LUMEN FAMILIÆ SUÆ

Penshurst Castle never, perhaps, wore a more festive air than when in the November days of lengthening twilight and falling leaves, Sir Philip Sidney's friends and relatives gathered under the hospitable roof to congratulate him on his appointment to the Governorship of Flushing and Rammekins, the patent having been granted at Westminster on the seventh day of the month.

Sir Philip had taken leave of the Queen after she had honoured him by standing as godmother to his little daughter. He had now brought her and her mother to Penshurst to leave them there in safety, till he had arranged for their reception at Flushing, and found proper accommodation for them.

It was a goodly company that assembled in the grand old hall on the day before Sir Philip's departure. There were, we may be sure, many present whose names live on the pages of the history of the time.

The courtly Earl of Leicester was there, who, with whatever outward show of satisfaction at his nephew's promotion, was never free from a latent jealousy which he was careful to hide.

Sir Francis Walsingham was there, the proud grandfather of the tiny babe which Lady Mary Sidney held so tenderly in her arms, scanning her features to discover in them a likeness to her father. Sir Henry Sidney was with her, prematurely old and feeble, trying to shake off the melancholy which possessed him, and striving to forget his own troubled and ill-requited service to the Queen, in his pride that his son was placed in a position where his splendid gifts might have full play.

'The light of his family,' he always fondly called Philip, and he would not grudge that this light should shed its radiance far beyond his own home and country.

Was it a strange prescience of coming sorrow that made Sir Henry for the most part silent, and sigh when the Earl of Leicester tried to rally him, saying that it was a time of rejoicing, and why should any face wear a look of sadness.

'We part from our son, good nephew,' Lady Mary said, 'on the morrow, and partings in old age have a greater significance than in youth. We please ourselves with future meetings when we are young; when we are old, we know full well that there is but a short span of life left us, for reunion with those who are dear to us.'

As the short day closed in, the huge logs in the centre of the hall sent forth a ruddy glow. The torches set in the iron staples on the walls were lighted, and flickered on the plentifully-spread board and on the faces of those gathered there. As the company at the upper end, on the raised dais, rose to retire to the private apartments of the house, the minstrels in the gallery struck up a joyful strain, and at the foot of the stairs Sir Philip paused.

He looked down on the faces of many friends and retainers, faithful in their allegiance, with a proud, glad smile. Many of them were to follow him to his new post as Governor. All were ready to do so, and die in the cause he held sacred, if so it must be.

It was not without intention that Sir Philip waited till the company had passed him, detaining his young wife by drawing her hand through his arm, and saying to the nurse who held his little daughter,—

'Tarry for one moment, Mistress Joan.'

'My friends,' he said, 'you who follow me to Flushing, I pray I may live to reward you for the faithful service you will render me. God grant you may return in health and peace to your wives and children. If it please God, I shall myself return in due season; but there are many chances in war, and a soldier's future must ever be doubtful. So, should I fall in the fight against the tyranny of Spain and the machinations of Rome, I say to you, show to this fair lady, my sweet wife, all reverent care and honour, for, forsooth, she will merit it; and as for this little lady Elizabeth, the godchild of our gracious Sovereign,' he continued, smiling as he took the child from the nurse's arms, 'I commend her to you also. You see but little of her, she is so swathed in folds of lace and what not, and, in good sooth, there is but little to see; but she gives promise of being a dainty little maiden, not unworthy to be the Queen's name-child, and the daughter of the gentle Dame Frances Sidney.'

'Nor unworthy to be the child of Sir Philip Sidney, a greater honour than all the rest, methinks.'

These words were spoken in a deep, manly voice by Sir Francis Walsingham, who had stopped on the stairs when he saw his son-in-law pause with his wife and child.

The remark was received with a prolonged 'Ay,' and a murmur of many voices wishing Sir Philip all success and good fortune.

There was dancing in the spacious ballroom, which was lighted for the occasion by the three cut-glass chandeliers, surmounted by the royal crown, which were, it is said, the first made in England, and presented to Sir Henry Sidney by Queen Elizabeth. Here the younger portion of the guests enjoyed the dance then so popular, and which was known by the appropriate name of 'The Brawl.'

The elders had followed Lady Mary Sidney to the room known as Queen Elizabeth's, where the chairs, draped in yellow satin, and the card-table covered by the fine silk embroidery worked by the Queen's clever fingers, were all in their first freshness. On the walls were panels of worked silk, which the ladies of the family had their share in producing, and between them hung the portraits of Sir Philip and his brother Robert in childhood in their stiff and ungainly Court dress, and one of Lady Mary when she came as a bride to Penshurst—in the pride of her youth and beauty, before the smallpox had robbed her face of its fair complexion, and before sorrow and disappointment had left their trace upon it.

