FOUR YEARS LATER—1590

The sound of these words by Sir Philip Sidney, sung in a sweet melodious voice, was borne upon the summer air of a fair June evening in the year 1590.

It came through the open casement from the raised seat of the parlour at Hillbrow, where once Mistress Ratcliffe had sat at her spinning-wheel, casting her watchful eyes from time to time upon the square of turf lying between the house and the entrance gate, lest any of her maidens should be gossiping instead of working.

Mistress Ratcliffe had spun her last thread of flax more than a year ago, and another mistress reigned in her place in the old house upon the crest of the hill above Penshurst.

As the last words of the song were sung, and only the lingering chords of the viol were heard, making a low, sweet refrain, a man who had been listening unseen to the music under the porch, with its heavy overhanging shield of carved stone, now came to the open window, which, though raised some feet above the terrace walk beneath, was not so high but that his head appeared on a level with the wide ledge of the casement.

Lucy was unconscious of his presence till he said,—

'I would fain hear that song again, Lucy.'

'Nay,' she said with a smile; 'once is enough.'

'Did you think of me as you sang?' he asked.

'Perhaps,' she said, with something of her old spirit. 'Perhaps; but you must know there is another who hath my heart. I have been singing him to sleep, and I pray you do not come in with a heavy tramp of your big boots and wake him. He has been fractious to-day. Speak softly,' she said, as George exclaimed,—

'The young rascal! I warrant you have near broken your back carrying him to and fro.'

'My back is not so easy to break; but, George, when will the travellers come. I have made all things ready these two days and more.'

'They may arrive any moment now,' George said, and then his bright handsome face disappeared from the window, and in another moment he had come as quietly as was possible for him, into the sunny parlour, now beautified by silken drapery, worked by Lucy's clever fingers, and sweet with the fragrance of flowers in the beau-pot on the hearth and fresh rushes on the floor.

In a large wooden cradle lay his first-born son—named in memory of one whom neither husband nor wife could ever forget—Philip. The child was small and delicate, and Lucy had tasted not only the sweets of motherhood, but its cares.

Yet little Philip was very fair to look upon. He had the refined features of his mother, and though his cheeks wanted something of the roundness and rosiness of healthful infancy, he was, in his parents' eyes, as near perfection as first-born children are ever apt to be thought!

George paused by the cradle, which was raised on high rockers, and, bending over it, said,—

'He is sound asleep now,' just touching the little hand lying outside the coverlet with his great fingers as gently as his mother could have done.

'I won't be jealous of him, eh, Lucy? He is mine as well as yours, sweetheart.'

'That is a truism,' Lucy said. 'Now, come into the window-seat and talk low—if you must talk—and let us watch for those who are, I pray God, drawing near.'

George unfastened his leather pouch which was slung over his shoulder, and put the bow and quiver against the corner of the bay window.

Then he threw his huge form at his wife's feet on the dais, and said,—

'Do not be too eager for their coming, sweetheart. I half dread their entrance into this house, which, perchance may disturb our bliss.'

'Fie for shame!' Lucy replied, 'as if Mary could ever be aught but a joy and a blessing. I am ready to blush for you, George.'

'They will be grand folk, grander than we are, that is, than I am! Humphrey knighted, and Mary Dame Ratcliffe. Then there is the boy! I am not sure as to the boy. I confess I fear the early training of the Jesuits may have left a mark on him.'

'Now, I will listen to no more growlings, George,' his wife said, laying her small fair hand on the thick masses of her husband's hair, and smoothing it from his forehead. 'You will please to give the coming guests a hearty welcome, and be proud to call them brother, sister, and nephew.'

'Nay,' George said. 'Ambrose is no nephew of mine!'

'To think of such folly, when, but a minute agone, you said what is mine is yours. Ambrose is my nephew, I'd have you to remember, sir.'

'As you will, sweet wife! as you will; but, Lucy, when you see Humphrey ride up with a train of gentlemen, it may be, and my lady with her gentlewomen, will you not be sorry that you left everything to be the wife of a country yeoman, who is unversed in fine doings, and can give you so little?'

'You give me all I want,' Lucy said; and this time, as she smoothed back the rebellious curls, she bent and kissed the broad brow which they shaded. 'You give me all I want,' she repeated—'your heart!'

