RESISTANCE

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:—

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,—

'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.'