Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

At the time of which we write, he was making a gallant fight against defeat, in the struggle between love and duty, striving to keep the absorbing passion for his Stella within the bounds which the laws of honour and chivalry demanded, at whatever cost. No one can read the later stanzas, which are amongst the most beautiful in Stella and Astrophel, without feeling 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 Master through those mysterious realms, guided by the lady of his love, pure and free from the fetters of earthly passion, Philip Sidney would long with unutterable longing that his love might be also as wings to bear him heavenward, like that of Dante for his Beatrice, whose name is for all time immortal like his own.

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

The ladies passed out first, and the Countess of Pembroke, turning at the foot of the stairs, said, —

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

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

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

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

Lucy's face grew crimson, and she gave Mistress Crawley a look, which, if she 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 many admirers in the neighbourhood besides George Ratcliffe, and one of them said 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 am mistaken.'

George resented any interference about Lucy from another man, and he greatly objected to hear her called 'a little beauty;' for George's love for 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 may go, and she will serve the Countess of Pembroke rather than Mistress Crawley.'

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. They may sit and stitch tapestry till they are half blind, and stoop over the lace pillow till they grow crooked, for all my lady knows about it. Ask Mistress Betty here, she knows what a life Mistress Crawley can lead her slaves.'

The person addressed as Mistress Betty was beginning to answer, when George turned away to go to the stables, where he thought Mr Sidney had probably preceded him with Sir Fulke Greville, to examine the points of the two fresh steeds he had purchased for the tournament. But he could see nothing of Mr Sidney, and, meeting his brother Humphrey, he heard from him that he had walked away down the avenue with Sir Fulke Greville, apparently in earnest conversation, and that they would not care to be disturbed.

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

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

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

'Mr Sidney has other matters on hand than to look after a tired, cross boy,' his mother said. 'Come, my son, quicken your pace somewhat, or we shall not be at home for supper. It was a grand treat for you to be entertained 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 the burden was, —

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

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

'You will never be a true knight, boy, like Mr Sidney, if you growl and scold 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 for his 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's broad shoulder, and soon forgot his vexation in watching the rapid evolutions of a hawk in chase of a flight of small birds, one of which at last was made its prey.

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

Mary Gifford stopped, and, looking up, saw the hawk in full swing, not many hundred yards distant, with the bird in its beak, fluttering and struggling in 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 would fain make my boy a page in attendance. Oh! I cannot, I dare not part with him, he is my all – my all.'

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

'No one – no one; but if a trap were laid, if a net were spread, if a ruthless 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 the words of Holy Scripture, that such should be utterly abolished, but,' she continued, changing her tone and speaking cheerfully, 'see how Lucy lags behind, poor child! Methinks her heart misgives her as the parting is now certain. She is to enter on her duties when the Countess goes to London with Lady Mary Sidney, one day in this week. May God keep her safe. You will 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, nor ask 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 pass between you and me. Did I not tell you, did I not warn you that so it must be. 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 nearly at 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 was scarcely more, but his mother rushed after him, calling him by name to stop.

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 cannot follow.'

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

'What a plague you are to your mother, child; first you can't walk, and then 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 old tree 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 went towards 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 Lucy at the gate of Ford Place.

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

Mistress Forrester was engaging in a Puritan service with a few of the chosen ones, who would not join in what they deemed the Popish ceremonies of the church in the valley. These stern dissenters from the reformed religion were keeping alive that spark which, fanned into a flame some fifty years later, was to sweep through the land and devastate churches, and destroy every outward sign in crucifix, and pictured saint in fair carved niche, and image of seer or king, which were in their eyes the token of that Babylon which was answerable for the blood of the faithful witnesses for Christ!

The stern creed of the followers of Calvin had a charm for natures like Mistress Forrester, who, secure in her own salvation, could afford to look down on those outside the groove in which she walked; and with neither imagination nor any love of the beautiful, she felt a gruesome satisfaction in what was ugly in her own dress and appearance, and a contempt for others who 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 and had a pain in her head; she said she needed no supper, and went up to her little attic chamber in the roof of the house.

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

Ambrose was always full of inquiries on many subjects, and this evening he had much to say about the picture-book Master Tom Sidney showed him – the man in the lions' den, and why they did not eat him up; the men in a big fire that were not burned, because God kept them safe. And then he returned to the hawk and the little bird, and wondered how many more the cruel hawk had eaten for his supper; and, finally, wished God would take care of the little birds, and let the hawk live on mice like the old white owl in the barn. The child's prattle was not heeded as much as sometimes, and Mary's answers 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 his hands, made him repeat a little prayer, and then he murmured out in a sing-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 violet eyes, and Ambrose was asleep. Mary stood over him for a minute with clasped hands.