Soon there was a sound of horses' feet, and, with an exclamation, 'Here at last!' George went to the gate to receive the guests, and Lucy hurried to the porch.

'The noise and bustle may rouse little Philip,' she said to one of her maids; 'watch in the parlour till I return.'

In another moment Humphrey had grasped his brother's hand, and, turning, lifted his wife from the pillion on which she had ridden with her son.

'Mary! Mary!' and Lucy ran swiftly to meet her sister, and held her in a long embrace.

A meeting after years of separation is always mingled with joy something akin to pain, and it was not till the first excitement of this reunion was over that the joy predominated.

Mary was greatly changed; her hair was white; and on her sweet face there were many lines of suffering. Lucy led her into the parlour, and she could only sink down upon the settle by her side, and hold her hand in hers, looking with wistful earnestness into her face.

'So fair still! and happy, dearest child!' Mary whispered in a low voice. 'Happy! and content?'

'Yes,' Lucy replied proudly. 'And you, Mary, you are happy now?'

'Blest with the tender care of my husband. Yes; but, Lucy, I bring him but a poor reward for all his patient love.'

'Nay, he does not think so, I'll warrant,' Lucy said. 'You will soon be well and hearty in your native air, and the colour will come back to your cheeks and the brightness to your eyes.'

'To rival yours, dear child! Nay, you forget how time, as well as sickness and sorrow, have left its mark on me.'

'And Ambrose?' Lucy asked. 'You have comfort in him?'

'Yes,' Mary said. 'Yes, but, dear heart, the vanished days of childhood return not. Ambrose is old for his sixteen years; and, although dear, dear as ever, I am prone to look back on those days at Ford Manor, when he was mine, all mine, before the severance from me changed him.'

'Sure he is not a Papist now?' Lucy said. 'I trust not.'

'Nay, he is not professedly a Papist, but the teaching of those four years sowed seed. Yet he loves me, and is a dutiful son to me, and to his—his new father. I ought to be satisfied.'

Little Philip now turned in his cradle, awoke by the entrance of the two brothers and Ambrose, who had been to the stables to see that the grooms and horses were well cared for.

Lucy raised Philip in her arms, and Mary said,—

'Ay! give him to me, sweet boy. See, Ambrose, here is your cousin; nay, I might say your brother, for it is a double tie between you.'

The tall stripling looked down on the little morsel of humanity with a puzzled expression.

'He is very small, methinks,' he said.

This roused Lucy's maternal vanity.

'Small, forsooth! Do you expect a babe of eight months to be a giant. He is big enow for my taste and his father's. Too big at times, I vow, for he is a weight to carry.'

Ambrose felt he had made a mistake, and hastened to add,—

'He has wondrous large eyes;' and then he bent over his mother and said, 'You should be resting in your own chamber, mother.'

'Yes; well spoken, my boy,' Humphrey said. 'Mary is not as hearty as I could desire,' he added, turning to George. 'Maybe Lucy will take her to her chamber, and forgive her if she does not come to sup in the hall.'

Lucy gave little Philip to his father, who held him in awkward fashion, till the nurse came to the rescue and soothed his faint wailing by the usual nonsense words of endearment which then, as now, nurses seem to consider the proper language in which to address babies.

When the two brothers were alone together that night, Humphrey said,—

'It is all prosperous and well with you now, George. You have got your heart's desire, and your fair lady looks fairer, ay, and happier than I ever saw her.'

'Ay, Humphrey, it is true. At times I wonder at my own good fortune. I had my fears that she would hanker after fine things and grand folk, but it is not so. She went with the boy to Wilton two months agone to visit the Countess of Pembroke, who holds her in a wonderful affection. The boy is her godson, and she has made him many fine gifts. I was fearful Lucy would find this home dull after a taste of her old life; but, Heaven bless her, when I lifted her from the horse with the child on her return, she kissed me and said, "I am right glad to get home again." I hope, Humphrey, all is well and prosperous with you also?'

