ACROSS THE FORD

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.

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.