The Countess of Pembroke was always her mother's chief sympathiser in joy and sorrow. She retired with her behind the glass screen where the Queen, in her visits to Penshurst, always chose to summon her host, or any of her ministers for a private conversation or flirtation, as the case might be. By the opening of a panel of white Venetian glass, those who were seated behind the screen could watch unseen what was passing in the room beyond.

'You look weary, dear mother,' Lady Pembroke said—'weary and sad. Methinks pride in our Philip should overrule grief at his loss. He has been well versed in the manners and customs of foreign courts. He is a great favourite, and I hope to see him return with fresh laurels at no distant date.'

'Ah, Mary! you have, as I said to my brother but an hour ago, you have a future; for me there is only a short span left. Yet I can rejoice in the present bliss of seeing Philip a proud husband and father. There was a time when I feared he would never turn his thoughts towards another woman.'

'And I, sweet mother, always felt sure he would be the victor he has proved. Look at him now!' As she spoke Sir Philip was seen coming down the room with Lady Frances on his arm, Sir Fulke Greville on the other side, evidently some jest passing between them, for Sir Philip's face was sparkling with smiles, and his silvery laugh reached the ears of those behind the screen as he passed.

'Yes, he has the air of a man who is happy, doubtless,' his mother said; 'but see your father, Mary, how he halts, as he comes leaning on Sir Francis Walsingham's arm. He has the mien of a man many a year older than he is, if age be counted by years.'

'Dear father!' Mary said, with a sigh. 'But now, watch Robert and Thomas. They are each leading a lady to the ballroom. Little Tom, as I must still call him, looks well. He is all agog to be off with Philip; he must tarry till the winter is over. Robert is of a stronger build, and can weather the frosts and bitter cold of the Low Countries.'

Lady Pembroke was now watching another couple who were passing on to the ballroom. The Earl of Leicester had often been attracted by the beauty of Lucy Forrester, and had now done her the honour of begging her to dance with him. But Lucy shrank from the open admiration and flattery of this brilliant courtier. While others were looking on her with envy, jealous of the distinction the Earl had conferred upon her, Lucy hoped she might meet her mistress, and excuse herself from the dance by saying her presence was needed by Lady Pembroke. But those who sat behind the screen were unseen, and Lucy did not know how near she was to her mistress.

Presently George Ratcliffe came towards the screen with gigantic strides, his brow dark, biting his lower lip, while his hand rested on the hilt of his short sword.

'Pardon me, dear mother,' Lady Pembroke said, as she rose from her seat, 'I will return anon,' and then she stepped up to George, saying,—

'Have you danced this evening, Master Forrester? Come with me, and let me find you a partner.'

George blushed crimson at the honour done him; he was no courtier, and the thanks he would fain have spoken died on his lips.

'I have been desiring to speak with you,' Lady Pembroke said; 'I would fain know if aught has been heard of Mistress Gifford.'

'Nay, Madam, not of late. She was in good health of body last summer, though sore at heart; so my brother said.'

'No trace of her boy yet, I grieve to hear,' Lady Pembroke exclaimed. 'If he is to be tracked out, your good brother will do it. You do not follow Sir Philip to the Netherlands, I think.'

'Nay, Madam, I stay at home, my mother is sick, and the care of the place falls on me heavily enow.'

When Lucy saw Lady Pembroke she disengaged her hand from the Earl's, and said,—

'May it please you, my Lord, to permit me to go to my Lady, she may be seeking me.'

'Now why so cruel?' the Earl rejoined; 'why cannot you give me one smile? Do not reserve all your favour for yonder young country-bred giant, whom my sister has chosen to patronise.'

But Lucy was resolute, her colour rose at this reference to George, and, with a profound curtsey, she left the Earl's side and joined the Countess.

'Ah, Lucy, you are in time to give Master George your hand for a Saraband, and I will find my uncle, the Earl, another partner, even myself,' she added, laughing.

It was all done so quickly that George could scarcely realise what had happened.

He had been faithful to his first love, and never for a moment faltered in his allegiance.

Both brothers were, it may be, exceptional in the steadfastness of their loyalty to the two sisters. But Humphrey's position was widely different from that of his brother, and he had many interests and friends, yes, and flirtations and passing likings also, which prevented his thoughts from dwelling so continually upon Mary Gifford. Moreover, he knew the gulf set between them was impassable, and she was really more, as he said, like a saint out of his reach, than a woman of everyday life, whom he longed to make his wife.

