Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

As Humphrey rode through Penshurst, the village was wrapt in profound repose, for in those times people went to bed and rose with the sun. Artificial light was scarcely known in the farms and homesteads of country districts, and there was only one twinkling light in the window of the hostel in the street to show belated travellers that if they desired shelter and rest they might find it there.

Humphrey rode slowly as he got nearer his destination, feeling reluctance to be the bearer of no good news to one, who he knew was eagerly looking for him.

The waters of the little Medway were low, for the season had been unusually dry, 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 Ford Manor the horse stopped short; he evidently wanted to go to his own stable on 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 dark masses 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 the turmoil and noise of the city he had lately left. The Court, so full of heart-burnings and jealousies and strivings to win a higher place in the favour of those who were in favour with the Queen. The image of him who was, perhaps, at that time Elizabeth's chief favourite rose before him, and he thought how far happier he would be to live, apart from Court favour and rivalries, in the stately home which was the pride, not only of the Sidneys themselves, but of everyone of their tenants and dependents on their wide-stretching domain. For Humphrey could not hide from himself that his chief was often sad at heart, and that sometimes, in uncontrollable weariness, he would say that he would fain lead a retired life in his beloved Penshurst. His moods were, it is true, variable, and at times he was the centre of everything that was bright and gay at Court, sought after as one who could discourse sweetest music, the most graceful figure in the dance, the most accomplished poet who could quickly improvise a verse in praise of his Queen, or a rhyme to commemorate some feat of arms at joust or tourney, like that of the preceding day.

Humphrey Ratcliffe thought that he held the solution of his Master's alternations 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 denied you, as is God's will for me.'

'Denied to me also, but yet I have a hope, Mr Sidney cannot have; no impassable barrier rises between me and Mary. If I find her boy I may reap my 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 your way, and return in the morning, Master Ratcliffe.'

Then there was a pause, the woman's head was withdrawn, and Humphrey's ear, quickened by love, heard Mary's voice in pathetic pleading. Presently the 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 for Humphrey but to pursue his way to his own home, whither George – who had parted from him at Tunbridge – and his servants had preceded him earlier in the day.

Mary Gifford lay sleepless and restless all through the long hours of the night, watching for the dawn. She longed, and yet half dreaded her meeting with Humphrey. She felt so utterly weak and broken-hearted, so forlorn and deserted – what if he again urged his suit! – what if she had now to tell him what had been at their last interview only a probability, and was now a certainty! Her husband was no vague, shadowy personality; he was alive and strong, to work for her the greatest evil that could befall her in stealing her boy from her.

When Mistress Forrester came in, on her way to the dairy, to see how it fared with Mary, she found her, to her surprise, dressed, while Goody Pearse was snoring peacefully on the pallet bed, where Ambrose had slept near his mother.

'Dear heart! Mary Gifford, what do you mean by getting up like this? I thought, forsooth, you were so sick you had need of a nurse, to take a few more shillings out of my pocket, and here you are at five o'clock, up and spry. Well-a-day, I never did come to the bottom of you. Deep waters, they say, make no noise.'

Mary had braced herself to bear anything and everything, and was strangely unmoved by her stepmother's innuendoes, of which she took no notice, and only said, in a gentle voice, —

'Is Ned astir yet?'

'I don't know. He came hobbling in after his goose-chase to London on your account, losing a couple of days' work; and I warrant he will have to be shaken before he gets about his business.'

'I can get downstairs,' Mary said, 'if Ned will help to carry me. I fear I cannot put my leg to the ground yet.'

'No; and you may give up the notion. If you come down, you may as lief do without a nurse, and take to your lawful business. It is a pretty thing! – 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 the presence of Mistress Forrester. She expected a sharp reprimand, but Mistress Forrester left the room without another word either to nurse or patient.

'Dear heart! what made you get up afore I was ready? You'll have raging pain in your foot again, sure as fate.'

'I must get downstairs to-day to see Master Humphrey Ratcliffe. Ned will help 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 her downstairs. Ned made short work of it; he lifted Mary in his arms, and trudged down the creaking steps with her without a single halt, and placed her by her desire on the settle, where her leg could rest. Mary's smile was a sufficient reward for Ned. But when Mary held out her hand, and said she owed him more than tongue could tell for going to London, Ned was speechless with emotion. At last he blurted out, —

'I'd walk a hundred miles to serve you, Mistress; I'd even ride 'em for your sake. But, oh, Lord! I am sore to-day with the cramp I got a-horseback. Here is a letter from Master Ratcliffe; he bid me put into your 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 from Ned's large, brown fingers. But she had not opened it when Humphrey Ratcliffe himself came up to the porch, and stopped short on the threshold as 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, could hardly have left such traces of suffering on her face – still, in Humphrey's eyes, beautiful, though with lines of sorrow round her mouth and eyes.

