is imperative, ' Sir Philip said, 'and, if wewish to gain the mastery of the Yssel, this must be done. There are somematters which cause me great uneasiness. Stores are short and money greatlyneeded; nor do I put much faith in some of our allies. There is a mutinousfeeling abroad amongst the troops. '

'You may be right, ' the Earl said, 'but let us away to our supper, it mustneeds be served, and afterwards you shall take the viol, and chase awayany needless fears by your sweet music. '

The Earl was always ready to put away any grave or serious matter, and SirPhilip was often hampered by the difficulty he found in bringing his uncleto the point on any question of importance. 

When Sir Philip and Lady Frances were alone together that evening, heseemed more than usually grave and even sad. 

'Are you grieved, Philip, about the Queen's displeasure? As soon as shehears of Axel she will sure cover you with honours. '

'Nay, sweetheart, it is not over this matter that I am brooding. Concernfor 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? Asore struggle must ensue before long, and Zutphen will be besieged. I havebeen meditating whether or not I ought to send you and our babe under safeconvoy to England. '

'No--oh, no! I would fain stay with you--near you--especially now. Myladies take good care of me, and little madam Elizabeth. She is well andhearty, 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, youwill see but little of me. I have much to occupy me. But I will come to youfor rest, dear heart, and I shall not come in vain. '

In all the events and chances of war, Sir Philip did not forget hisservants; and he had been greatly concerned at the wound Humphrey hadreceived, which had been slow to heal, and had been more serious than hadat first been supposed. Before leaving Arnhem, Sir Philip went to the houseof Madam Gruithuissens, whither Humphrey had been conveyed when able toleave the room in the quarters allotted to Sir Philip's retainers, where hewas nursed and tended by Mary Gifford and his kind and benevolent hostess. 

Humphrey had chafed against his enforced inaction, and was eager to beallowed to resume his usual duties. It was evident that he was still unfitfor this; and Sir Philip entirely supported Madam Gruithuissens when shesaid it would be madness for him to attempt to mount his horse while thewound was unhealed and constantly needed care. 

It was the evening before Sir Philip left Arnhem that he was met in thesquare entry of Madam Gruithuissens' house by Mary Gifford. She had beenreading to Humphrey, and had been trying to divert his mind from the soredisappointment which the decision that he was to stay in Arnhem hadoccasioned him. But Humphrey, like most masculine invalids, was very hardto persuade, or to manage, and Mary, feeling that his condition was reallythe result of his efforts to save her boy and bring him to her, was full ofpity for him, and self-reproach that she had caused him so much pain andvexation. 

'How fares it with my good esquire, Mistress Gifford?' Sir Philip asked, ashe greeted Mary. 

'Indeed, sir, but ill; and I fear that to prevent his joining your companymay hurt him more than suffering him to have his way. He is also greatlydistressed that he could not prosecute inquiries at Axel for my child. Ingood 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 thatthe love of one who is pure and good can but be a boon, whether or notpossession of that one be denied or granted. '

'But, sir, you know my story--you know that between me and Master Ratcliffeis 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 isheavy upon me--bereft of my boy, and tossed hither and thither as a ship ona 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 heartwas her love for Humphrey Ratcliffe. She never forgot, to her latest day, the look of perfect sympathy--yes, of understanding, which Sir PhilipSidney bent on her 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 youstrength for every need. '

'He understands me, ' Mary said, as she stood where he left her, his quicksteps sounding on the tiled floor of the long corridor which opened fromthe square lobby. 'He understands, he knows; for has he not tasted of alike cup bitter as mine?'

Mary Gifford was drawing her hood more closely over her face, preparing toreturn to Master Gifford's house, when she saw a man on the opposite sideof the street who was evidently watching her. 

Her heart beat fast as she saw him crossing over to the place where shestood on the threshold of the entry to Madam Gruithuissens' house. 

She quickened her steps as she turned away in the direction of MasterGifford'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 isyour business with me?'

'I am sent on an errand by one you know of as Ambrose Gifford--called by usBrother Ambrosio. He lies sick unto death in a desolate village beforeZutphen, and he would fain see you ere he departs hence. There is not amoment to lose; you must come at once. I have a barge ready, and we canreach 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 thetruth. 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 hasseized many of our fraternity. Famine has resulted in pestilence. When Ileft the place where Brother Ambrosio and the boy lie, it was doubtfulwhich would depart first. The rites of the Holy Church have beenadministered, and the priest, who would fain shrive Brother Ambrosio, sentme 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 youless if I tell you that he who was your husband may have departedunabsolved through your delay. '

The twilight was deepening, and there were but few people in this quarterof the town. Mary hesitated no longer, and, with an uplifting of heart forthe strength Sir Philip's parting blessing had invoked, she gathered thefolds 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 lanesleading to the brink of the water, where a barge was lying, with a man atthe prow, evidently on the watch for their coming. 

Not a word was spoken as Mary entered the barge, and took her seat on oneof the benches laid across it, her guide leaving her unmolested andretiring to the further end of the vessel. 

There was no sound but the monotonous splash of the oars, and their regularbeat against the edge of the boat, as the two men pulled out into the widerpart of the river. 

Above, the stars were coming out one by one, and the wide stretch of lowmeadow-land and water lay in the purple haze of gathering shadows like anunknown and undiscovered country, till it was lost in the overarchingcanopy of the dim far-off heavens. 

Mary Gifford felt strangely indifferent to all outward things as she satwith her hands tightly clasped together under her cloak, and in her heartonly one thought had room--that she was in a few short hours to clasp herboy in her arms. 

So over-mastering was this love and hungry yearning of the mother for herchild, that his condition--stricken by fever, and that of his father lyingat the very gates of death--were almost forgotten. 

'If only he knows my arms are round him, ' she thought; 'if only I can hearhis voice call me _mother_, I will die with him content. '

After a few hours, when there were lines of dawn in the eastern sky, Maryfelt the barge was being moored to the river bank; and her guide, risingfrom 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 sonlies. Are you able for this?'

For Mary was stiff and cramped with her position in the barge for so long atime, and she would have fallen as she stepped out, had not one of thewatermen 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 wayseemed interminable. 

At last, just as the sun was sending shafts of light across river andswamp--making them glow like burnished silver, and covering every tallspike of rush and flag with diamonds--a few straggling cottages or hutscame in sight. 

A clump of pollards hid the cluster of buildings which formed the nucleusof the little hamlet, till they were actually before a low, irregular blockof 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 theburning of our habitation there. We are under the protection of the Duke ofParma, who is advancing with an army for the relief 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 Giffordlay 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 sogrievously injured. 

The priest stood by, and signed to Mary to kneel and put her face near herhusband, that she might hear what he had to say. 

As she obeyed, the hood fell back from her head, and a ray of sunshinecaught the wealth of her rich chestnut hair and made an aureole round it. The grey streaks, which sorrow rather than years, had mingled amongst thebronze 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 atthe farther end of the room he brought the boy, whose cheeks were aflamewith fever, as he lay helpless in the Brother's arms. 

'Here, Ambrose, ' the dying father said--'this--this is your mother; be agood son to her. '

Often as Mary Gifford had drawn a picture in her own mind of this possiblemeeting with her son, so long delayed, such a meeting as this had neverbeen imagined in her wildest dreams. 

'Thus, then, I make atonement, ' the unhappy man said. 'Take him, Mary, andforgive it _all_. '

'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 forlornending of a misspent life thrilling in her voice, as hot tears coursed oneanother down her pale sweet face. 'Yes, ' she repeated, '_all_! Ambrose. '

'One thing more. Did I murder Humphrey Ratcliffe? Does that sin lie on mysoul?'

'No, thank God!' Mary said. 'He lives; he was cruelly wounded, but Godspared his life. '

There was silence now. The priest bid Mary move from the bed, and let himapproach; but, before she did so, she bent over her husband and said, --

'Have you gone to the Saviour of the world for forgiveness through Hisprecious 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 thecold dews of death were gathering, and, turning towards her boy, shesaid, --

'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 ofher 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, 'Followme, ' he carried him to a small chamber on the upper floor, where he laidhim down on a heap of straw covered with an old sacking, and said inEnglish, --

'This is all I can do for you. Yonder room whence we came is kept for thosestricken with the fever. Two of them died yesterday. We were burned out ofhouse and home, and our oratory sacked and destroyed at Axel. We fledhither, 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, andhas enow to do with the sick there. Famine and moisture have done theirwork, and God knows where it will end. There is a good woman at a smallhomestead not a mile away. She has kept us from starving, and, like many ofthe Hollanders, has a kind heart. I will do my best to get her to befriendyou, 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, ' sheentreated. 

The man disappeared, and presently returned with a rough pitcher of waterand a flagon in which, he said, was a little drink prepared from herbs bythe kindly Vrouw he had spoken of. 

'I will seek her as quickly as other claims permit, ' he said. And then Marywas left alone with her boy. 

The restlessness of fever was followed by a spell of utter exhaustion, butthe delirious murmurs ceased, and a light of consciousness came into thoselarge, lustrous eyes, by which Mary knew this was indeed her son. 