George, on his hilltop, with no companion but his querulous mother—Mrs Ratcliffe was for ever harping on his folly in suffering his cousin Dorothy, with her full money-bags, to slip through his fingers, to bless the draper's son in the Chepe with what would have been so valuable to him and to her—was far more to be pitied; and it was no wonder that he withdrew more and more into himself, and grew somewhat morose and gruff in his manner.

It was something to watch for Lady Pembroke's visits to Penshurst, when Lucy would at least appear with the household at church, but these visits only left him more hopeless than before.

His only consolation was that, although Lucy would not listen to his suit, she apparently favoured no one else.

George was conscious of a change in her; she was no longer the gay, careless maiden of years gone by, no longer full of jests, teasing ways, and laughter, but a dignified lady, held in high esteem in the Countess of Pembroke's household; and, alas! further from him than ever.

In the dance to which George led Lucy, they found themselves opposite to Humphrey and one of the younger members of the Countess's household.

A bright, blue-eyed, laughing girl, who rallied Lucy on her sedate behaviour, and the profound curtseys she made to her partner, instead of the pirouette which she performed with Humphrey, his arm round her waist, and her little feet twinkling under the short skirt of her stiff brocade, like birds on the wing.

When the dance was over, George said,—

'The air is hot and fevered in this room; will you take a stroll with me, Mistress Lucy, in the gallery? or is it too great a favour to ask at your hands?'

'Nay, no favour,' Lucy replied; 'I shall be as well pleased as you are to leave the ballroom.'

So they went together through the gallery, where, now and again, they saw couples engrossed with each other's company in the deep recesses of the windows.

The young moon hung like a silver bow in the clear sky, and from this window the church tower was seen beyond the pleasance, and the outline of the trees, behind which the moon was hastening to sink in the western heavens.

As Lucy gazed upon the scene before her, her large wistful eyes had in them that look which, in days gone by, George had never seen there.

The dim light of a lamp hanging in the recess shone on Lucy's face, and poor George felt something he could not have put into words, separating him from the one love of his life. His thoughts suddenly went back to that spring evening when Lucy, in her terror, had rushed to him for protection. He recalled the sweetness of that moment, as a man perishing for thirst remembers the draught of pure water from the wayside fountain, of which he had scarcely appreciated the value, when he held it to his lips.

A deep sigh made Lucy turn towards him, and, to his surprise, she opened the very subject which he had been struggling in vain to find courage to begin.

'George,' she said, 'it would make me so happy if you could forget me, and think of someone who could, and would, I doubt not, gladly return your love.'

'If that is all you can say to me,' he answered gruffly, 'I would ask you to hold your peace. How can I forget at your bidding? it is folly to ask me to do so.'

'George,' Lucy said, and her voice was tremulous, so tremulous that George felt a hope springing up in his heart.—'George, it makes me unhappy when I think of you living alone with your mother, and—'

'You could change all that without delay, you know you could. I can't give you a home and all the fine things you have at Wilton—'

'As if that had aught to do with it,' she said. 'I do not care for fine things now; once I lived for them; that is over.'

'You love books, if not fine things,' he went on, gathering courage as he felt Lucy, at any rate, could think with some concern, that he was lonely and unhappy. 'You care for books. I have saved money, and bought all I could lay my hand on at the shop in Paul's Churchyard. More than this, I have tried to learn myself, and picked up my old Latin, that I got at Tunbridge School. Yes, and there is a room at Hillside I call my lady's chamber. I put the books there, and quills and parchment; and I have got some picture tapestry for the walls, and stored a cupboard with bits of silver, and—'

'Oh! George, you are too good, too faithful,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I am not worthy; you do not really know me.' And, touched with the infinite pathos of George's voice, as he recounted all he had done in hope, for her pleasure, Lucy had much ado to keep back her tears. Then there was silence, more eloquent than words.

At last Lucy put her hand gently on George's arm.

'Hearken, George,' she said; 'if the day should ever dawn when I can come to you with a true heart, I will come. But this is not yet, and I should wrong a noble love like yours if I gave you in return a poor and mean affection, unworthy of your devotion. Do you understand me, George?'

'No,' he said, 'no, but I am fain to believe in you, and I will wait. Only,' he added, with sudden vehemence, 'give me one promise—do not let me hear by chance that you have become the wife of another man; give me fair warning, or I swear, if the blow should fall unawares, it would kill me or drive me mad.'

'You will never hear the news of which you speak, and in this rest content. I have neither desire nor intention of wedding with any man. Let that suffice.'

