Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

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 meal for the whole party.

Humphrey waited outside till the baggage horse, on which Ned was seated came up.

Poor Ned was entirely unused to travel on horseback, and had found jolting and bumping on the sturdy mare's back over the rough road far more painful than his long march of the previous day and night. He was the butt of the other servants, who laughed more loudly than politely as he was set on his legs in the yard.

He was so stiff from the confined position, that he staggered and would have fallen, amidst the boisterous jeers of the spectators, had not Humphrey caught him, and, trying to steady him, said, —

'Peace, ye varlets; this good fellow has done me a real service, and deserves better at your hands than gibes and scoffs. Come hither, Ned. I have yet something further for you to do for me.'

Ned followed Humphrey with halting steps, shaking first one leg and then another, 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 walk fifty miles sooner. My legs are full of pins and needles, and it will take a 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 its contortions, as he stamped his feet and rubbed his shins with muttered exclamations that, as long as his name was Ned, he would never get upon a horse'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 can yet tell her in answer to the letter you brought me. At least she will know by 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 the pouch 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 on the way, and a draft of ale before I start; that will serve me. Do not order me, I pray you, to sit down with those gibing villains – no, nor order me, kind sir, to mount a horse again. If I live to be three score, I pray Heaven 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 which had been torn at the edge on the previous day, when a page brought in Humphrey's letter, saying, 'For Mistress Forrester.'

'Hand it hither,' Mistress Crawley said. 'It will keep till that lace is mended, and I'd have you to know, Mistress Lucy, my lady is very careful that there should be no billets passing between the young gentlewomen of her household and idle gallants about the Court. A pack of rubbish is in that letter, I'll warrant; some rhymes about your bright eyes and cherry cheeks, or some such stuff.'

'If you please, Madam, I desire to have my letter, and, if you will not give it to me, I will go to my lady and tell her you refuse to let me have it.'

'You little sauce-box! Do you think my lady has nought to do but attend to the whimsies of chits like you? Go on with your work. Do you hear?'

Lucy was burning with indignation, and, moreover, her curiosity was awakened to know who had written to her, and what were the contents of the letter.

The spirit which had rebelled against her stepmother now asserted itself, and she pushed back the stool on which she was sitting with such violence that it fell with a crash on the floor, and, as it fell, knocked against the spindle at which another of the maidens was sitting, and the thread snapped in two.

In the confusion which ensued Lucy escaped, and went into the gallery which ran round the house, and meeting Mr Sidney, she stopped short.

'Whither away, Mistress Lucy? My sister wishes to see you.'

'And I wish to see my lady,' Lucy said, her breast heaving with suppressed excitement. 'I was running to seek her.'

Mistress Crawley now appeared, and, seizing Lucy by the shoulder, exclaimed, —

'You impudent child! How dare you stop Mr Sidney? Return at once, or I'll have you dismissed.'

'Gently, good Mistress Crawley,' Philip Sidney said. 'It was I who was seeking Mistress Lucy. Allow me to take her to the Countess's apartment, where I fear ill news awaits her concerning her family at Penshurst.'

Philip Sidney's voice and manner had almost a magic power.

Mistress Crawley begged his pardon, nor would she wish to interfere with her lady's orders. She would take another opportunity of reporting Mistress Forrester's conduct to her. And, with a profound curtsey to Philip, and an angry glance at Lucy, she retreated from the field to renew her attack at a more convenient season.

'Oh! sir,' Lucy began, 'a letter was brought for me, and Mistress Crawley would not suffer me to have it. I was angry – ' and Lucy cast down her eyes, the long lashes wet with tears; she could not meet the calm, grave face looking down on her.

Yet through all, there was the sense of infinite delight that Mr Sidney was her friend, and that Mistress Crawley was discomfited.

'My poor child,' he said, 'I am sorry for you, if, as I think, the letter contains news of your sister's illness and of her great trouble.'

'Mary, is it Mary who is sick, sir?'

'Yes, and worse than that, her boy has been stolen from her.'