Otherwise, what a change from the rosy, happy child of seven, full of lifeand vigour, to the emaciated boy of twelve, whose face was prematurely old, and, unshaded by the once abundant hair, which had been close cropped tohis head, looked ghostly and unfamiliar. 

Still, he was hers once more, and she took off the ragged black gown, whichhad been the uniform of the scholars of the Jesuit school, and was now onlyfit for 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 tumbledownattic, she raised Ambrose on her knees, and, whispering loving words andprayers over him, hungered for a sign of recognition. 

Evidently the poor boy's weary brain was awakened by some magnetic power toa consciousness that some lost clue of his happy childhood had beenrestored to him. 

As his head lay against his mother's breast the rest there was apparentlysweet. 

He sighed as if contented, closed his eyes and slept. 

Mary dare not move or scarcely breathe, lest she should disturb the slumberin which, as she gazed upon his face, the features of her lost child seemedto 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 thelashes resting on his cheeks, brought back the many times in the old homewhen 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 Ambrosestill slept, Mary forgot her aching back and arms, her forlorn position inthat desolate attic, even the painful ordeal she had gone through by herhusband's dying bed--forgot everything but the joy that, whether for lifeor death, her boy was restored to her. 

At last Ambrose stirred, and the smile faded from his lips. He raised hishead and gazed up into the face bending over him. 

'I dreamed, ' he faltered; 'I dreamed I saw my _mother_--my _mother_. ' Herepeated the word with a feeble cry--_my mother_; 'but it's only a dream. Ihave no mother but the blessed Virgin, and she--she is so far, far away, upin Heaven. '

'Ambrose, my sweetheart, my son!' Mary said gently. 'I am not far away; Iam here! Your own mother. '

'It's good of you to come down from Heaven, mother; take me--take me backwith you. I am so--so weary--weary; and I can't say all the Latin prayersto you; I can't. '

'Ambrose, ' poor Mary said, 'you need say no more Latin prayers; you arewith me, your own mother, on earth. '

The wave of remembrance grew stronger, and, after a moment's pause, Ambrosesaid, --

'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, and Mary Gifford tasted thevery fruit of the tree of life, as Ambrose, with full consciousness, gazedlong 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 hismother's face, where tears were now running down unchecked, tears ofthankfulness; such as, for many a long year, she had never shed. 

With such bliss the stranger cannot intermeddle; but mothers who have had achild restored to them from the very borders of the unseen land will knowwhat Mary Gifford felt. 

CHAPTER XIV

WHAT RIGHT?

 'Her look and countenance was settled, her face soft, and almost still, of one measure! without any passionate gesture or violent motion, till at length, as it were, awakening and strengthening herself, "Well, " she said, "yet this is best; and of this I am sure, that, however they wrong me, they cannot overmaster God. No darkness blinds His eyes, no gaol bars Him out; to whom else should I fly but to Him for succour. "'--_The Arcadia. _

The Countess of Pembroke was sitting in the chamber which overlooked thepleasance at Penshurst and the raised terrace above it, on a quiet autumnday of the year of 1586. 

She had come to her early home to arrange the letters and papers which hermother, Lady Mary, had committed to her care on her deathbed. 

There were other matters, too, which demanded her attention, and which theEarl was only too glad to help her to settle; he was now in London for thatpurpose. 

There were many difficulties to meet in the division of the property, andSir Henry had been so terribly hampered by the want of money, that debtssprang up on every side. 

Lady Pembroke had great administrative power, and, added to her othergifts, a remarkable clearheadedness and discernment. 

The sombre mourning which she wore accentuated her beauty, and set off thelovely pink-and-white of her complexion, and the radiant hair, which was, as she laughingly told her brother, 'the badge of the Sidneys. '

The profound stillness which brooded over Penshurst suited Lady Pembroke'smood, and, looking out from the casement, she saw Lucy Forrester, playingball with her boy Will on the terrace. Lucy's light and agile figure wasseen to great advantage as she sprang forward or ran backward, to catch theball from the boy's hands. His laughter rang through the still air as, atlast, Lucy missed the catch, and then Lady Pembroke saw him run down thesteps leading to the pleasance below to meet George Ratcliffe, who wascoming in from the entrance on that side of the park. 

Lady Pembroke smiled as she saw George advance with his cap in his handtowards Lucy. His stalwart figure was set off by the short green tunic hewore, and a sheaf of arrows at his side, and a bow strapped across hisbroad shoulders, showed that he had been shooting in the woods. 

Only a few words were exchanged, and then Lucy turned, and, leaving Georgewith little Will Herbert, she came swiftly toward the house, and LadyPembroke presently heard her quick, light tread in the corridor on whichher room opened. 

'Madam!' Lucy said, entering breathlessly, 'I bear a letter from Humphreyto his brother; it has great news for me. Mary has found her boy, and thatevil man, Ambrose Gifford, is dead. Will it please you to hear the letter. I can scarcely contain my joy that Mary has found her child; he was heridol, and I began to despair that she would ever set eyes on him again. '

Lady Pembroke was never too full of her own interests to be unable to enterinto those of her ladies and dependants. 

'I am right glad, Lucy, ' she said. 'Let me hear what good Humphrey has tosay, and, perchance, there will be mention of my brothers in the letter. Read it, Lucy. I am all impatience to hear;' and Lucy read, not withoutdifficulty, the large sheet of parchment, which had been sent, with otherdocuments, from the seat of war by special messenger. 

 * * * * *

'To my good brother, George Ratcliffe, from before Zutphen, --'This to tellyou that I, making an expedition by order of my master, Sir Philip Sidney, to reconnoitre the country before Zutphen, where, please God, we will in afew days meet and vanquish the enemy, fell upon a farm-house, and entering, asked whether the folk there were favourable to the righteous cause we havein hand or the contrary. Methinks there never was a joy greater than mine, when, after some weeks of despair, I found there Mistress Mary Gifford andher son! Three weeks before the day on which I write, Mistress Gifford haddisappeared from the town of Arnhem, nor could we find a trace of her. Ihave before told you how, in the taking of Axel, I got a wound in my backfrom the hand of a traitor, when I had rescued his son from the burninghouse, where a nest of Jesuits were training young boys in their damnabledoctrines. 

'From the moment I was carried wounded to Arnhem I heard nought of thechild, snatched by the villain from my arms, till that evening when, God bepraised, I was led to the very place where he has been nursed by his motherin a sore sickness. It has been my good fortune to give her, myever-beloved mistress, safe convoy to Arnhem, where they are, thank God, safe under the care of that God-fearing man and worthy divine, MasterGeorge Gifford. 

'Here I left them, returning to Flushing, where a strong force is ready tomeet the enemy, ay, and beat them back with slaughter when they advance. The Earl of Leicester is in command, but the life and soul and wisdom ofthe defence lie with my noble master, Sir Philip. To serve under him issure one of the greatest honours a man can know. We have his brave brothersalso at hand. Robert is scarce a whit less brave than his brother, and ofMr Thomas, it is enough to say of him he is a Sidney, and worthy of thatname. 

'I write in haste, for the despatches are made up, thus I can say butlittle of the hope within my heart, which, God grant, will now at last benot, as for so many long years, a hope in vain. 

'Ambrose Gifford died of the fever, and, having made his confession, wasabsolved by the priest, and forgiven by that saint who has suffered fromhis sins! This last more for his benefit than the first, methinks! But Ican no more. 

'Commend me to our mother and Mistress Lucy Forrester. If I fall in thecoming fight, I pray you, George, remember to protect one dearest to me onearth. --I rest your loving brother, 'HUMPHREY RATCLIFFE. '

'_Post Scriptum. _--The enemy is advancing, and we shall be ordered out tomeet them ere sunset. God defend the right. 

 H. R. '

 * * * * *

'What is the date of that letter, Lucy?' Lady Pembroke asked. 

'The twenty-first day of September, Madam. '

'And this is the twenty-sixth. More news will sure be here ere long, andanother victory assured, if it please God. May He protect my brothers inthe fight. But, Lucy, I rejoice to hear of your sister's happiness in therecovery of her child; and now, in due course, I trust my brother'sfaithful servant and friend, Master Humphrey, will have the reward of hisloyalty. '

'Yes, Madam; I hope Mary may, as you say, reward Humphrey. '

'And you, Lucy; sure Master George is worthy that you should grant him hisreward also. '

Lucy's bright face clouded as the Countess said this, and a bright crimsonflush rose to her cheeks. 

