Penshurst Castle in the Time of Sir Philip Sidney

'I will do it yet, in spite of her, for the boy's salvation. Yes; by the saints I will do it!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'As we all know,' Dorothy remarked, 'but it is well to be lodged in good time, 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 off one's shoulders.'

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

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

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

'It will save all further plague of suitors,' Dorothy continued, 'and there is nought against George. If he is somewhat of a boor in manners, I can cure him, and, come what may, I dare to say he will be a better husband in the 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 are well thought of by everyone.'

'Ay, so I believe; but now tell me how comes it you are left out in the cold like this? I vow I did my best to wheedle the old aunt yonder to let you come in our train, but she is as hard as a rock when she chooses. When I get to Hillbrow there won't be two mistresses, I warrant. One of us will have to give in, and it won't be your humble servant! As I say I am sorry you have lost your chance of this jaunt. It's a pity, and if I could put in a good word for you I would. I am on my way now to Penshurst Place to pay my dutiful respects to my Lady Mary Sidney. My good aunt was not ready when I started, so I thought to tarry here to await her coming. I hear the horse's feet, I think, in the lane. I must not make her as cross as two sticks by keeping her fuming at my delay, so good-day, Mistress Lucy. I am mightily 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 are quite wrong, I am only waiting for my summons from the Countess, and I am prepared 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 the ruffs either of squires or ladies are above a certain height they shall be clipped down by shearers hired for the purpose – willy nilly. As you have no ruffs, it seems, this order will not touch your comfort. Good-day.'

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

It was irritating, no doubt, to be pitied by Dorothy Ratcliffe, and to have to 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 never suffer himself to be entrapped into a marriage with his cousin, even though she had bags of gold, and finally – and that was perhaps the sweetest thought of all – did she not know whether in faded homespun, guiltless of lace or ruffle, or in her best array, no one could look twice at Dorothy Ratcliffe while she was by.

So the poor little vain heart was comforted, as Lucy turned to Mary, who had been in the bakehouse kneading flour for the coarse, brown bread consumed by the household at Ford Manor far too quickly to please Mistress Forrester, with a merry laugh, —

'To think on't, Mary. Doll Ratcliffe has been visiting me to tell me she is to marry George, and be the fair mistress of Hillbrow. I could split my sides 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 Lady Pembroke, 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 will want my pity – not I hers.'

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

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

'Do not speak of him – not a soul must know of him. Promise, Lucy!' Mary said.

'But George Ratcliffe knows how he scared me that day, though he did not see 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 the head 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 have you 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. 'My good, brave boy!'

'Yes; I stayed,' the child said, 'because I promised, you know. I didn't like it – and when a lady rode up on a big grey horse, I did begin to run down, and then I stopped and went back to the lattice, and only looked at her. It was not a horse like Mr Sidney's, and I should not care to ride on a pillion – I like to sit square, like Mr Sidney does. When will he come again? If he comes, will you tell him I am learning to be a dutiful boy? He told me to be a dutiful boy, because I had no father; and I will be dutiful and take care of you, sweet mother!'

'Ah, Ambrose! Ambrose!' Mary said, 'you are my joy and pride, when you are good and obedient, and we will take care of each other, sweetheart, and never part – '

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

'We will not speak of that day yet – it is so far off. Now we must set the board for dinner, and you shall help me to do it, for it is near eleven o'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 during Philip 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 in London, and sending for Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester again and again to amend the marriage contract which was to be discussed with the Duke of Anjou's delegates.

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

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

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

'Methinks, Madam,' one of the ladies ventured to say, 'Mr Philip Sidney is wholly given up to the effort he is making that the coming tourney may be as 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 if you can say nought more to the purpose.'

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

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

Then the Queen having, by this sally, brought the hot tears to the lady's eyes, recovered her composure and her temper, and proceeded to take her morning draught of spiced wine, with sweet biscuits, and then resorted to the Council chamber, where all matters of the State were brought before her by her ministers. Here Elizabeth was the really wise and able monarch, who earnestly desired the good of her people; here her counsellors were often fairly amazed at her far-seeing intelligence and her wide culture. No contrast could be greater than between the middle-aged Maiden Queen pluming her feathers to win the hearts of her courtiers, and listening with satisfaction to the broadest flattery with which they could approach her, and the sovereign of a nation in times which must ever stand out in the history of England as the most remarkable the country has ever known, gravely deliberating with such men as Lord Burleigh and Sir Francis Walsingham on the affairs of State at home and abroad.