'Then I know who has done it,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I know it was that dreadful man with the cruel eyes who scared me almost to death a month ago. He said he wanted to see Ambrose, and now he has stolen him.'

They were at the door of Lady Pembroke's room by this time, and Philip Sidney drew aside the over arras hanging on it to let Lucy pass in. To her disappointment he said, —

'I will leave you now to the Countess for comfort and counsel,' and then the arras fell, and Lucy was called by Lady Pembroke to the further end of the room, where she was sitting with parchment and pen before her.

'Is that you, Mistress Forrester?' she said. 'Come hither. Mr Sidney has brought tidings of Mistress Gifford, which are very grievous. Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has gone to Penshurst, and will use every effort to recover the boy, who – may God help her – has been stolen from his mother. She is, I fear, very sick in body as well as mind, and I am debating whether it would not be well for you to return to Penshurst under care of some of the servants, who will be sent thither on the morrow. It would be a comfort, surely, to your sister to have your presence.'

Poor Lucy! This unexpected end to her bright hopes was too much for her. Tears coursed each other down her cheeks, as much for her own disappointment as sorrow for her sister. She stood before Lady Pembroke, unable to utter a word.

'Sit down, poor child,' Lady Pembroke said kindly. 'Yes, Crawley, what is it?'

For Mistress Crawley now appeared with the letter in her hand, and, with a low curtsey, presented it to Lady Pembroke.

'An' it please you, Madam, I cannot put up with Mistress Lucy's impudence. There'll be no law and order amongst the young gentlewomen, over whom you are pleased to set me, if this young woman is to put me at defiance. Vanity and thinking of nought but gew-gaws and finery and looking out for admiration, don't go to make a bower-woman such as a noble lady like yourself might wish to have in her household. I would humbly say to you, my lady, that I am not the one to put up with sauce and impudence from a little country-bred maid you are pleased to take under your patronage.'

'Dear Crawley,' Lady Pembroke said, 'Mistress Forrester is ill at ease at this moment; the news from her home may well cause her dismay and grief; leave her to me, and I will let you hear later to what conclusion I have arrived.'

Mistress Crawley curtseyed again even more profoundly than before, and, as she left the room, murmured something about 'favourite,' which did not reach Lady Pembroke's ear, or, if it did, passed unheeded.

Lady Pembroke was sweet and gentle in her manner to all who served her, but she was not weakly indulgent. Although her heart went out in pity towards poor Lucy, whom she had watched on the previous day, in the full flush of delight at her first taste of Court pageantry, and had seen, with some uneasiness, that her beauty had attracted many eyes, she said gravely, —

'Try to stop weeping, Lucy, and let us think what it will be best to do. It is well always to look at duty first, and strive after its performance, with God's help; and I think it will be your duty to return to your sister in her distress.'

'And leave you for ever, Madam!' Lucy exclaimed passionately.

'Nay, I did not say as much; but, my child, if you return to my household, it must be understood that you be submissive to Mistress Crawley – an old and tried friend and servant – who commands respect, and must have it rendered her.'

'Oh, Madam, I will, I will be submissive, only do not send me quite away.'

It did not escape Lady Pembroke's notice that Lucy's tears and distress were more for herself and her disappointment than for her sister. Lucy had never learned a lesson of unselfishness, and she had thought chiefly of her own pleasure, and how she could escape from the life at Ford Manor. And now that she had escaped, now that a bright future had opened before her, suddenly that future was clouded, and she was to return whence she came, and would, doubtless, have to bear the gibes of her stepmother, who had, at parting, said, 'She would be back in a trice, like a bad penny, returned as worthless.'

A prophecy fulfilled sooner than she had expected.

All this time Humphrey's letter had not been opened, and Lady Pembroke said, —

'Let us know Master Ratcliffe's wishes; he is, as I know, a good friend to your sister.'

'He will sure tell me to go back, but I cannot find little Ambrose; and I am not skilled in nursing the sick, Madam, I know. Goody Pearse, in the village, would tend Mary better. I love Mary. I love her dearly; and I grieve about Ambrose, but – '

'But you love yourself better than either your sister or her boy,' Lady Pembroke said. 'Now, cut the string of that letter and let me know its contents.'