'Dear Madam, ' she said, 'I shrink from giving a meagre return for suchfaithful love. Sure ere a woman gives herself to a man till death, sheshould make certain that he is the one in all the world for her. '

'I will not contradict this, Lucy; but many women misjudge their ownhearts, and--'

Lady Pembroke hesitated. Then, after a pause, she said, --

'There are some women who make their own idol, and worship it. After all, it is an unreality to them, because unattainable. '

'Nay, Madam, ' Lucy said, with kindling eyes. 'I crave pardon; but theunattainable may yet be a reality. Because the sun is set on high in theheavens, it is yet our own when warmed by its beams and brightened by itsshining. True, many share in this, but yet it is--we cannot help it--oursby possession when we feel its influence. Methinks, ' the girl said, herface shining with a strange light--'methinks I would sooner worship--ay, and love--the unattainable, if pure, noble and good, than have part and lotwith the attainable that did not fulfil my dream of all that a true knightand noble gentleman should be. '

Lady Pembroke drew Lucy towards her, and, looking into her face, said, --

'May God direct you aright, dear child! You have done me and mine goodservice, and the day, when it comes, that I lose you will be no day ofrejoicing for me. When first you entered my household I looked on you as agay and thoughtless maiden, and felt somewhat fearful how you would bearyourself in the midst of temptations, which, strive as we may, must besetthose who form the household of a nobleman like the Earl, my husband. Hemakes wise choice, as far as may be, of the gentlemen attached to hisservice; but there is ever some black sheep in a large flock, anddiscretion is needed by the gentlewomen who come into daily intercoursewith them. You have shown that discretion, Lucy, and it makes me happy tothink that you have learned much that will be of use to you in the lifewhich lies before you. '

'Dear Madam, ' Lucy said, 'I owe you everything--more than tongue can tell;and as long as you are fain to keep me near you, I am proud to stay. '

'I feel a strange calm and peace to-day, ' Lady Pembroke said, as she leanedout of the casement and looked down on the scene familiar to her fromchildhood. 'It is the peace of the autumn, ' she said; 'and I am able tothink of my father--my noble father and dear mother at rest inParadise--gathered in like sheaves of ripe corn into the garner--meetingAmbrosia and the other younger children, whom they surrendered to God withtears, but not without hope. I am full of confidence that Philip will winfresh laurels, and I only grieve that the parents, who would have rejoicedat his success, will never know how nobly he has borne himself in this war. There will be news soon, and good Sir Francis Walsingham is sure to send ithither post haste. Till it comes, let us be patient. '

It was the afternoon of the following day that Lucy Forrester crossed theMedway by the stepping-stones, and went up the hill to Ford Manor. 

It was her custom to do so whenever Lady Pembroke was at Penshurst. Herstepmother was greatly softened by time, and subdued by the yoke which herPuritan husband, who was now lord and master of the house and all in it, had laid upon her. 

As Lucy turned into the lane, she met Ned coming along with a calf, whichhe was leading by a strong rope, to the slaughter-house in the village. 

Ned's honest face kindled with smiles as he exclaimed, --

'Well-a-day, Mistress Lucy, you are more like an angel than ever. Did Iever see the like?'

'Have you heard the good news, Ned?' Lucy asked. 'Mistress Gifford has herboy safe and sound at Arnhem. '

Ned opened eyes and mouth with astonishment which deprived him of the powerof speech. 

'Yes, ' Lucy continued, 'and she is a free woman now, Ned, for her husbandis dead. '

'And right good news that is, anyhow, ' Ned gasped out at last. 'Dead; thenthere's one rogue the less in the world. But to think of the boy. What ishe like, I wonder? He was a young torment sometimes, and I've had many achase after him when he was meddling with the chicks. The old hen nearlyscratched his eyes out one day when he tapped the end of an egg to see ifhe could get the chick out. Lord, he was a jackanapes, surely; but we allmade much of him. '

'He has been very sick with fever, ' Lucy said, 'and, I dare say, marvellously changed in four years. You are changed, Ned, ' Lucy said; 'youare grown a big man. '

'Ay, ' Ned said, tugging at the mouth of the calf, which showed a stronginclination to kick out, and butt with his pretty head against Ned's ribs. 'Ay; and I _am_ a man, Mistress Lucy. I have courted Avice; and--well--wewere asked in church last Sunday. '

'I am right glad to hear it, Ned; and I wish you happiness. I must goforward now to the house. '

'I say!--hold! Mistress Lucy!' Ned said, with shamefaced earnestness. 'Don't think me too free and bold--but are you never going to wed? You area bit cruel to one I could name. '

This was said with such fervour, mingled with fear lest Lucy should beoffended, that she could not help smiling as she turned away, saying, --

'The poor calf will kick itself wild if you stay here much longer. So, good-day to you, good Ned; and I will send Avice a wedding gift. I have apretty blue kerchief that will suit her of which I have no need; for we areall in sombre mourning garments for the great and good lord and lady ofPenshurst. '

Lucy found her stepmother seated in the old place on the settle, but notalone. 'Her master, ' as she called him with great truth, was with her, andtwo of 'the chosen ones, ' who were drinking mead and munching cakes from apile on the board. 

He invited Lucy to partake of the fare, but she declined, and, having toldher stepmother the news about Mary, she did not feel much disposed toremain. 

'The boy found, do you say?' snarled her stepmother's husband. 'It wouldhave been a cause of thankfulness if that young limb of the Evil One hadnever been found. You may tell your sister, Mistress Lucy, that neither herboy nor herself will ever darken these doors. We want no Papists here. '

'Nay, nay, no Papists, ' echoed one of the brethren, with his mouth full ofcake. 

'Nay, nay, ' chimed in another, as he set down the huge cup of mead after aprolonged pull. 'No Papists here to bring a curse upon the house. '

Lucy could not help feeling pity for her stepmother, who sat knitting onthe settle--her once voluble tongue silenced, her mien dejected andforlorn. Lucy bent down and kissed her, saying in a low voice, --

'You are glad, I know, Mary has found her child. '

And the answer came almost in a whisper, with a scared glance in thedirection of her husband and his guests, --

'Ay, ay, sure _I am glad_. '

Lucy lingered on the rough ground before the house, and looked down uponthe scene before her, trying in vain to realise that this had ever been herhome. 

The wood-crowned heights to the left were showing the tints of autumn, anda soft haze lay in the valley, and brooded over the home of the Sidneys, the stately walls of the castle and the tower of the church clearly seenthrough the branches of the encircling trees, which the storm of a few daysbefore had thinned of many of their leaves. 

The mist seemed to thicken every minute, and as Lucy turned into the roadshe gave up a dim idea she had of going on to Hillside to pay her respectsto Madam Ratcliffe, and hastened toward the village. The mist soon became afog, which crept up the hillside, and, before she had crossed the plankover the river, it had blotted out everything but near objects. Thereseemed a weight over everything, animate and inanimate. The cows in themeadow to the right of the bridge stood with bent heads and depressedtails. They looked unnaturally large, seen through the thick atmosphere;and the melancholy caw of some belated rooks above Lucy's head, as theywinged their homeward way, deepened the depression which she felt creepingover her, as the fog had crept over the country side. The village childrenhad been called in by their mothers, and there was not the usual sound ofboys and girls at play in the street. The rumble of a cart in the distancesounded like the mutter and mumble of a discontented spirit; and as Lucypassed through the square formed by the old timbered houses by the lychgate, no one was about. 

The silence and gloom were oppressive, and Lucy's cloak was saturated withmoisture. She entered the house by the large hall, and here, too, wassilence. But in the President's Court beyond, Lucy heard voices, low andsubdued. She listened, with the foreshadowing of evil tidings upon her, andyet she stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to turn fears into certainty, suspense into the reality of some calamity. 

Presently a gentleman, who had evidently ridden hard, came into the hall, his cloak and buskins bespattered with mud. He bowed to Lucy, and said, --

'I am a messenger sent post haste from Mr Secretary Walsingham, withdespatches for the Countess of Pembroke. I have sent for one MistressCrawley, who, I am informed, is the head of the Countess's ladies. My newsis from the Netherlands. '

'Ill news?' Lucy asked. 

'Sir Philip Sidney is sorely wounded in the fight before Zutphen, I grieveto say. '

'Wounded!' Lucy repeated the word. '_Sore wounded!_' Then, in a voice solow that it could scarcely be heard, she added, 'Dead! is he dead?'

'Nay, Madam; and we may hope for better tidings. For--'

He was interrupted here by the entrance of Mistress Crawley. 

'Ill news!' she exclaimed. 'And who is there amongst us who dare be thebearer of it to my lady? Not I, not I! Her heart will break if Sir Philipis wounded and like to die. '

Several young maidens of Lady Pembroke's household had followed MistressCrawley into the hall, regardless of the reproof they knew they shouldreceive for venturing to do so. 

'I cannot tell my lady--nay, I dare not!' Mistress Crawley said, wringingher hands in despair. 

'Here is the despatch which Sir Francis Walsingham has committed to me, 'the gentleman said. 'I crave pardon, but I must e'en take yonder seat. Ihave ridden hard, and I am well-nigh exhausted, ' he continued, as he threwhimself on one of the benches, and called for a cup of sack. 

Lucy meanwhile stood motionless as a statue, her wet cloak clinging to herslender figure, the hood falling back from her head, the long, damp tressesof hair rippling over her shoulders. 

'I will take the despatch to my lady, ' she said, in a calm voice, 'if so beI may be trusted to do so. '

[Illustration: THE BARON'S COURT, PENSHURST CASTLE. ]

'Yes, yes!' Mistress Crawley said. 'Go--go, child, and I will follow withburnt feathers and cordial when I think the news is told, ' and MistressCrawley hurried away, the maidens scattering at her presence like aflock of pigeons. 