'I may say yes as regards prosperity, beyond what I deserve. I have a place about the Court, under my Lord Essex, and I was knighted, as you know, for what they were pleased to call bravery in the Armada fight. After we lost that wise and noble gentleman, Sir Philip Sidney, everything went crooked under the Earl of Leicester, and Spain thought she was going to triumph and crush England with the Armada. But God defended the right, and the victory is ours. Spain is humbled now. Would to God Sir Philip Sidney had lived to see it and share the glory.'

George listened as his brother spoke, with flashing eyes, of the final discomfiture of Spain, and then noticed how his whole manner changed to softness and sadness, as he went on to say,—

'My heart's desire in the possession of the one woman whom I ever loved is granted, but, George, I hold her by a slender thread. I have brought her here with the hope that she may gather strength, but, as you must see, she is but the shadow of her old self. The good old man at Arnhem counselled me to take her to her native air, and God grant it may revive her. She is saint-like in her patience and in her love for me. Heaven knows I am not worthy of her, yet let me bless God I have her to cherish, and, by all means that in me lies, fan the flame of her precious life, trusting to see it burn brightly once more. But, George, I fear more than I hope. What will all honours and Court favour be to me if I lose her?'

'You will keep her,' George said, in the assured tone that those who are happy often use when speaking to others who are less happy than themselves. 'You will keep her, Humphrey, she shall have milk warm from one of my best cows, and feed on the fat of the land. Oh! we will soon see the Dame Mary Ratcliffe fit to go to Court and shine there.'

Humphrey shook his head.

'That is the last thing Mary would desire.' Then changing his tone, he went on: 'What think you of Ambrose, George?'

'He is big enow, and handsome. Is he amenable and easy to control?'

'I have no cause to find fault with him; he lacks spirit somewhat, and has taken a craze to be a scholar rather than a soldier. He has been studying at GÖttingen, and now desires to enter Cambridge. The old ambition to be a soldier and brave knight, like Sir Philip Sidney, died out during those four years spent in the Jesuit school, and he is accounted marvellously clever at Latin and Greek.'

'Humph,' George said. 'Let us hope there is no lurking Jesuitry in him. The worse for him if there is, for the Queen is employing every means to run the poor wretches to earth. The prisons are chock full of them, and the mass held in abhorrence.'

'Ambrose was but a child when with the Jesuits—scarce twelve years old when I came upon him, and recovered him for his mother. No, no, I do not fear Papacy for him, though, I confess, I would rather see him a rollicking young soldier than the quiet, reserved fellow he is. One thing is certain, he has a devotion for his mother, and for that I bless the boy. He considers her first in everything, and she can enter into his learning with a zest and interest which I cannot.'

'Learning is not everything,' George said, 'let me hope so, at any rate, as I am no scholar.'

'No; but it is a great deal when added to godliness,' Humphrey replied. 'We saw that in the wonderful life of Sir Philip Sidney. It was hard to say in what he excelled most, learning or statesmanship or soldiering. Ay, there will never be one to match him in our time, nor in any future time, so I am ready to think. There's scarce a day passes but he comes before me, George, and scarce a day but I marvel why that brilliant sun went down while it was high noonday. Thirty-one years and all was told.'

'Yes,' George said; 'but though he is dead he is not forgotten, and that's more than can be said of thousands who have died since he died—four years ago; by Queen and humble folk he is remembered.'

George Ratcliffe's prophecy seemed likely to be fulfilled. Mary Gifford gained strength daily, and very soon she was able to walk in the pleasance by Hillside Manor, which George had laid out for Lucy, in those long waiting days when he gathered together all that he thought would please her in the 'lady's chamber' he had made ready for her, long before his dream of seeing her in it was realised.

Gradually Mary was able to extend her walks, and it was on one evening in July that she told Lucy she should like to walk down to Ford Manor.

Lucy remonstrated, and said she feared if she allowed her to go so far Humphrey and Ambrose, who had gone away to London for a few days, would be displeased with her for allowing it.

'I would fain go there with you and see Ned and old Jenkins. The newcomers have kept on their services, I hope?'

'Yes, all things are the same, except that the poor old stepmother and her ill-conditioned husband have left it, and are living in Tunbridge. He preaches and prays, and spends her savings, and, let us hope, he is content. The dear old place was going to wrack and ruin, so Sir Robert's orders came that they were to quit.'

