'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.



BOOK II

Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve As nature's work, why should we fear to die? Since fear is vain but when it may preserve, Why should we fear that which we cannot fly? Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, Disarming human minds of native might; While each conceit an ugly figure bears Which were we ill, well viewed in reason's light. Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be, And scarce discern the dawn of coming day, Let them be cleared, and now begin to see Our life is but a step in dusty way, Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind; Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find.—Arcadia, p. 457.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.



CHAPTER X

AT WILTON

'The silk well could they twist and twine, And make the fair march pine, And with the needle work; And they could help the priest to say His matins on a holy day, And sing a psalm at kirk.'

November 1585. Old Rhyme.

The chastened sunshine of an All Saints' summer was lying upon the fair lawns and terrace walks of Wilton House, near Salisbury, in the year 1585. It was November, but so soft and balmy was the air that even the birds were apparently ready to believe that winter was passed over and spring had come.

The thrushes and blackbirds were answering each other from the trees, and the air was filled with their melody and with the scent of the late flowers in the pleasance, lying close under the cloisters, facing the beautiful undulating grounds of Lord Pembroke's mansion near Salisbury.

The graceful figure of a lady was coming down the grassy slope towards the house; a boy of five or six years old, with a miniature bow and arrow in his hand, at her side.

'I would like another shot at this old beech tree, mother,' the child said. 'I do not care to come in to my tasks yet.'

'Will must be an obedient boy, or what will Uncle Philip say, if he comes to-day and finds him in disgrace with his tutor?'

'Uncle Philip isn't here,' the child said.

'But he will be ere noon. I have had a despatch from him; he is already at Salisbury, and may be here at any hour.'

At this moment Lady Pembroke saw one of her ladies hastening towards her, and exclaimed,—

'Ah, Lucy! have you come to capture the truant?'

'Yes, Madam, and to tell you that Sir Philip Sidney's courier has ridden into the courtyard to announce his Master's speedy arrival.'

'Then I will not go till I have seen Uncle Philip!' and Will dragged at Lucy's hand as she attempted to lead him towards the house.

'Nay, Will,' his mother said, 'you must do as you are bid.' And forthwith the boy pouted; yet he knew to resist his mother's will was useless. But presently there was a shout, as he broke away from Lucy Forrester's hand, with the cry,—

'Uncle Philip!' and in another moment Sir Philip had taken his little nephew in his arms, and, saluting him, set him on his feet again. Then, with a bow and smile to Lucy, he bent his knee with his accustomed grace before his sister, who stooped down and kissed him lovingly, with the words,—

'Welcome! welcome! dear Philip. Thrice welcome, to confirm the good news of which my lord had notice yester even.'

'Yes; I have come to say much, and to discuss many schemes with you. I stay but till the morrow, when I would fain you got ready to see me later at Penshurst.'

'At Penshurst!'

'Yes. I have set my heart on meeting all my kindred—more especially our father and mother—there ere I depart. Now, now, Will! wherefore all this struggling to resist Mistress Forrester? Fie, fie! for shame!'

'It is the attraction of your presence, Philip, which is too much for Will,' Lady Pembroke said.

'Then, if I am the culprit, I will do penance, and take the boy in hand myself. See, Will, you are to come with me to your tasks, nor give Mistress Forrester so much trouble.' And Lucy found herself free from the child's detaining hand, as Sir Philip went, with swift steps, towards the house—his little nephew running fast to keep up with him.

Lucy followed, and met Sir Philip in the hall, where the tutor had captured the truant.

'Any news from Arnhem, Mistress Forrester?' Sir Philip asked. 'Any good news from Mistress Gifford?'

'Nay, sir, no news of the boy; and even our good friend Master Humphrey Ratcliffe is ready to give up the quest.'

'Nay, it shall not be given up. I am starting in a few days to the Low Countries, as Governor of Flushing.'

'So my lady told me, sir, this morning,' Lucy said demurely.

'Yes, and I shall be on the alert; depend on it, if the boy is alive, he shall be found. But I begin to fear that he is dead. Why should I say fear, forsooth? Death would be better than his training by Jesuits, and so leagued with Spain and all her evil machinations.'