Lucy took the despatch from the hand of the exhausted messenger, and wentto perform her task. 

Lady Pembroke was reading to her boy Will some passages from the _Arcadia_, which, in leisure moments, she was condensing and revising, as a pleasantrecreation after the work of sorting the family letters and papers, anddeciding which to destroy and which to keep. 

When Lucy tapped at the door, Will ran to open it. 

Even the child was struck by the white face which he saw before him, and heexclaimed, --

'Mistress Lucy is sick, mother. '

'No, ' Lucy said, 'dear Madam, ' as Lady Pembroke turned, and, seeing her, rose hastily. 'No, Madam, I am not sick, but I bring you a despatch fromSir Francis Walsingham. It is ill news, dearest lady, but not news whichleaves no room for hope. '

'It is news of Philip--Philip!' Lady Pembroke said, trying with tremblingfingers to break the seal and detach the silk cord which fastened theletter. 'Take it, Lucy, and--and tell me the contents. I cannot see. Icannot open it!'

Then, while the boy nestled close to his mother, as if to give her strengthby putting his arms round her, Lucy obeyed her instructions, and openingit, read the Earl of Leicester's private letter, which had accompanied theofficial despatch, giving an account of the investment of Zutphen and thebattle which had been fought before its walls. This private letter wasenclosed for Lady Pembroke in that to his Right Honourable and trustedfriend Sir F. Walsingham. 

 * * * * *

'In the mist of the morning of the 23d, my incomparably brave nephew andyour brother, Philip Sidney, with but five hundred foot and seven hundredhorsemen, advanced to the very walls of Zutphen. 

'It was hard fighting against a thousand of the enemy. Philip's horse waskilled under him, and alas! he heightened the danger by his fearlesscourage; for he had thrown off his cuisses to be no better equipped thanSir William Pelham, who had no time to put on his own, and, springing on afresh horse, he went hotly to the second charge. Again there was a thirdonset, and our incomparable Philip was shot in the left leg. 

'They brought him near me, faint from loss of blood, and he called forwater. They brought him a bottle full, and he was about to raise it to hisparched lips, when he espied a poor dying soldier cast greedy, ghastly eyesthereon. He forbore to drink of the water, and, handing the bottle to thepoor wretch, said, --

'"Take it--thy need is greater than mine. "'

 * * * * *

'Oh! Philip! Philip!' Lady Pembroke said, 'in death, as in life, self-forgetting and Christ-like in your deeds. '

Lucy raised her eyes from the letter and they met those of her mistresswith perfect sympathy which had no need of words. 

'Doth my uncle say more, Lucy? Read on. '

 * * * * *

'And, ' Lucy continued, in the same low voice, which had in it a ring ofmingled pride in her ideal hero and sorrow for his pain, 'my nephew wouldnot take on himself any glory or honour when Sir William Russel, alsosorely wounded, exclaimed, --

'"Oh, noble Sir Philip, never did man attain hurt so honourably or sovaliantly as you, " weeping over him as if he had been his mistress. 

'"I have done no more, " he said, "than God and England claimed of me. Mylife could not be better spent than in this day's service. " I ordered mybarge to be prepared, and, the surgeons doing all they could to stanch theblood, Philip was conveyed to Arnhem. He rests now in the house of oneMadam Gruithuissens, and all that love and care can do, dear niece, shallbe done by his and your sorrowing uncle, LEICESTER. 

'Pardon this penmanship. It is writ in haste, and not without tears, forverily, I seem now to know, as never before, what the world and his kindredpossess in Philip Sidney. 

 R. L. 

'To my dear niece, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, from before Zutphen, on thetwenty-second day of September, in the year of grace 1586. Enclosed indespatch to the Right Honourable Sir Francis Walsingham. '

 * * * * *

When Lucy had finished reading, the Countess took the letter, and rising, left the room, bidding Will to remain behind. 

Mistress Crawley, who was waiting in the corridor to be called in withcordials and burnt feathers, was amazed to see her lady pass out with afaint, sad smile putting aside the offered cordial. 

'Nay, good Crawley, my hurt lies beyond the cure of aught but that of Himwho has stricken me. I would fain be alone. '

'Dear heart!' Mistress Crawley exclaimed, as she bustled into the roomwhere Lucy still sat motionless, while Will, with childlike intolerance ofsuspense, ran off to seek someone who would speak, and not sit dumb andwhite like Lucy. 'Dear heart! I daresay it is not a death-wound. Sure, ifthere is a God in heaven, He will spare the life of a noble knight like SirPhilip. He will live, ' Mistress Crawley said, taking a sudden turn fromdespair and fear to unreasonable hope. 'He will live, and we shall see himriding into the Court ere long, brave and hearty, so don't pine like that, Mistress Lucy; and I don't, for my part, know what right you have to takeon like this; have a sup of cordial, and let us go about our business. '

But Lucy turned away her head, and still sat with folded hands where LadyPembroke had left her. 

Mistress Crawley finished by emptying the silver cup full of cordialherself, and, pressing her hand to her heart, said, --'She felt like toswoon at first, but it would do no good to sit moping, and Lucy had bestbestir herself, and, for her part, she did not know why she should sitthere as if she were moon-struck. '

The days were long over since Mistress Crawley had ordered Lucy, in thesame commanding tones with which she often struck terror into the hearts ofthe other maidens, threatening them with dismissal and report of theirill-conduct to Lady Pembroke. 

Lucy had won the place she held by her gentleness and submission, and, letit be said, by her quickness and readiness to perform the duties requiredof her. 

So Mistress Crawley, finding her adjurations unheeded, bustled off to seethat the maidens were not gossiping in the ante-chamber, but had returnedto their work. 

Lucy was thus left alone with her thoughts, and, in silence and solitude, she faced the full weight of this sorrow which had fallen on the house ofSidney, yes, and on her also. 

'What right had she to sit and mourn? What part was hers in this greattrouble?' Mistress Crawley's words were repeated again and again in a lowwhisper, as if communing with her own heart. 

'What right have I? No right if right goes by possession. What right? Nay, none. '

Then, with a sudden awaking from the trance of sorrow, Lucy rose, the lightcame back to her eyes, the colour to her cheeks. 

'Right? What right? Yes, the right that is mine, that for long, long yearshe has been as the sun in my sky. I have gloried in all his great gifts, Ihave said a thousand times that there were none like him, none. I have seenhim as he is, and his goodness and truth have inspirited me in my weaknessand ignorance to reach after what is pure and noble. Yes, I have a right, and oh! if, indeed, I never see him again, to my latest day I shall thankGod I have known him, Philip, Sir Philip Sidney, true and noble knight. '

 * * * * *

There was now a sound of more arrivals in the hall, and Lucy was leavingthe room, fearing, hoping, that there might be yet further tidings, whenthe Earl of Pembroke came hastily along the corridor. 

'How fares it with my lady, Mistress Forrester? I have come to give herwhat poor comfort lies in my power. '

The Earl's face betrayed deep emotion and anxiety. 

Will came running after his father, delighted to see him; and in thisdelight forgetting what had brought him. 

'Father! father! I have ridden old black Joan, and I can take a low fence, father. '

'Hush now, my son, thy mother is in sore trouble, as we all must be. Takeme to thy mother, boy. '

'Uncle Philip will soon be well of his wound, ' the child said, 'the bulletdid not touch his heart, Master Ratcliffe saith. '

The Earl shook his head. 

'It will be as God pleases, boy, ' and there, in the corridor, as he washastening to his wife's apartments, she came towards him with outstretchedarms. 

'Oh! my husband, ' she said, as he clasped her to his breast. 'Oh! pity me, pity me! and pray God that I may find comfort. '

'Yes, yes, my sweetheart, ' the Earl said, and then husband and wife turnedinto their own chamber, Will, subdued at the sight of his mother's grief, not attempting to follow them, and Lucy was again alone. 

CHAPTER XV

THE PASSING OF PHILIP

 'Oh, Death, that hast us of much riches reft, Tell us at least what hast thou with it done? What has become of him whose flower here left Is but the shadow of his likeness gone? Scarce like the shadow of that which he was, Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass. 

 But that immortal spirit which was decked With all the dowries of celestial grace, By sovereign choice from heavenly choirs select And lineally derived from angel's race; Oh, what is now of it become aread? Ah me, can so divine a thing be dead!

 Ah no, it is not dead, nor can it die, But lives for aye in blissful Paradise, Where, like a new-born babe it soft doth lie In bed of lilies wrapped in tender wise, And dainty violets from head to feet, And compassed all about with roses sweet. '

 From the _Lament of Sir Philip_ by MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 

'At Arnhem, in the month of October 1586; this to my dear sister, LucyForrester. ' This was the endorsement of a letter from Mary Gifford, whichwas put into Lucy's hands on the day when a wave of sorrow swept over thecountry as the news was passed from mouth to mouth that Sir Philip Sidneywas dead. 