Elizabeth had scarcely seated herself in her chair, and was about to summon Sir 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, being secure 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 be whipped 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 my Court, how has it fared with him?'

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

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

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

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

'Madam, I then, in all humility, delivered to you my sentiments. You were not 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 you revive the old protest, so have a care. We exercise our royal prerogative in 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 to make 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 fain hope that you will be pleased to honour the victors with a smile.'

'And with something more valuable; but tell me, Philip, how does it fare with my Lady Rich? Rumour is busy, and there are tale-bearers, who have neither clean hearts nor clean tongues. Sure you can pick and choose amongst many ladies dying for your favour; sure your Queen may lay claim to your devotion. Why waste your sighs on the wife of Lord Rich?'

Immediately Philip Sidney's manner changed. Not even from the Queen could he 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 latest breath, but pardon me if I beseech your Highness to refrain from the mention of one whom I have lost by my own blind folly, and so made shipwreck.'

'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! Your good uncle is like to die of jealousy; if he finds I am closeted with you he 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's affairs.'

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

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

'Ay! Mary Sidney is well enough. We will think over the matter. Command her to 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 all the 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 from his uncle, the Earl of Leicester. It was, perhaps, only natural that the elder man should be jealous of the younger, who had, when scarcely four-and-twenty, already gained a reputation for statesmanship at home and abroad. Brilliant as Leicester was, he was secretly conscious that there were heights which he had failed to reach, and that his nephew, Philip Sidney, had won a place in the favour of his sovereign, which even the honest protest he had made against this marriage with the Duke of Anjou had failed to destroy; a high place also in the esteem of the world by the purity of his life and the nobleness of a nature which commended itself alike to gentle and simple; while he had the reputation of a true knight and brave soldier, pure, and without reproach, as well as a scholar versed in the literature of other countries, and foremost himself amongst the scholars and poets of the day.

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

Edmund Spenser's dedication to the Shepherd's Calendar is well known, and there can be no doubt that he owed much to Sidney's discriminating patronage.

That dedication was no empty compliment to win favour, and the friendship between Edmund Spenser and Philip Sidney gathered strength with time. They had often walked together under the trees at Penshurst, and a sort of club had been established, of which the members were Gabriel Harvey, Edward Dyer, Fulke Greville and others, intended for the formation of a new school of poetry. Philip Sidney was the president, and Spenser, the youngest and most enthusiastic member, while Gabriel Harvey, who was the oldest, was most strict in enforcing the rules laid down, and ready with counsel and encouragement.

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

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

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

By Philip Sidney's influence Spenser had been sent to Ireland as secretary to Lord Grey of Wilton, whose recall was now considered certain. Sir Henry Sidney 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 Queen should reward his long service by a peerage and a grant of money or lands as a public mark of her confidence.

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

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

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

'Contradict that rumour, good Ned,' Philip said. 'There is but the barest chance of the Queen's reinstating my father, and if, indeed, it happened so, I should not accept the post under him. I will write to our friend Spenser and bid him take courage. His friends will not desert him. But I have here a stanza or two of the Fairie Queene, for which Edmund begs me to seek your approval or condemnation.'

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

Fulke Greville laughed, saying, —

'A very apt simile; at least, for any attempt I was bold enow to make; but read 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 he had in his mind a fair morning, when we walked together at Penshurst, and that the sounds and sights he here describes in verse are wafted to him from that time.'

'Why do you sigh as you say that, Philip? Come, man, let us have no melancholy remembrances, when all ought to be bright and gay.'

'The past time has ever somewhat of sadness as we live in it again. Have you never heard, Fulke, of the hope deferred that maketh a sick heart, nor of the hunger of the soul for the tree of life, which is to be ever denied?'

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

Then Philip read, —

'Eftsoones they heard a most melodious soundOf 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 eareWas 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 madeTo th' instruments divine respondence meet;The silver-sounding instruments did meetWith 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 canto of the Second Book of the Faerie Queene have seldom been read to a more appreciative audience, nor by a more musical voice. After a moment's silence, Edward Dyer said, —

'I find nought to complain of in all these lines. They flow like the stream rippling adown from the mountain side – a stream as pure as the fountain whence it springs.'

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

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

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

Fulke Greville made a gesture of assent, and Philip Sidney read, with a depth 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 sheeDoth first peepe foorth with bashful modestee,That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may!Lo! see soone after how more bold and freeHer 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 bowreOf 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 on them, and no criticism.

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