Lucy curtseyed, and, with a gentle 'Good-morning to you, sir,' she went to her duties under Mistress Crawley.

Lucy had changed from the impetuous child in the first flush of her youth and consciousness of beauty, into a woman almost graver than her years, and so little disposed to accept any overtures of marriage, that the ladies of the Countess of Pembroke's household called her the little nun.

One after another they drifted off as the wives of the gentlemen and esquires, who were retainers of the Earl; but Lucy Forrester remained, high in favour with her lady, and even spoken of by Mistress Crawley as 'clever enough, and civil spoken,' the real truth being that she had become indispensable to Mistress Crawley, and was trusted by her to take in hand the instruction of the young maidens who came from the homes of the gentry and nobility, in a long succession, to enter the household of Lady Pembroke, which was an honour greatly coveted by many.

Soon after Mary Gifford's great sorrow in the loss of her child, Mistress Forrester astonished her step-daughter by announcing her marriage to one of her Puritan neighbours, who was, in truth, but a herdsman on one of the farms, but who had acquired a notoriety by a certain rough eloquence in preaching and praying at the secret meetings held in Mistress Forrester's barn. He was well pleased to give up his earthly calling at Mistress Forrester's bidding, for he would scarcely have presumed to address her as a suitor without very marked encouragement. He fell into very comfortable quarters, and, if he was henpecked, he took it as a part of his discipline, and found good food and good lodging a full compensation.

Then Mary Gifford and her sister were offered a small sum of money to represent their right in their father's house, and left it with very little regret on their side, and supreme satisfaction on their stepmother's. Lucy returned to Lady Pembroke's household, and Mary Gifford, through the ever-ready help of Humphrey Ratcliffe, broken down as she was prematurely in mind and body, found an asylum in the home of her husband's uncle, Master George Gifford, at Arnheim, from which place she made many vain inquiries to lead to the discovery of her boy, which hitherto had proved fruitless.

True and loyal to her interests, Humphrey Ratcliffe never again approached her with passionate declarations of love. He was one of those men who can be faithful unto death, and give unfaltering allegiance to the woman they feel it is hopeless to win. Loving her well, but loving honour, hers and his own, more, Humphrey went bravely on the straight road of duty, with no regretful, backward glances, no murmurs at the roughness of the way, taking each step as it came with unfaltering resolutions, with a heavy heart at times; but what did that matter? And in all this determination to act as a brave, true man should act, Humphrey Ratcliffe had ever before him the example of his master, Sir Philip Sidney. Second only to his love for Mary Gifford was his devotion to him. It is said that scarcely an instance is recorded of any of those who were closely associated with Sir Philip Sidney who did not, in those last years of his short life, feel ennobled by his influence. And Humphrey Ratcliffe was no exception to this all but universal law.

Mean men, with base, low aims and motives, shunned the society of this noble Christian gentleman. His clever and accomplished uncle, the brilliant and unscrupulous Earl of Leicester, must often have been constrained to feel, and perhaps acknowledge, that there was something in his nephew which raised him to a height he had never attained—with all his success at Court, his Queen's devotion, and the fame which ranked him in foreign countries as the most successful of all Elizabeth's favourites.

Lady Pembroke awaited her brother's return from the house. Going towards it to meet him, she put her hand in his arm and said,—

'Let us have our talk in the familiar place where we have wandered together so often, Philip.'

'Yes,' he said, 'all these fair slopes and pleasant prospects bring back to me, Mary, the days, the many days, when I found my best comforter in you. How fares it with the Arcadia?'

'It is winding out its long story,' Lady Pembroke said, laughing. 'Too long, methinks, for there is much that I would blot out if I dare essay to do so. But tell me, Philip, of this great appointment. Are you not glad now that the design respecting Sir Francis Drake's expedition fell to nought. I ever thought that expedition, at the best, one of uncertain issue and great risk. Sure, Philip, you are of my mind now.'

'Nay, Mary, not altogether. I hailed the chance of getting free from idleness and the shackles of the Court. And moreover,' he said, 'it is a splendid venture, and my heart swelled with triumph as I saw that grand armament ready to sail from Plymouth. Methinks, even now, I feel a burning desire to be one of those brave men who are crossing the seas with Drake to those far-off islands and territories, with all their wondrous treasures, of which such stories are told.'