There had been so many alternations of hope and fear, and the officialreports from the Earl of Leicester had been on the hopeful side, whilethose of Robert Sidney and other of his devoted friends and servants, hadlatterly been on the side of despair. 

Now Mary Gifford had written for Lucy's information an account of what hadpassed in these five-and-twenty days, when Sir Philip lay in the house ofMadame Gruithuissens, ministered to by her uncle, Master George Gifford. 

The letter was begun on the seventeenth of October, and finished a few dayslater, and was as follows:--

 * * * * *

'After the last news that I have sent you, dear sister, it will not be asurprise to you to learn that our watching is at an end. The brave heartceased to beat at two of the clock on this seventeenth of October in theafternoon. 

'It has been a wondrous scene for those who have been near at hand to seeand hear all that has passed in the upper chamber of Madame Gruithuissens'house. 

'I account it a privilege of which I am undeserving, that I was suffered, in ever so small a way, to do aught for his comfort by rendering help toMadame Gruithuissens in the making of messes to tempt the sick man to eat, and also by doing what lay in my power to console those who have beenbeside themselves with grief--his two brothers. 

'What love they bore him! And how earnestly they desire to follow in hissteps I cannot say. 

'Mr Robert was knighted after the battle which has cost England so dear, and my uncle saith that when he went first to his brother's side with hishonour fresh upon him, Sir Philip smiled brightly, and said playfully, --

'"Good Sir Robert, we must see to it that we treat you with due respectnow, " and then, turning to Mr Thomas, he said, "Nor shall your bravery beforgot, Thomas, as soon as I am at Court again. I will e'en commend myyoungest brother to the Queen's Highness. So we will have three knights tobear our father's name. "

'At this time Sir Philip believed he should live, and, indeed, so did mostof those who from day to day watching his courage and never-failingpatience; the surgeon saying those were so greatly in his favour to furtherhis recovery. But from that morning when he himself discerned the signs ofapproaching death, he made himself ready for that great change. Nay, Lucy, methinks this readiness had been long before assured. 

'My uncle returned again and again from the dying bed to weep, as herecounted to me and my boy the holy and beautiful words Sir Philip spake. 

'Of himself, only humbly; of all he did and wrote, as nothing in God'ssight. His prayers were such that my uncle has never heard the like, forthey seemed to call down the presence of God in the very midst of them. 

'He was troubled somewhat lest his mind should fail him through grievouswrack of pain of body, but that trouble was set at rest. 

'To the very end his bright intelligence shone, even more and more, till, as we now believe, it is shining in the perfectness of the Kingdom of God. 

'On Sunday evening last, he seemed to revive marvellously, and called forpaper and pencil. Then, with a smile, he handed a note to his brother, SirRobert, and bade him despatch it to Master John Wier, a famous physician atthe Court of the Duke of Cleves. 

'This note was wrote in Latin, and begged Master Wier to _come_, and _come_quick. But soon after he grew weaker, and my good uncle asking how hefared, he replied sorrowfully that he could not sleep, though he hadbesought God to grant him this boon. But when my uncle reminded him of Onewho, in unspeakable anguish, prayed, as it would seem to our poor blindeyes, in vain, for the bitter cup did not pass, said, --

'"Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt!" he exclaimed. '

'"I am fully satisfied and resolved with this answer. No doubt it is evenso. "

'There were moments yet of sadness, and he reproached himself forcherishing vain hopes in sending for Master Wier, but my uncle comfortedhim so much that at length he pronounced these memorable words, "I wouldnot change my joy for the empire of the world. "

'I saw him from time to time as I brought to the chamber necessary things. Once or twice he waved his hand to me, and said, oh, words ne'er to beforgot, --

'"I rejoice you have your boy safe once more, Mistress Gifford. Be wary, and train him in the faith of God, and pray that he be kept from thetrammels with which Papacy would enthral the soul. "

'He showed great tenderness and care for Lady Frances, dreading lest sheshould be harmed by her constant attendance on him. 

'Sweet and gentle lady! I have had the privilege of waiting on her fromtime to time, and of giving her what poor comfort lay in my power. 

'After the settlement of his worldly affairs, Sir Philip asked to have thelast ode he wrote chanted to him, but begged that all the stray leaves ofthe _Arcadia_ should be gathered together and burned. He said that it wasbut vanity and the story of earthly loves, and he did not care to have itoutlive him. 

'My uncle was with him when he begged Sir Robert to leave him, for hisgrief could not be controlled. While the sufferer showed strength insuppressing sorrow, the strong man showed weakness in expressing it. 

'Much more will be made known of these twenty-five days following the woundwhich caused our loss. 

'For myself, I write these scanty and imperfect details for my own comfort, in knowing that they will be, in a sad sort, a comfort to you, dear sister, and, I might humbly hope, to your lady also. 

'My uncle, praying by Sir Philip's side, after he had addressed hisfarewell to his brother, seeing him lie back on the pillow as ifunconscious, said, "Sir, if you hear what I say, let us by some means knowif you have inward joy and consolation of God. "

'Immediately his hand, which had been thought powerless, was raised, and aclear token given to those who stood by that his understanding had notfailed him. 

'Once more, when asked the same question, he raised his hands with joinedpalms and fingers pointing upwards as in prayer--and so departed. 

 * * * * *

'I wrote so far, and now I have been with my boy watching the removal ofall that is mortal of this great and noble one from Arnhem to Flushing, convoyed to the water's edge by twelve hundred English soldiers, trailingtheir swords and muskets in the dust, while solemn music played. 

'The surgeons have embalmed the poor, worn body, and the Earl of Leicesterhas commanded that it be taken to England for burial. 

'"Mother, " my boy said, as he clasped my hand tightly in his, as the bargewhich bore the coffin away vanished in the mist hanging over the river, "mother, why doth God take hence a brave and noble knight, and leave somany who are evil and do evil instead of good?"

'How can I answer questions like to this? I could only say to my son, "There is no answer. Now we only see as in a mirror darkly; at length weshall see clearer in the Light of God, and His ways are ever just. "

'Dear sister, it is strange to have the hunger of my heart satisfied byGod's gift to me of my boy from the very gates of death, and yet to havethat same heart oppressed with sorrow for those who are left to mourn forthe brave and noble one who is passed out of our sight. Yet is that sameheart full of thankfulness that I have recovered my child. It is not allsatisfaction with him. Every day I have to pray that much that he haslearned in the Jesuit school should be unlearned. Yet, God forbid I shouldbe slow to acknowledge that in some things Ambrose has been trainedwell--in obedience, and the putting aside of self, and the mortification ofappetite. Yes, I feel that in this discipline he may have reaped a benefitwhich with me he might have missed. But, oh! Lucy, there are moments when Ilong with heart-sick longing for my joyous, if wilful child, who, on a fairspring evening long ago, sat astride on Sir Philip's horse, and had forhis one wish to be such another brave and noble gentleman!

'Methinks this wish is gaining strength, and that the strange repression ofall natural feeling which I sometimes notice, may vanish 'neath thebrighter shining of love--God's love and his mother's. 

'You would scarce believe, could you see Ambrose, that he--so tall andthin, with quiet and restrained movements and seldom smiling mouth--couldbe the little torment of Ford Place! Four years have told on my boy, likethrice that number, and belike the terrible ravages of the fever may havetaken something of his youthful spring away. 

'He is tender and gentle to me, but there is reserve. 

'On one subject we can exchange but few words; you will know what thatsubject is. From the little I can gather, I think his father was not unkindto him; and far be it from me to forget the parting words, when the soulwas standing ready to take its flight into the unseen world. But oh! mysister, how wide the gulf set between him, for whom the whole world, I maysay, wears mourning garb to-day--for foreign countries mourn no less thanEngland--how wide, I say, is the gulf set between that noble life and his, of whom I dare not write, scarce dare to think. 

'Yet God's mercy is infinite in Christ Jesus, and the gulf, which looks sowide to us, may be bridged over by that same infinite mercy. 

'God grant it. 

'This with my humble, dutiful sympathy to your dear lady, the Countess ofPembroke, for whom no poor words of man can be of comfort, from your lovingsister, MARY GIFFORD. 

'_Post Scriptum. _--Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has proved a true friend tome, and to my boy. To him, under God, I owe my child's restoration tohealth, and to me. 

'He is away with that solemn and sorrowful train I saw embark for Flushing, nor do I know when he will return. 

 M. G. '

 * * * * *

'At Penshurst, in the month of February 1586, --For you, my dear sisterMary, I will write some account of the sorrowful pageant, from witnessingwhich I have lately returned to Penshurst with my dear and sorely-strickenmistress, and all words would fail me to tell you how heavy is her grief, and how nobly she has borne herself under its weight. 

'Four long and weary months have these been since the news of Sir Philip'sdeath came to cast a dark shadow over this country. Much there has been toharass those who are intimately connected with him. Of these troubles Ineed not write. The swift following of Sir Philip's death on that of hishonoured father, Sir Henry Sidney, caused mighty difficulties as to thecarrying out of that last will and testament in which he so nobly desiredto have every creditor satisfied, and justice done. 