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

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

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

Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal twang to bless the humble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before the benches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread and milk, flavoured with strips of onion, were attacked by the hungry brethren with 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 his mouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysterious whisper, —

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

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

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

'I wouldn't trust them,' said the first speaker. 'They would as lief set fire to this house or yon barn as to a stake where the blessed martyrs were bound. 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, in many cases, homeless and dying of hunger.'

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

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

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

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

'Ruin!' was the answer. 'And tell me not a man is godly who has ordered the Maypole to be set up this coming first of May, and gives countenance by his presence on the Sabbath day to the wrestling games of the village louts, 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, and have neither part nor lot in these evil doings and vain sports, working days or Sabbath!'

Fervent Amens were uttered, and, wrapt in the mantle of self-satisfaction that they were not as other men, the company gathered in the kitchen of Ford Manor broke up, and, in the gathering twilight, dispersed to their homes.

Mary Gifford hastened to put away the remnants of the supper, and reserved the broken fragments for the early breakfast of the poultry the next morning.

Mistress Forrester did not seem inclined for conversation, and yawned audibly, 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 Lucy to-morrow. Jabez Coleman says we are sending her to the jaws of the lion by this 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 to bear, I'd like to know, with a roof over your head, and your child fed and clothed? Bear indeed!' and with a low, mocking laugh, Mistress Forrester stumped with her heavy tread up the stairs which led to the upper floor from the further end of the kitchen.

Mary went into the porch, and the peaceful landscape before her seemed to quiet her troubled spirit. She was so keenly alive to all that was beautiful in nature; her education had been imperfect, but she was open to receive all impressions, and, during her short married life, she had been brought into contact with the people who were attached to the Earl of Leicester's household, and had read books which had quickened her poetic taste and given a colour to her life.

It is difficult for those who live in these times to realise the fervour with which the few books then brought within the reach of the people were received by those who were hungry for self-culture. The Queen was an accomplished scholar, and did her best to encourage the spread of literature in the country. But though the tide had set in with an ever-increasing flow, the flood had not as yet reached the women in Mary Forrester's position. Thus, when she married Ambrose Gifford, a new world was opened to her by such books as Surrey's Translation of the Æneid, and Painter's Tales from Boccaccio. She had an excellent memory, and had learned by heart Wyatt's Translation of the Psalms, and many parts of Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar. This evening she took from the folds of her gown a small book in a brown cover, which had been a gift to her that very day from Mary, Countess of Pembroke.

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

It was at Wilton that The Arcadia had its birth, and the description of the fair country where Sir Philip Sidney and his sister placed the heroes and heroines of the story may well answer as a description of both places, as they write of proud heights, garnished with stately trees; and humble valleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; the meadows enamelled with all sorts of flowers; the fields garnished with roses, which made the earth blush as bashful at its own beauty – with other imagery which, after the lapse of more than three hundred years, shines out through the 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, which was so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. And now, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had been the gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dim waning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the lines printed close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the book fell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle near and a soft tread of stealthy footsteps.

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

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

'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 hither to 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 Heaven and earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies.'

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

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

'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; you scorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give you your choice – commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will find means 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. You betrayed 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 I will keep him, God helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy by committing 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 she stood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and who was the father of her child.

The mother, roused in defence of her boy – from what she considered danger both 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 a day or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution from the love he offered her, and which she could not accept.

What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if she had 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 one of the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he had died.

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

With the fading light of the April evening on her face – pale as death, but no longer resentful – her heart no longer filled with passionate anger and shrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stood before him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly and deceitful 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 a child's voice – a low murmur at first, then growing louder – as the dream passed into reality.

'Mother, mother! Ambrose wants mother!'

Then, without another word, Mary Gifford bowed her head, and, passing into the kitchen, closed and barred the door; and, hastening to her room, threw herself 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 turned towards 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, and sent a sharp thrill of pain through his heart.

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

He felt the great gulf which lay between him and the pure woman whom he had so cruelly deserted – a gulf, too, separating him from the child in his innocent childhood – the possession of whom he so greatly coveted. For a moment or two softer feelings got the mastery, and Ambrose Gifford stood there, under the starlit sky, almost resolved to relinquish his purpose, and leave the boy to his mother. But that better feeling soon passed, and the specious reasoning, that he was doing the best for the child to have him brought up a good Catholic, and educated as his mother could never educate him, and that the end justified the means, and that he was bound to carry out his purpose, made him say to himself, as he turned away, —