George drew himself up to his full height and said formally,—

'It shall suffice, so help me God.'

In all great assemblies like that which had gathered at Penshurst on this November day, there are often hidden romances, and chapters rehearsed in individual lives, of which the majority know nor care nothing. Who amongst that throng of courtly ladies and gay gentlemen knew aught of George Ratcliffe's love story; and, if they had known, who would have cared? To the greater number the whole thing would have seemed a fit subject for jest, perhaps of ridicule, for self-forgetting love, which has nothing to feed on, and no consolation except in nursing vain hopes for the fulfilment of the heart's desire, does not appeal to the sympathy of the multitude. Such chivalrous, steadfast love was not unknown in the days of Queen Elizabeth, nor is it unknown in the days of Queen Victoria. It left no record behind it then, nor will it leave a record now. It is amongst the hidden treasures, which are never, perhaps, to see the light of day; but it is a treasure, nevertheless; and who shall say that it may not shine in a purer atmosphere and gain hereafter the meed of praise it neither sought for nor found here?

There was much stir and bustle in the President's Court at Penshurst's the next morning. The gateway tower had just been completed by Sir Henry Sidney on the old foundations, which dated from the thirteenth century. And now, from under its shadow, on this still November morning, 'the light of Sir Henry's family' was to ride out with a large retinue to take up the high position granted him by the Queen as Governor of Flushing. How young he looked as he sat erect on his noble horse, scanning his men, whose names were called by his sergeant-at-arms as they answered one by one in deep, sonorous tones to the roll call. Drawn up on either side of the court, it was a goodly display of brave, stalwart followers, all faithful servants of the house of Sidney, bearing their badge on their arm, and the boar and porcupine on the helmets.

The Earl of Leicester was by his nephew's side, and his gentlemen and esquires in attendance in brilliant array, for Robert, Earl of Leicester, loved display, and nothing could be more gorgeous than the trappings of his own horse, nor the dazzling armour which he wore.

In the background, under the main entrance of the house, Sir Henry Sidney and Lady Mary stood with the Earl and Countess of Pembroke, and Dame Frances Sidney, leaning on the arm of her father, Sir Francis Walsingham. So fair and young she looked that all hearts went out in sympathy with her, for she was very pale, and she was evidently trying to control herself, and let her husband's last look be answered by smiles rather than tears.

Sir Philip had bidden his good-bye to those to whom he was so dear in private, and there was a general determination amongst everyone to be brave and repress any demonstration of sadness at the last moment. And indeed the splendid military career opening before Sir Philip was a joy in the hearts of many who loved him, which silenced any expression of grief at his loss to themselves.

Humphrey Ratcliffe, in command of his men, presently left the ranks, and, approaching Sir Philip, said,—

'We await the word of command to start, sir.'

Just at this moment the feeble cry of an infant was heard. And Sir Philip, throwing the reins to his esquire, said to the Earl,—

'Your pardon, my lord, if I delay for one moment,' and then, with a quick, springing step, Sir Philip returned to the entrance, where his little daughter had just been brought by her nurse. 'Nay, then, my lady Elizabeth,' he said, 'it would ill-beseem me to forget to bid you farewell,' and, taking the child in his arms, he kissed her twice on the little puckered forehead, saying, 'Go for comfort to your sweet mother,' as he put her into his wife's arms, 'and God bring you both safe to me ere long.'

In another moment he had again sprung on the saddle, and, with a last look at the group collected under the porch, he rode away with all that gallant company, with high hopes and courage to follow where their great chief led them.

Some of the guests departed in the afternoon of the day to sleep at Tunbridge, but Sir Fulke Greville remained at the request of Lady Pembroke.

There was no one to whom she could so freely speak of her brother, sure of his sympathy, as to Sir Fulke Greville.

Perhaps no one, except herself, had such an intimate knowledge of the depth of his learning and the wonderful versatility of his gifts.

The beech wood was Lady Pembroke's favourite resort at all seasons when at Penshurst. It was there she had many a time played with Sir Philip as a child, and taken sweet converse with him in later years. Here many of his poems had been rehearsed to his sister before ever they had been written on paper.

It was in the profound stillness of the November noontide that Lady Pembroke invited Sir Fulke Greville to cross the park and wander with her in the familiar paths through the beech wood.

The leaves were falling silently from the branches overhead, adding one by one their tribute to the thick bronze carpet which had been lying at the feet of the stately trees for many a long year.

The gentle rustle of a bird as it flew from the thinning branches, the soft sigh of a faint breeze as it whispered its message of decay to the trees, the gentle trill of a robin at intervals, were the only sounds that fell upon the ear as Lady Pembroke and Sir Fulke Greville spoke of him who was uppermost in their thoughts.