Lucy did as she was bid. Something in Lady Pembroke's grave manner made her feel that she was not pleased with her, and, of all things, she longed to win favour with her – Mr Sidney's sister!

There were only a few words on the piece of folded parchment.

'Mistress Lucy, you must crave leave of my lady, the Countess of Pembroke, to return to Ford Manor. Your sister is in sore distress – her boy lost, and she is lying sick and sad. Hasten to get leave to return on the morrow with the gentlewomen and esquires, who are to reach Penshurst with my Lady Sidney and Master Thomas. I am now, by leave of Mr Sidney, starting on the quest for your nephew Ambrose Gifford. Pray God I may find him.

'Yours to command, and in haste.'Humphrey Ratcliffe.'

'This letter from so wise a gentleman leaves no alternative,' Lady Pembroke said, as she scanned its contents, and then handed it back to Lucy.

'Orders shall be given for your joining the retinue which sets off for Penshurst the morrow. Meantime, Lucy, return to your duties, and crave pardon of Mistress Crawley for your insubordination.'

'And I may return? Oh! Madam, I pray you, say I may return to you. Do not cast me off.'

'I shall be at Wilton for some months, and thither I may send for you, if, as I trust, you will not be needed at Ford Manor.'

Lucy still lingered.

'Forgive me, Madam; do not dismiss me without forgiveness.'

'Nay, surely, dear child,' Lady Pembroke said. 'I would fain see you happy, and content with the lot appointed you by God. There are manifold temptations in this world for us all. We need grasp the hand of One who will not fail to lead us safely in prosperity, and by the waters of comfort in adversity. Seek Him, Lucy, with your whole heart, and I pray God to bless you.'

Lucy kissed the hand held out to her with passionate fervour, and then went back to do Lady Pembroke's bidding.

The expedition to Hampton Court was the topic of conversation amongst the ladies of the household.

Several of the elder ones were to accompany Lady Pembroke in the earl's barge; and Lucy heard the glowing accounts of the splendour of the entertainment there, related in triumphant tones by those who were fortunate enough to be selected to accompany the Countess.

They dilated on the theme with some satisfaction, as poor Lucy sat at her lace-mending, too proud to show her mortification, and yet inwardly chafing against the hard fate, which had prevented her from being one of the party.

'Better never to have tasted the sweets of a bright, gay life, than be so suddenly snatched from it,' she thought. But her better self asserted itself as she thought of Mary's distress in the loss of Ambrose.

For Lucy had a better self, and she was not without higher aims. She possessed natural gifts which, though perhaps inferior to her sister's, only wanted cultivation. She eagerly devoured any books that came in her way; and she had a keen perception of all that was beautiful – perhaps it is safer to say, all that was grand and imposing.

She loved to dream of herself as the lady of some fine house, surrounded by all that wealth and rank could give.

The ideal knight who was to endow her with this splendour was partly ideal, but he took the form of Mr Sidney. She dare scarcely acknowledge this to herself. He was set on high, so far above her, it is true; yet he was never too high above her to forget her presence. His smile was a guerdon which she craved to win; the glance of his grave, beautiful eyes thrilled through her; the sound of his voice was music, stirring within her an answering chord, the echo of which was ever sweet and sweeter every time it was awakened.

It was, she felt sure, by his kind offices she had been placed in Lady Pembroke's household. And did he not seem sad – sorry for her – when Mistress Crawley pursued her in the gallery? Did he not call her 'My poor child!' looking down at her with that light of sympathy in his eyes which seemed at the moment to compensate for all else?

Perhaps unconsciously to himself, Philip Sydney touched the hearts of many a fair dame and youthful beauty about the Court of Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, we know it to have been so, and that the charm he exercised was as subtle as it was irresistible. This charm increased year by year, and perhaps never was greater than at the time of which we are writing, when the struggle within – a struggle in which he was to come out the victor – gave a pathetic earnestness to his manner, and quickened his sympathies for every kind and degree of sorrow or disappointment.