'But, sure, no man had ever a more generous and worthy father-in-law thanSir Philip possessed in Sir Francis Walsingham. All honour be to him forthe zeal and care he has shown in the settlement of what seemed at thefirst insurmountable mountains of difficulties. 

'Of these it does not become me to speak, rather of that day, Thursday lastpast, when I was witness of the great ceremony of burying all that wasmortal of him for whom Queen and peasant weep. 

'Mary! you can scarce picture to yourself the sight which I looked on froma casement by the side of my dear mistress. All the long train of mournerstaken from every class, the uplifted standard with the Cross of St George, the esquires and gentlemen in their long cloaks of mourning garb, thesewere a wondrous spectacle. In the long train was Sir Philip's war horse, led by a footman and ridden by a little page bearing a broken lance, followed by another horse, like the first, richly caparisoned, ridden by aboy holding a battle-axe reversed. All this I say I gazed at as a show, andmy mistress, like myself, was tearless. I could not believe, nay, I couldnot think of our hero as connected with this pageant. Nay, nor with thatcoffin, shrouded in black velvet, carried by seven yeomen, and the pallborne by those gentlemen who loved him best, his dearest friends, SirFulke Greville, Sir Edward Dyer, Edward Watson, and Thomas Dudley. 

'Next came the two brothers, Sir Robert--now Lord of Penshurst--chiefmourner, and behind, poor Mr Thomas Sidney, who was so bowed down withgrief that he could scarce support himself. 

'Earls and nobles, headed by my Lord of Leicester, came after; and thegentlemen from the Low Countries, of whom you will have heard, and all thegreat city folk--Lord Mayor and Sheriffs--bringing up the rear. 

'My dear mistress and I, with many other ladies of her household, havingwatched the long train pass us from the Minories, were conveyed by backways to St Paul's, and, from a seat appointed us and other wives of noblesand their gentlewomen, we were present at the last scene. 

'It was when the coffin, beautifully adorned with escutcheons, was placedon a bier prepared for it, that my mistress said, in a low voice, heard byme--perhaps by me only, --

'"_Beati mortui qui in Domino moriuntur. _"

'These words were the motto on the coffin, and they were the words on whichthe preacher tried to enforce his lesson. 

'Up to the moment when the double volley was fired, telling us within thechurch that the body rested in peace, there had been profound stillness. 

'Then the murmur of a multitude sorrowing and sighing, broke upon the ear;and yet, beyond those whispered words, my lady had not made any sign. 

'Now she laid her hand in mine and said, --

'"Let us go and see where they have laid him. "

'I gave notice to the gentlemen in attendance that this was my lady'sdesire. We had to wait yet for a long space; the throng, so closely packed, must needs disperse. 

'At length way was made for us, and we stood by the open grave together--mymistress, whose life had been bound up in her noble brother's, and I, towhom he had been, from my childhood's days to the present, the hero towhose excellence none could approach--a sun before whose shining otherlights grew dim. 

'Do not judge me hardly! Nay, Mary, you of all others will not do this. Mylove for him was sacred, and I looked for no return; but let none grudge itto me, for it drew me ever upwards, and, as I humbly pray, will still do sotill I see him in the other life, whither he has gone. 

'Throughout all this pageantry and symbols of woe which I have tried tobring before you, my dear sister, I felt only that these signs of the greatgrief of the whole realm were yet but vain, vain, vain. 

'As in a vision, I was fain to see beyond the blackness of funeral pomp, the exceeding beauty of his soul, who, when he lay a-dying, said he hadfixed his thoughts on these eternal beauties, which cheered his decayingspirits, and helped him to take possession of the immortal inheritancegiven to him by, and in Christ. 

'"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; blessed be those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. "

'I have finished the task I set myself to do for your edification, dearestsister. Methought I could scarce get through it for tears, but these didnot flow at my will. Not till this morning, when I betook myself to thepark, where all around are signs of a springing new life, and memories ofSir Philip in every part, did these tears I speak of have their free way. All things wakening into life, buds swelling on the stately trees he loved;birds singing, for the time to pair is come; dew sparkling like the lustreof precious stones on every twig and blade of grass, daisies with goldeneyes peeping up between. Life, life, everywhere quickening life, and he wholoved life, and to see good days, can walk no more in the old dear paths ofhis home, which he trod with so graceful and alert a step, his smile likethe sunshine lying on the gate of the President's Court, under which hethat went out on the November morning in all the glory of his youngmanhood, shall pass in no more for ever. 

'As I thought of seeing him thus, with the light on his bright hair andglistening armour, as he took his infant child in his arms and bade herfarewell, I wept, not bitter tears, but those God sends to us as a blessingwhen the heart desires some ease of its burden. 

'It may be that you will care to read what I have written to the boyAmbrose. Bid him from me to remember his old desire to be such anotherbrave and goodly knight as Sir Philip Sidney, and strive to follow him inall loyal service to his God, his Queen, and his kindred. 

'I am thinking often, Mary, of your return to this country. Will it nevercome to pass? You told me in your letter in which you gave me thoseparticulars of Sir Philip's death, that I should scarce believe thatAmbrose was the child I knew at the old home of Ford Place. And scarce willyou believe, when we meet, as meet I pray we shall, I am the same Lucy ofdays past. Ever since that time of your grief and sickness, I have changed. I look back with something which is akin to pity on the vain child whothought fine clothes and array the likest to enhance the fair face and formwhich maybe God has given me. Ay, Mary, I have learned better now. I shouldhave been a dullard, in sooth, had I not learned much in the companionshipgraciously granted me by my honoured mistress. To be near her is aneducation, and she has been pleased in many ways to instruct me, not onlyin the needlecraft and tapestry work in which she excels, but also inopening for me the gates of knowledge, and in rehearsing in my ear thebeautiful words of Scripture, and the Psalms in verse, as well as the poemsof Mr Spenser, and, chiefest of all, of those works in prose and versewhich Sir Philip has left behind. Sure, these will never die, and willtell those who come after us what we possessed and lost!

'Yet, after all, as my mistress saith again and yet again, it was not byall his deeds of valour and his gifts of learning that he stands so highforever amongst men. No, nor not by his death and the selfless act whichmen are speaking of on all sides, as he lay in the first agony of his sorewound on the battlefield of Zutphen. Not by these only will his name live, but by his life, which, for purity and faith, virtue and godliness, loyaltyand truth, may be said to be without peer in this age of which he was sofair an ornament. 

'I dare not say more, lest even you charge me with rhapsody. 

'I rest, dear Mary, in all loving and tender affection, your sister, LUCY FORRESTER. 

'To my honoured sister, Mary Gifford, at the house of Master Gifford, inArnhem, February 1586. From Penshurst Place, in the county of Kent. '

CHAPTER XVI

FOUR YEARS LATER--1590

 'My true love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange, one for the other given. I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven. 

 His heart in me keeps me and him in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides. '

The sound of these words by Sir Philip Sidney, sung in a sweet melodiousvoice, was borne upon the summer air of a fair June evening in the year1590. 

It came through the open casement from the raised seat of the parlour atHillbrow, where once Mistress Ratcliffe had sat at her spinning-wheel, casting her watchful eyes from time to time upon the square of turf lyingbetween the house and the entrance gate, lest any of her maidens should begossiping instead of working. 

Mistress Ratcliffe had spun her last thread of flax more than a year ago, and another mistress reigned in her place in the old house upon the crestof the hill above Penshurst. 

As the last words of the song were sung, and only the lingering chords ofthe viol were heard, making a low, sweet refrain, a man who had beenlistening unseen to the music under the porch, with its heavy overhangingshield of carved stone, now came to the open window, which, though raisedsome feet above the terrace walk beneath, was not so high but that his headappeared on a level with the wide ledge of the casement. 

Lucy was unconscious of his presence till he said, --

'I would fain hear that song again, Lucy. '

'Nay, ' she said with a smile; 'once is enough. '

'Did you think of me as you sang?' he asked. 

'Perhaps, ' she said, with something of her old spirit. 'Perhaps; but youmust know there is another who hath my heart. I have been singing him tosleep, and I pray you do not come in with a heavy tramp of your big bootsand wake him. He has been fractious to-day. Speak softly, ' she said, asGeorge exclaimed, --

'The young rascal! I warrant you have near broken your back carrying him toand fro. '

'My back is not so easy to break; but, George, when will the travellerscome. I have made all things ready these two days and more. '

'They may arrive any moment now, ' George said, and then his bright handsomeface disappeared from the window, and in another moment he had come asquietly as was possible for him, into the sunny parlour, now beautified bysilken drapery, worked by Lucy's clever fingers, and sweet with thefragrance of flowers in the beau-pot on the hearth and fresh rushes on thefloor. 

In a large wooden cradle lay his first-born son--named in memory of onewhom neither husband nor wife could ever forget--Philip. The child wassmall and delicate, and Lucy had tasted not only the sweets of motherhood, but its cares. 

Yet little Philip was very fair to look upon. He had the refined featuresof his mother, and though his cheeks wanted something of the roundness androsiness of healthful infancy, he was, in his parents' eyes, as nearperfection as first-born children are ever apt to be thought!