'It is a splendid career for him, doubtless,' Sir Fulke was saying, 'and marvellous that one so young should be thus distinguished as to be set over the heads of so many who would fain have been chosen. But no man living excites less jealousy than Sir Philip; jealousy and scorn and mistrust die in his presence.'

'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said, 'that is true. Yet I would that I felt more secure as to my Uncle Leicester's attitude towards my brother. I scarce can feel his praise is whole-hearted. Maybe it is too much to expect that it should be as fervent as that of others.'

'The Earl is appointed Commander-in-Chief of the whole force. Sure that is honour enough, and the sooner he hastens thither the better. He is gone to dally at Court and trifle with the Queen as of old. When I see these middle-aged folk, Queen and courtier, posing as lovers and indulging in youthful follies, I ask myself, will it be so with me? shall I dance attendance on fair ladies when I have told out near fifty years of life? I hope not.'

Lady Pembroke laughed.

'There is no fear, methinks, for you or Philip; but, after all, it is the heart which keeps us really young, despite age, yes, and infirmity. Philip, as he rode forth this morning, looked as young, methinks, as when on the first expedition he went to Paris, when scarce eighteen years had passed over his head.'

'That is true,' Sir Fulke answered, 'and none can look at Philip now without seeing that happiness has the effect of renewing youth.'

'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said; 'he is happy, as he could not be while that hunger for forbidden fruit was upon him. At times I am tempted to wish Frances had more tastes in sympathy with her husband, but one cannot have all that is desired for them we love, and she is as loving a wife as any man ever possessed. But, tell me sure, how fares it with the young trio of scholars? Has aught come lately from your pens? and does the sage Harvey yet rule over your metres, and render your verses after ancient model?'

'Nay, we have withdrawn from the good old man's too overbearing rule. As you must know, Sir Philip has written an admirable Defence of Poesie, and he there is the advocate for greater simplicity of expression. We have had too much of copies from Italian models.'

'The Italians vary in merit,' Lady Pembroke said. 'Sure Dante rises to the sublime, and Philip has been of late a devout student of the Vita Nuova, and caught the spirit of that mighty genius who followed Beatrice from depths of hell to heights of Paradise.'

'Yes, I have had the same feeling about Sir Philip which you express,' Sir Fulke Greville said. 'Dante has raised love far above mere earthly passion to a religion, which can worship the pure and the spiritual rather than the mere beauty of the bodily presence. This breathes in much of Philip's later verse. You know how he says he obeyed the muse, who bid him "look in his heart, and write, rather than go outside for models of construction." That great work—great work of yours and Sir Philip, the Arcadia—teams with beauties, and Pamela is the embodiment of pure and noble womanhood.'

'Ah!' Lady Pembroke said, 'my brother and I look forward to a time of leisure and retirement, when we will recast that lengthy romance, and compress it into narrower limits. We know full well it bears the stamp of inexperience, and there is much concerning Philoclea that we shall expunge. But that time of retirement!' Lady Pembroke said, 'it seems a mockery to speak of it, now that the chief author has just left us to plunge into the very thick of the battle of life.'

'I am well pleased,' Sir Fulke said, 'that Sir Philip should have so able a secretary at his elbow—Mr William Temple. The scholar's element will be a refreshment to Philip when the cares of government press heavily. Mr William Temple's Dialectics is dedicated, with no empty profession of respect and affection, to one who has ever been his friend. Forsooth,' Sir Fulke Greville said, 'friends, true and loyal to your brother, Madam, are as numerous as the leaves that rustle under our feet.'

'Yes,' Lady Pembroke said; 'that is a consoling thought; and he goes to friends, if one may judge by the terms Count Maurice of Nassau writes of him to the English Ambassador, Master Davison. My father has shown me a copy of that letter, which speaks of Philip as his noble brother, and honoured companion-in-arms.'

'How proud one of the chiefest of the friends you speak of would be could he know that Philip is gone forth to wage war against Spain.'

'Good Hubert Languet! I always think no man in his first youth had ever a truer and more faithful counsellor than Philip possessed in that noble old Huguenot. And how he loved him, and mourned his loss!'

The big bell was now sounding for the mid-day dinner, and Lady Pembroke said,—

'However unwillingly, we must break off our converse now. You will write to me if you repair to Flushing; or you will find a welcome at Wilton on any day when you would fain bend your steps thither. Philip's friend must needs be mine.'

'A double honour I cannot rate too highly,' was the reply. 'I will ever do my best to prove worthy of it.'