It was as poor little Lucy said: 'He was not too high to stoop to care for her, or for others.'

In the early morning of the next day Lucy stood disconsolately in the courtyard of Lord Pembroke's city house watching the packing of the baggage, and awaiting the orders of the gentleman who was Master Thomas Sydney's tutor, and was in command for the journey.

All was in the bustle of departure, and Lucy felt that no one cared on which pillion she was to ride, nor where her own modest packages were to be stowed.

She wore a scarlet riding-robe, with a hood which was lined with white taffeta. It fell back, and made a background to her shining hair, and defined the outline of her small, well-shaped head as she leaned against the doorway in listless dejection, which was a contrast indeed to her bright, sparkling mood as she bent over the edge of the booth at the tournament.

A sharp altercation was going on between two of the servants, each wishing to have the honour of taking Lady Mary Sidney's youngest son on his pillion.

Presently the boy himself appeared in his black velvet riding suit, booted and spurred, his red-gold locks – the true Sidney badge – falling over his shoulders from under the stiff, pointed cap which shaded his forehead.

'I am to ride alongside of you, not on the pillion like a babe. Peace! I tell you, Mr Philip saith so. I am to ride Joan, the black mare, Master Paynter saith it is Mr Philip's order.'

'Philip,' the boy said, springing towards his brother who now came into the yard, 'Philip, do not let them treat me as an infant.'

Thomas Sidney was very small for his age, and was treated as youngest children often are treated by the elders of a family, as if he were much younger than his years.

His delicacy appealed particularly to his brother Philip, who was always ready to stand his friend, when his elder brother Robin was inclined to exercise a boyish tyranny over him.

'Yes, forsooth, Thomas, you shall ride old Joan. Come, let me see you mount. That is it, spring into the saddle; nay, do not take the rein so slackly, and settle firmly in the saddle, nor use the stirrup for support. A man should be able to ride with nothing but himself to trust to for a safe seat.'

Thomas was triumphant, and resisted his governess's attempts to throw a cape over his shoulders, saying, —

'The wind was in the east, and would be like to bite their heads off when they turned into the country.'

But Thomas threw off the wrap with an impatient gesture, and, in falling, it hit the good woman on the face.

'Ask pardon at once, Thomas,' Philip said sternly; 'nor forget the manners of a gentleman, while you aspire to ride as one.'

The colour rose to the boy's fair face, and, stooping from the saddle, he said, —

'I am sorry I was rude, Mistress Margery, but oh! I hate to be treated as a babe.'

Mistress Margery was easily mollified. She conspired with the rest of the family to spoil the boy, of whom it was said that he resembled his sister Ambrosia, who died of wasting sickness and was buried at Ludlow.

But Thomas had a brave spirit if his body was weak, and to all the refinement of his race he added indomitable courage and a perseverance which surmounted what seemed insuperable barriers.

When the avant-couriers had ridden off, Philip turned to Lucy.

'On which horse are you to ride, Mistress Forrester? Let me lift you to your place.'

Lucy was trembling with joy that Mr Sidney should care for her comfort, and, as we all know, joy lies very near the fount of tears.

She dare scarcely trust herself to speak, as she heard Mr Sidney call a groom to bring up the grey horse, Prince, for Mistress Forrester.

'Poor old Prince!' Philip said, stroking the horse's neck, who knew his hand and bowed his head in acknowledgment, 'he has been a trusty servant, and will carry you safely, I know. But bring hither another cushion for the pillion,' he called to an attendant, 'and put a package below, for Mistress Forrester's feet to rest upon.'

Then he lifted Lucy to her place, saying, as he did so, —

'Methinks Prince will not complain of the burden he has to carry to-day, it is but a feather's weight. See, place your feet on this roll, and let me cover them with the haircloth – so; does that suit you?'

The groom was about to take his place on the side of the pillion nearest the horse's head, when he remembered he had forgotten to fill the powder flask, for no horseman ever ventured on the Queen's highway without abundant supply for the musket, which lay across the saddle bow.