'Poor old place! To think,' Lucy said, 'that I could ever feel an affection for it, but it is so nevertheless.'

So, in the golden light of sunset, the two sisters stood by the old thorn tree on the bit of ground in front of Ford Manor once more.

Ned and Jenkyns had bidden them welcome, and, by the permission of the present owners of the farm, they had gone through the house, now much improved by needful repairs and better furnishing. But, whatever changes there were in the house and its inhabitants, the smiling landscape stretched out before the two sisters as they stood by the crooked back of the old thorn tree was the same. The woodlands, in the glory of the summer prime, clothed the uplands; the tower of the church, the stately walls of the Castle of Penshurst, the home of the noble race of Sidney, stood out amidst the wealth of foliage of encircling trees as in years gone by. The meadows were sloping down to the village, where the red roofs of the cottages clustered, and the spiral columns of thin blue smoke showed where busy housewives were preparing the evening meal at the wood fire kindled on the open hearth. The rooks were flying homewards with their monotonous caw. From a copse, just below Ford Manor, the ring-doves were repeating the old, old song of love. As Mary Gifford stood with her face turned towards the full light of the evening sky, she looked again to Lucy like the Mary of old. Neither spoke; their hearts were too full for words, but they clasped each other's hands in a silence more eloquent than speech.

Both sisters' thoughts were full of the past rather than the present.

Mary seemed to see before her the little fair-haired boy who had been so eager to mount Sir Philip's horse, and Sir Philip, with his radiant smile and gracious kindliness, so ready to gratify the boy's desire, as he set him on the saddle.

And Mary heard, too, again the ringing voice as little Ambrose said,—

'I would fain be a noble gentleman and brave soldier like Mr Philip Sidney. I would like to ride with him far, far away.'

She recalled now the pang those words had caused her, and how she dreaded the parting which came all too soon, and had been so bitter to her. Now, she had her son restored to her, but she felt, as how many mothers have felt since, a strange hunger of the soul, for her vanished child! Ambrose, quiet and sedate, and eager to be an accomplished scholar, tall, almost dignified, for his sixteen years, was indeed her son, and she could thank God for him. Yet she thought with a strange regret, of the days when he threw his arms round her in a rough embrace, or trotted chattering by her side as she went about the farm, or, still sweeter memory, murmured in his sleep her name, and looked up at her with a half-awakened smile, as he found her near, and felt her kisses on his forehead.

From these thoughts Mary was roused by Ambrose himself,—

'Mother,' he said, 'this is too far for you to walk. You should not have ventured down the hill. We have returned to find the house empty; and my father is in some distress when he heard you had come so far.'

Ambrose spoke as if he were constituted his mother's caretaker; and Lucy, laughing, said,—

'You need not look so mighty grave about it, Ambrose; your mother is not tired. Forsooth, one would think you were an old man giving counsel, rather than a boy.'

Ambrose disliked of all things to be called a boy; and, since his first remark about the baby Philip, there had often been a little war of words between aunt and nephew.

'Boys may have more wits than grown folk sometime,' he replied. 'Here comes my father, who does not think me such a fool as, perchance, you do, Aunt Lucy. He has brought a horse to carry my mother up the steep hill.'

'Well, I will leave her to your double care,' Lucy said. 'I see George follows a-foot. We will go up the hill path, and be at home before you, I'll warrant.' She ran gaily away to meet George; and as Mary was lifted on the pillion by Humphrey, Ambrose taking his place by his mother, he turned in the opposite direction, and, following Lucy and her husband, was soon out of sight.

Mother and son rode slowly along the familiar path which leads into the high road from Penshurst.

The glow of sunset was around them, and the crimson cloth mantle Mary wore shone in the westering light. So they pass out of sight, and the shadows gather over the landscape, and evening closes in. As a dream when one awaketh is the history of the past, and the individual lives which stand out in it are like phantoms which we strive, perhaps in vain, to quicken into life once more, and clothe them with the vivid colours for which imagination may lend its aid. Of the central figure of this story of the spacious times of great Elizabeth, we may say—with the sister who loved him with no common love—

THE END.

EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COMPANY
PRINTERS

Mrs Marshall's Historical Novels.

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