George paused by the cradle, which was raised on high rockers, and, bendingover it, said, --

'He is sound asleep now, ' just touching the little hand lying outside thecoverlet with his great fingers as gently as his mother could have done. 

'I won't be jealous of him, eh, Lucy? He is mine as well as yours, sweetheart. '

'That is a truism, ' Lucy said. 'Now, come into the window-seat and talklow--if you must talk--and let us watch for those who are, I pray God, drawing near. '

George unfastened his leather pouch which was slung over his shoulder, andput the bow and quiver against the corner of the bay window. 

Then he threw his huge form at his wife's feet on the dais, and said, --

'Do not be too eager for their coming, sweetheart. I half dread theirentrance into this house, which, perchance may disturb our bliss. '

'Fie for shame!' Lucy replied, 'as if Mary could ever be aught but a joyand a blessing. I am ready to blush for you, George. '

'They will be grand folk, grander than we are, that is, than _I_ am!Humphrey knighted, and Mary Dame Ratcliffe. Then there is the boy! I am notsure as to the boy. I confess I fear the early training of the Jesuits mayhave left a mark on him. '

'Now, I will listen to no more growlings, George, ' his wife said, layingher small fair hand on the thick masses of her husband's hair, andsmoothing it from his forehead. 'You will please to give the coming guestsa hearty welcome, and be proud to call them brother, sister, and nephew. '

'Nay, ' George said. 'Ambrose is no nephew of mine!'

'To think of such folly, when, but a minute agone, you said what is mine isyours. Ambrose is _my_ nephew, I'd have you to remember, sir. '

'As you will, sweet wife! as you will; but, Lucy, when you see Humphreyride up with a train of gentlemen, it may be, and my lady with hergentlewomen, will you not be sorry that you left everything to be the wifeof a country yeoman, who is unversed in fine doings, and can give you solittle?'

'You give me all I want, ' Lucy said; and this time, as she smoothed backthe rebellious curls, she bent and kissed the broad brow which they shaded. 'You give me all I want, ' she repeated--'your heart!'

Soon there was a sound of horses' feet, and, with an exclamation, 'Here atlast!' George went to the gate to receive the guests, and Lucy hurried tothe porch. 

'The noise and bustle may rouse little Philip, ' she said to one of hermaids; 'watch in the parlour till I return. '

In another moment Humphrey had grasped his brother's hand, and, turning, lifted his wife from the pillion on which she had ridden with her son. 

'Mary! Mary!' and Lucy ran swiftly to meet her sister, and held her in along embrace. 

A meeting after years of separation is always mingled with joy somethingakin to pain, and it was not till the first excitement of this reunion wasover that the joy predominated. 

Mary was greatly changed; her hair was white; and on her sweet face therewere many lines of suffering. Lucy led her into the parlour, and she couldonly sink down upon the settle by her side, and hold her hand in hers, looking with wistful earnestness into her face. 

'So fair still! and happy, dearest child!' Mary whispered in a low voice. 'Happy! and content?'

'_Yes_, ' Lucy replied proudly. 'And _you_, Mary, you are happy now?'

'Blest with the tender care of my husband. _Yes_; but, Lucy, I bring himbut a poor reward for all his patient love. '

'Nay, he does not think so, I'll warrant, ' Lucy said. 'You will soon bewell and hearty in your native air, and the colour will come back to yourcheeks and the brightness to your eyes. '

'To rival yours, dear child! Nay, you forget how time, as well as sicknessand sorrow, have left its mark on me. '

'And Ambrose?' Lucy asked. 'You have comfort in him?'

'Yes, ' Mary said. 'Yes, but, dear heart, the vanished days of childhoodreturn not. Ambrose is old for his sixteen years; and, although dear, dearas ever, I am prone to look back on those days at Ford Manor, when he wasmine, all mine, before the severance from me changed him. '

'Sure he is not a Papist now?' Lucy said. 'I trust not. '

'Nay, he is not professedly a Papist, but the teaching of those four yearssowed seed. Yet he loves me, and is a dutiful son to me, and to his--hisnew father. I ought to be satisfied. '

Little Philip now turned in his cradle, awoke by the entrance of the twobrothers and Ambrose, who had been to the stables to see that the groomsand horses were well cared for. 

Lucy raised Philip in her arms, and Mary said, --

'Ay! give him to me, sweet boy. See, Ambrose, here is your cousin; nay, Imight say your brother, for it is a double tie between you. '

The tall stripling looked down on the little morsel of humanity with apuzzled expression. 

'He is very small, methinks, ' he said. 

This roused Lucy's maternal vanity. 

'Small, forsooth! Do you expect a babe of eight months to be a giant. He isbig enow for my taste and his father's. Too big at times, I vow, for he isa weight to carry. '

Ambrose felt he had made a mistake, and hastened to add, --

'He has wondrous large eyes;' and then he bent over his mother and said, 'You should be resting in your own chamber, mother. '

'Yes; well spoken, my boy, ' Humphrey said. 'Mary is not as hearty as Icould desire, ' he added, turning to George. 'Maybe Lucy will take her toher chamber, and forgive her if she does not come to sup in the hall. '

Lucy gave little Philip to his father, who held him in awkward fashion, till the nurse came to the rescue and soothed his faint wailing by theusual nonsense words of endearment which then, as now, nurses seem toconsider the proper language in which to address babies. 

When the two brothers were alone together that night, Humphrey said, --

'It is all prosperous and well with you now, George. You have got yourheart's desire, and your fair lady looks fairer, ay, and happier than Iever saw her. '

'Ay, Humphrey, it is true. At times I wonder at my own good fortune. I hadmy fears that she would hanker after fine things and grand folk, but it isnot so. She went with the boy to Wilton two months agone to visit theCountess of Pembroke, who holds her in a wonderful affection. The boy isher godson, and she has made him many fine gifts. I was fearful Lucy wouldfind this home dull after a taste of her old life; but, Heaven bless her, when I lifted her from the horse with the child on her return, she kissedme and said, "I am right glad to get home again. " I hope, Humphrey, all iswell and prosperous with you also?'

'I may say yes as regards prosperity, beyond what I deserve. I have a placeabout the Court, under my Lord Essex, and I was knighted, as you know, forwhat they were pleased to call bravery in the Armada fight. After we lostthat wise and noble gentleman, Sir Philip Sidney, everything went crookedunder the Earl of Leicester, and Spain thought she was going to triumph andcrush England with the Armada. But God defended the right, and the victoryis ours. Spain is humbled now. Would to God Sir Philip Sidney had lived tosee it and share the glory. '

George listened as his brother spoke, with flashing eyes, of the finaldiscomfiture of Spain, and then noticed how his whole manner changed tosoftness and sadness, as he went on to say, --

'My heart's desire in the possession of the one woman whom I ever loved isgranted, but, George, I hold her by a slender thread. I have brought herhere with the hope that she may gather strength, but, as you must see, sheis but the shadow of her old self. The good old man at Arnhem counselled meto take her to her native air, and God grant it may revive her. She issaint-like in her patience and in her love for me. Heaven knows I am notworthy of her, yet let me bless God I have her to cherish, and, by allmeans that in me lies, fan the flame of her precious life, trusting to seeit burn brightly once more. But, George, I fear more than I hope. What willall honours and Court favour be to me if I lose her?'

'You will keep her, ' George said, in the assured tone that those who arehappy often use when speaking to others who are less happy than themselves. 'You will keep her, Humphrey, she shall have milk warm from one of my bestcows, and feed on the fat of the land. Oh! we will soon see the Dame MaryRatcliffe fit to go to Court and shine there. '

Humphrey shook his head. 

'That is the last thing Mary would desire. ' Then changing his tone, he wenton: 'What think you of Ambrose, George?'

'He is big enow, and handsome. Is he amenable and easy to control?'

'I have no cause to find fault with him; he lacks spirit somewhat, and hastaken a craze to be a scholar rather than a soldier. He has been studyingat Göttingen, and now desires to enter Cambridge. The old ambition to be asoldier and brave knight, like Sir Philip Sidney, died out during thosefour years spent in the Jesuit school, and he is accounted marvellouslyclever at Latin and Greek. '

'Humph, ' George said. 'Let us hope there is no lurking Jesuitry in him. Theworse for him if there is, for the Queen is employing every means to runthe poor wretches to earth. The prisons are chock full of them, and themass held in abhorrence. '

'Ambrose was but a child when with the Jesuits--scarce twelve years oldwhen I came upon him, and recovered him for his mother. No, no, I do notfear Papacy for him, though, I confess, I would rather see him a rollickingyoung soldier than the quiet, reserved fellow he is. One thing is certain, he has a devotion for his mother, and for that I bless the boy. Heconsiders her first in everything, and she can enter into his learning witha zest and interest which I cannot. '

'Learning is not everything, ' George said, 'let me hope so, at any rate, asI am no scholar. '

'No; but it is a great deal when added to godliness, ' Humphrey replied. 'Wesaw that in the wonderful life of Sir Philip Sidney. It was hard to say inwhat he excelled most, learning or statesmanship or soldiering. Ay, therewill never be one to match him in our time, nor in any future time, so Iam ready to think. There's scarce a day passes but he comes before me, George, and scarce a day but I marvel why that brilliant sun went downwhile it was high noonday. Thirty-one years and all was told. '

'Yes, ' George said; 'but though he is dead he is not forgotten, and that'smore than can be said of thousands who have died since he died--four yearsago; by Queen and humble folk he is remembered. '

George Ratcliffe's prophecy seemed likely to be fulfilled. Mary Giffordgained strength daily, and very soon she was able to walk in the pleasanceby Hillside Manor, which George had laid out for Lucy, in those longwaiting days when he gathered together all that he thought would please herin the 'lady's chamber' he had made ready for her, long before his dream ofseeing her in it was realised. 