The delay caused by this gave Mr Sidney time to say, —

'Heaven grant you may find Mistress Gifford in better case than we fear. You do well to go to her, and comfort her; commend me to her, and say Humphrey Ratcliffe has my freely-given permission to scour the country to find her lost boy. He will do so if he is to be found, and it will be a double grace if he does, for we may be able to unearth some of these foxy Jesuits who are lying in wait in every hole and corner.'

Then, as Lucy did not speak, Philip laid his hand gently on hers as he leaned against the horse, with one arm caressing his old favourite's neck.

'Smile on me before you set off, Mistress Lucy, nor look so doleful. The clouds will clear away, I doubt not, and you will return to my sister, the Countess, to be blythe and happy in learning all Mistress Crawley would fain teach you of handicraft, and still more, all my sister can instruct you in, for she is ever ready to give out the treasures which she has stored up in her brain and heart.'

And now the groom appeared, and mounted to his place, and still Lucy could not find any words.

'God speed you in your journey,' was Philip's good-bye, and Lucy could only murmur a few half-inaudible words, as she looked down on the true knight who filled her girlish dreams, and to whom there never was, and never could be, any rival.

And as the steady-going Prince footed it with even steps over the stones, and trotted along the somewhat rugged roads on the way to Tunbridge, Lucy tormented herself with her folly in never telling Mr Sidney in so many words how grateful she was to him.

'Fool that I was!' she thought. 'And he so tender and careful for my comfort. What a poor idiot I must have seemed! Yet, sure, I must find favour in his eyes, or he would not have wrapt the cloth so deftly round my feet. Oh, is he not noble and beautiful beyond all men who ever lived? I hear them say the Queen calls him "her Philip" and "her bright gem," and that he is the wisest statesman, and grandest poet and finest scholar of the age, and yet he is not too great to be good to me – little Lucy Forrester. And it may be I shall never see him again – never return to Lady Pembroke – live up on that hill all my days, and get as stupid and dull as the old brindled cow that stares with big, dull eyes straight before her, and sees nought, nor cares for nought but to chew her food.

'Alack! I am right sorry for Mary's grief. But I wish, if Ambrose was to be stolen, she had not fallen sick, so that I must needs go and tend her. I am a selfish hussy to feel this – selfish and hard-hearted! But, oh, was ever anyone more grievously disappointed than I am. A few short, bright days, and then back, back to the old, dreary life. Still, I am young; yes, and I am fair too. I know it, and I may yet be happy.'

Lucy's meditations continued in this strain, in alternate fears and hopes, for some time.

The cavalcade stopped at intervals at wayside hostels to bait the horses, and to refresh the travellers with draughts of ale and cider. One of these potations had a soporific effect on Lucy, and, after drinking it, she became oblivious of jolts and stoppages, of the fair country through which she passed, and was wrapped in profound slumber, her head resting against the broad back of the servant who held the reins, and urged on old Prince's somewhat slow steps by a succession of monotonous sounds, which now and again broke into the refrain of a song, one of the ballads familiar to Kentish men, and handed down from father to son for many generations.

Humphrey had reached Ford Manor late on the previous evening. He had ridden hard and fast to Tunbridge, and had heard from Dorothy Ratcliffe's father that the Papists' colony was supposed to be broken up, and that they had escaped to Southampton, and taken ship for France.

Two priests had been seized and thrown into prison at Canterbury, and this was supposed to have caused the dispersion of their followers, who had evaded pursuit, and were now thought to be beyond the reach of their persecutors. But neither from his old uncle, Edgar Ratcliffe, nor from any other source could Humphrey glean any information which might throw light on the disappearance of little Ambrose Gifford.

Nor did the intelligence of his loss seem greatly to affect the old man, nor indeed to be of any interest to the few people at Tunbridge of whom Humphrey made inquiries.

They were far more anxious to hear news from the Court, and of the tournament, and whether Mr Sidney had won fresh laurels, and if the Queen was really going to wed with a Popish prince. This was what the Papists built their hopes upon, and then it would be their turn to trample on the Protestants.