'Enter, my kind friend,' Mary said, in a low, sweet voice, holding out her hand to him. 'This good Ned,' she said, 'has faithfully performed his errand, and deserves our thanks.' Ned, bashful and awkward, made for the door and disappeared. 'But what news? Is there aught to tell me of my child?'

Humphrey had by this time advanced to the settle, and, kneeling by it, he took 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 Papists has 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 regain possession of him. It is a puzzle to me to understand why he should steal him.'

'He is so handsome, so clever,' his mother said. 'Humphrey, I cannot, I cannot lose him. I must find him; and he will break his heart for his mother,' she said passionately. 'His mother! bereft and desolate without him.'

'We will find him,' Humphrey said, 'never fear. My noble master has given me 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 Protestant towns.'

'The Low Countries,' Mary said, 'I have a friend there, at Arnhem, one George Gifford; he is an honest and godly minister. In my first grief and despair years ago, I sent a letter to him for counsel. He was then in England, 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 will leave all things, and go on the quest myself – alone.'

'Not alone!' Humphrey said, 'not alone, but with me. Oh, Mary! I will tend you and care for you, and we will seek together for our boy – mine as yours, yours as mine. We will go to this good man of whom you speak, and all will be well. God will speed us.'

'Nay, dear friend,' Mary said. 'Nay, it cannot be. I can never be your wife.'

'And, by Heaven, why not? What hinders? Something tells me, presumptuous though it may be, that you might give me a little – a little love, in return for 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 his irritation.

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 me is my husband.'

Humphrey started to his feet, and said in a voice of mingled rage and despair, —

'The villain! the despicable villain! I will run him through the body an I get the chance.'

'Nay, Humphrey,' Mary said in pleading tones, 'do not make my burden heavier by these wild words. Rumours had reached me in the winter of last year, when the Earl of Leicester with his large following were at Penshurst, 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 report was false. As soon as I heard of this man lurking about the countryside, a horrible dread possessed me. He asked Lucy to bring Ambrose to meet him – this strengthened my fears. From that moment I never let the boy out of my sight. Thus, on that morning of doom, I took him with me to look for the shepherd and the lost lamb. Ah! woe is me! He was lying in wait. He had told me, when as I sat late in the porch one evening, that he would have my boy, and I knew he would wreak his vengeance on me by this cruel deed. I seized 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 cold grave, at least I could have wept, and committed him to safe keeping in the hands of his Heavenly Father – safe in Paradise from all sin. But now – now he will be taught to lie; and to hate what is good; and be brought up 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 of her boy seemed a small matter, when compared with his despair that he had lost her.

For a few moments neither spoke, and then with a great rush of passionate emotion, 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 were possible, you could love me. Why should you be loyal to that faithless villain? 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 to Humphrey, how thankfully felt the support of his honest and steadfast love. But Mary Gifford was not a weak woman – swayed hither and thither by the passing emotion of the moment. Clear before her, even in her sorrow, was the line of duty. The sacred crown of motherhood was on her brow, and should 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 help me – the wife of Ambrose Gifford, and,' she paused, and then with pathetic earnestness, 'I am the mother of his son. Let that suffice.'

Again there was a long silence. From without came the monotonous cawing of the rooks in the elm trees, the occasional bleating of the lambs in the pastures seeking their mother's side, and the voices of the shepherd's children, who had come down to fetch the thin butter-milk which Mistress Forrester measured out to the precise value of the small coin the shepherd'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 a good and true woman may ever expect sooner or later to receive from a noble-hearted man, in a like case.

'You are right, Mary,' he said, 'as you ever are. Forgive me, and in token thereof let us now proceed to discuss the plans for the rescue of your boy.'

This was now done with surprising calmness on both sides.

Humphrey decided to start first for Douay, and then, failing to trace any tidings of the boy, he would proceed to Arnhem, and enlist the sympathies and help of the good man, George Gifford, to get upon the right track for the recovery of his nephew's child.

'He is a just man, and will tender the best advice,' Mary said. 'It is true that a father has a right to his own son, but sure I have a right, and a right to save him from the hands of Papists. But I have little hope – it is dead within me – quite dead. My last hope for this world died when I lost my boy.'

'God grant I may kindle that hope into life once more,' Humphrey said, in a voice of restrained emotion, and not daring to trust himself to say another word, he bent his knee again before Mary, took the long, slender hands which hung listlessly at her side, and bowing his head for a moment over them, Humphrey Ratcliffe was gone!

Mary neither spoke nor moved, and when Goody Pearse came with a bowl of milk and bread she found her in a deadly swoon, from which it was hard to recall her. Mistress Forrester came at the old woman's call, and burnt feathers under Mary's nose, and, with a somewhat ruthless hand, dashed cold water over her pale, wan face, calling her loudly by name; and, when at last she recovered, she scolded her for attempting to come downstairs, and said she had no patience with sick folk giving double trouble by wilful ways. Better things were expected of grown women than to behave like children, with a great deal more to the same purpose, which seemed to have no effect on Mary, who lay with large wistful eyes gazing out at the open door through which Humphrey had passed – large tearless eyes looking in vain 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, who stood with her large, red arms folded, looking with awe at the pallid face before her. 'She calls out that the light dazes her; methinks she must be got back to bed, and kept there.'