Gradually Mary was able to extend her walks, and it was on one evening inJuly that she told Lucy she should like to walk down to Ford Manor. 

Lucy remonstrated, and said she feared if she allowed her to go so farHumphrey and Ambrose, who had gone away to London for a few days, would bedispleased with her for allowing it. 

'I would fain go there with you and see Ned and old Jenkins. The newcomershave kept on their services, I hope?'

'Yes, all things are the same, except that the poor old stepmother and herill-conditioned husband have left it, and are living in Tunbridge. Hepreaches and prays, and spends her savings, and, let us hope, he iscontent. The dear old place was going to wrack and ruin, so Sir Robert'sorders came that they were to quit. '

'Poor old place! To think, ' Lucy said, 'that I could ever feel an affectionfor it, but it is so nevertheless. '

So, in the golden light of sunset, the two sisters stood by the old thorntree on the bit of ground in front of Ford Manor once more. 

Ned and Jenkyns had bidden them welcome, and, by the permission of thepresent owners of the farm, they had gone through the house, now muchimproved by needful repairs and better furnishing. But, whatever changesthere were in the house and its inhabitants, the smiling landscapestretched out before the two sisters as they stood by the crooked back ofthe old thorn tree was the same. The woodlands, in the glory of the summerprime, clothed the uplands; the tower of the church, the stately walls ofthe Castle of Penshurst, the home of the noble race of Sidney, stood outamidst the wealth of foliage of encircling trees as in years gone by. Themeadows were sloping down to the village, where the red roofs of thecottages clustered, and the spiral columns of thin blue smoke showed wherebusy housewives were preparing the evening meal at the wood fire kindled onthe open hearth. The rooks were flying homewards with their monotonouscaw. From a copse, just below Ford Manor, the ring-doves were repeating theold, old song of love. As Mary Gifford stood with her face turned towardsthe full light of the evening sky, she looked again to Lucy like the Maryof old. Neither spoke; their hearts were too full for words, but theyclasped each other's hands in a silence more eloquent than speech. 

Both sisters' thoughts were full of the past rather than the present. 

Mary seemed to see before her the little fair-haired boy who had been soeager to mount Sir Philip's horse, and Sir Philip, with his radiant smileand gracious kindliness, so ready to gratify the boy's desire, as he sethim on the saddle. 

And Mary heard, too, again the ringing voice as little Ambrose said, --

'I would fain be a noble gentleman and brave soldier like Mr Philip Sidney. I would like to ride with him far, far away. '

She recalled now the pang those words had caused her, and how she dreadedthe parting which came all too soon, and had been so bitter to her. Now, she had her son restored to her, but she felt, as how many mothers havefelt since, a strange hunger of the soul, for her vanished child! Ambrose, quiet and sedate, and eager to be an accomplished scholar, tall, almostdignified, for his sixteen years, was indeed her son, and she could thankGod for him. Yet she thought with a strange regret, of the days when hethrew his arms round her in a rough embrace, or trotted chattering by herside as she went about the farm, or, still sweeter memory, murmured in hissleep her name, and looked up at her with a half-awakened smile, as hefound her near, and felt her kisses on his forehead. 

From these thoughts Mary was roused by Ambrose himself, --

'Mother, ' he said, 'this is too far for you to walk. You should not haveventured down the hill. We have returned to find the house empty; and myfather is in some distress when he heard you had come so far. '

Ambrose spoke as if he were constituted his mother's caretaker; and Lucy, laughing, said, --

'You need not look so mighty grave about it, Ambrose; your mother is nottired. Forsooth, one would think you were an old man giving counsel, ratherthan a boy. '

Ambrose disliked of all things to be called a boy; and, since his firstremark about the baby Philip, there had often been a little war of wordsbetween aunt and nephew. 

'Boys may have more wits than grown folk sometime, ' he replied. 'Here comesmy father, who does not think me such a fool as, perchance, you do, AuntLucy. He has brought a horse to carry my mother up the steep hill. '

'Well, I will leave her to your double care, ' Lucy said. 'I see Georgefollows a-foot. We will go up the hill path, and be at home before you, I'll warrant. ' She ran gaily away to meet George; and as Mary was liftedon the pillion by Humphrey, Ambrose taking his place by his mother, heturned in the opposite direction, and, following Lucy and her husband, wassoon out of sight. 

Mother and son rode slowly along the familiar path which leads into thehigh road from Penshurst. 

The glow of sunset was around them, and the crimson cloth mantle Mary woreshone in the westering light. So they pass out of sight, and the shadowsgather over the landscape, and evening closes in. As a dream when oneawaketh is the history of the past, and the individual lives which standout in it are like phantoms which we strive, perhaps in vain, to quickeninto life once more, and clothe them with the vivid colours for whichimagination may lend its aid. Of the central figure of this story of thespacious times of great Elizabeth, we may say--with the sister who lovedhim with no common love--

 'Ah, no! his spirit is not dead--nor can it die, But lives for aye in blissful Paradise, Where, like a new-born babe, it soft doth lie, In bed of lilies--wrapped in tender wise, And compassed all about with roses sweet, And dainty violets from head to feet. '

THE END. 

EDINBURGH

COLSTON AND COMPANY

PRINTERS

 MRS MARSHALL'S HISTORICAL NOVELS. 

 * * * * *

 IN THE SERVICE OF RACHEL, LADY RUSSELL. With Illustrations. Fourth Thousand. 

 'This is another of those admirable historical romances in which Mrs Marshall makes the past speak to the present. '--_Spectator. _

 WINIFREDE'S JOURNAL. A Story of Exeter and Norwich in the Days of Bishop Hall. With Illustrations. Fourth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'Captivating in style, graphic in effect, and high in tone. '--_Guardian. _

 WINCHESTER MEADS IN THE DAYS OF BISHOP KEN. Sixth Thousand. With Eight Illustrations. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'Mrs Marshall has produced another of her pleasant stories of old times. '--_Saturday Review. _

 UNDER SALISBURY SPIRE IN THE DAYS OF GEORGE HERBERT. With Illustrations. Ninth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'A charming study of life and character in the seventeenth century. '--_Athenæum. _

 ON THE BANKS OF THE OUSE. A Tale of the Times of Newton and Cowper. With Illustrations. Fourth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'It is refreshing to read a book so earnest as this. The style is simple and clear. '--_Academy. _

 IN FOUR REIGNS. The Recollections of ALTHEA ALLINGHAM. With Illustrations. Fifth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'Seldom does one meet with a book of such sympathetic and touching character. '--_Morning Post. _

 UNDER THE MENDIPS. A Tale of the Times of More. With Illustrations. Sixth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'A charming story. '--_Athenæum. _

 IN THE EAST COUNTRY with Sir Thomas Browne, Knight. With Illustrations. Fifth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'This is a charming and pretty story of life in Norwich two hundred years ago. '--_Spectator. _

 IN COLSTON'S DAYS. A Story of Old Bristol. With Illustrations. Fifth Thousand. Price 5s. , cloth. 

 'The illustrations are excellent pictures of Bristol in the old days, and the book itself is particularly pleasant reading. '--_Christian World. _

 * * * * *

 LONDON: SEELEY & CO. , LIMITED, ESSEX ST. , STRAND. 

 NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION OF

 MRS MARSHALL'S EARLIER WORKS. 

 _Price 3s. 6d. Cloth. _

 * * * * *

 LADY ALICE. MRS MAINWARING'S JOURNAL. HEIGHTS AND VALLEYS. VIOLET DOUGLAS. CHRISTABEL KINGSCOTE. HELEN'S DIARY. BROTHERS AND SISTERS. NOWADAYS. DOROTHY'S DAUGHTERS. MILLICENT LEGH. 

 * * * * *

 MRS MARSHALL'S POPULAR SERIES. 

 _Price 1s. 6d. Cloth. 1s. Sewed. _

 * * * * *

 A LILY AMONG THORNS. BOSCOMBE CHINE. THE TWO SWORDS. HER SEASON IN BATH. THE TOWER ON THE CLIFF. THE OLD GATEWAY. BRISTOL DIAMONDS. UP AND DOWN THE PANTILES. A ROMANCE OF THE UNDERCLIFF. BRISTOL BELLS. 

 * * * * *

 LONDON: SEELEY & CO. , LIMITED, ESSEX ST. , STRAND.