The heavy wooden door was closed, and but a subdued light came in through the 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 be further neglected, and Mistress Forrester, sharply calling Avice to mind her work, nor stand gaping there like a gander on a common, left Goody Pearse 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 ready character, and even in high circles, there was often gross ignorance displayed in the treatment of the sick.

The village nurse had her own nostrums and lotions, and the country apothecary, or leech as he was called, who led very often a nomadic life, taking rounds in certain districts, and visiting at intervals lonely homesteads and hamlets, was obliged, and perhaps content, to leave his patient to her care, and very often her treatment was as likely to be beneficial as his own.

Goody Pearse, to do her justice, had that great requisite for a nurse, in every age and time – a kind heart.

She felt very sorry for Mary, and, when Mistress Forrester was gone, she crooned over her, and smoothed the pillow at her head, and then proceeded to examine her foot, and bind it up afresh in rags steeped in one of her own lotions.

The doctor had ordered potations of wine for Mary, and Mistress Forrester had produced a bottle of sack from her stores, a mugful of which Goody Pearse now held to Mary's pale lips.

'I only want quiet,' she said, in a low, pathetic voice; 'quiet, and, if God please, sleep.'

'And this will help it, dear heart,' the old woman said. 'Sup it up, like a good 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! you are better already, and Ned shall carry you up again when there's peace and quiet.'

It was evening, and Mary Gifford had been laid again on her own bed, when quick 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, stretching out 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 last till you are well, and we both go away from here, and the boy is found – for he will be found – Humphrey Ratcliffe will scour the world ere he gives up finding him, and Mr Sidney has granted him leave to go whither he lists, to get hold of that wicked man with his horrible, cruel, black eyes. How I hate him!'

'Do not speak of him,' Mary said, shuddering; 'do not speak of him,' and she put her hand to her side, as if the very mention of him sent a pang through her heart. 'Let me look at you, Lucy,' she said presently. 'Turn your 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 and quips to bear from old Mother Crawley. Yet, oh, Mary! when there is one big heart-joy, everything else seems so small, and poor, and mean.'

'Have you made George Ratcliffe happy, then, with a promise to requite his love?'

'George Ratcliffe!' Lucy exclaimed. 'Nay, Mary – not for a lap full of gold.'

'Who, then, is it? for there is someone? Who is it, Lucy? I pray God he is a 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. My knight is far above me – so far, it may be, that he will never stoop so low as 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, he did not deem the country maiden of no account, when grand ladies were ogling him, and trying to win his favour, he did not think me beneath notice when he lifted me on the saddle this very morning, and covered me with a warm cloth, and bade me "God speed." If nought else comes – well, I will live on what I have had from him. The crumbs of bread from him are sweeter and richer than a feast from another. As I have jogged hither to-day, there has been the thought of him to make me willing to give up everything 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 Humphrey Ratcliffe 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 about it.

'You do not understand, Mary, I see you do not understand. You think me silly, and vain, and selfish – and you are right. I am all three. I have been all three, and hot-tempered, and saucy, and oh! a hundred other things, but now I have an aim to be good and act in all things as my knight would have me. Oh, Mary, could you have seen him as he rode into the tilt-yard on Whit-Monday, in his blue and gold armour, sitting on his fine horse, so stately and grand – could you have seen him break lance after lance, his face shining like the sun, you would know what it is for me to feel 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 an end of the whole matter. It will make no odds whether what looks impossible becomes possible – he is to me what no one beside can ever be. There, it is out now, and I pray you do not despise me. I will be ever so patient now. I will do all I am bidden, and one day, Mary, we will leave this place – it is no home now, and I will return to my Lady Pembroke, and Humphrey Ratcliffe will find Ambrose, and you will be his wife, and – '

'Hush, Lucy; not a word more. I will keep sacred and secret in my heart what you have told me, dear child. I will not judge you hardly. You are young – 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 feeding hope on what may turn out to be the ashes of disappointment, I will not despair. I know your idol is worthy, and love for one who is pure and noble cannot work ill in the end. I will keep your secret; now, Lucy, little sister – keep mine. I can never wed with another man, for my husband lives – and has stolen from me my boy.'

'Mary, Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister's pillow. 'Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only of myself – I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really so heartless 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 done before.'

From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester seemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking girlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and river of womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares – others with reluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to face with the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly find themselves on the other side to return no more.

BOOK II

Since nature's works be good, and death doth serveAs nature's work, why should we fear to die?Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,Disarming human minds of native might;While each conceit an ugly figure bearsWhich were we ill, well viewed in reason's light.Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be,And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,Let them be cleared, and now begin to seeOur life is but a step in dusty way,Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind;Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find.– Arcadia, p. 457.Sir Philip Sidney.