As Philip spoke, his sister saw his face kindling with an almost boyish enthusiasm, and the ardent young soldier, eager, and almost wild, to set sail across the great dividing sea, seemed to replace for the moment the more dignified man of matured powers, who was now Governor of Flushing.

'It is all past,' he said, 'and I will do my utmost to forget my disappointment. It is somewhat hard to forgive Drake for what I must think false dealing with me, for I know well by whose means those mandates came to Plymouth from the Queen. There was nought left for me but to obey, for disobedience would have kept back the whole fleet; but the whole transaction has left a sore—'

'Which will rapidly heal, Philip, in this new, and to my mind at least, far grander appointment. Sure, to be Governor of Flushing means a high place, and a field for showing all you are as a statesman and soldier. I am proud and pleased; more proud of you than ever before, were that possible.'

They had reached a favourite spot now, where, from a slightly rising ground, there was and is a beautiful view of Salisbury Cathedral.

'See yonder spire pointing skyward, Mary, how it seems to cleave the sky, this November sky, which is like that of June? The spire, methinks, reads me a lesson at this time. It saith to me, "Sursum corda."'

Lady Pembroke pressed her brother's arm with answering sympathy, and, looking up into his face, she saw there the shining of a great hope and the upward glance of a steadfast faith.

'Yes,' Sir Philip said, 'I am happy in this lot which has fallen to me, and I pray God I may avenge the cause of those who are trodden down by the tyranny of Spain. The Queen's noble words inspired me with great confidence in the righteousness of the cause for which I am to fight. Her Grace said her object was a holy one—even to procure peace to the holders of the Reformed Faith, restoration of their time-honoured rights in the Netherlands, and above all, the safety of England. It is a great work, Mary; wish me God speed.'

'I do, I do; and now tell me about Frances and the babe. When is her christening to be performed?'

'In four days. The Queen is so gracious as to ride from Richmond to London to name our babe herself, and will dispense gifts in honour thereof. My sweet Frances, the child's mother, is not as hearty as I would fain see her, so she consents to delay her coming to Flushing till I can assure myself that all is well prepared for her. I ride to London on the morrow. The babe will be christened there. Two days later I purpose to convey mother and child to Penshurst, where all who wish to bid me farewell will gather. Our good father and mother, who do not feel strength enough for the festivity of the Court, even to be present at the babe's christening, proceed thither to-morrow from Ludlow. Will you join them there, or accompany me to London?'

'I will await your coming at Penshurst, Philip. I am somewhat disturbed at the last letters from our dear father. He speaks of being broken down in body and dejected in spirit. Verily, I can scarce forgive the mistress he has served so well for her treatment of him. God grant you get a better guerdon for faithful service than our father and mother won.'

'It is true, too true,' Sir Philip said, 'that they were ill-requited, but has anyone ever fared better who has striven to do duty in that unhappy country of Ireland? It needs a Hercules of strength and a Solon of wisdom, ay, and a Croesus of wealth to deal with it. In the future generations such a man may be found, but not in this.'

'Will you take the two boys with you, Robert and Thomas?'

'I shall take Robert and put him in a post of command. Thomas is all agog to come also, but he is too young and weakly, though he would rave if he heard me call him so. He shall follow in good time. There is a brave spirit in Thomas which is almost too great for his body, and he is not prone to be so lavish as Robert, who has the trick of getting into debt, out of which I have again and again helped to free him. In my youth I too had not learned to suit my wants to my means, but the lesson is now, I pray, got by heart. A husband and father must needs look well to the money which is to provide all things for these weak and defenceless ones who lean on him.'

'You speak of your youth as past, Philip,' Mary said. 'It makes me laugh. You look, yes, far younger than some five or six years ago.'

'Happiness has a power to smooth out wrinkles, I know, sweet sister. Witness your face, on which time refuses to leave a trace, and,' he added earnestly, 'happiness—rather a peaceful and contented mind—has come to me at last. When my tender wife, loyal and true, looks up at me with her guileless eyes, full of love and trust, I feel I am thrice blest in possessing her. And, Mary, the sight of our babe thrilled me strangely. The little crumpled bit of humanity, thrusting out her tiny hands, as if to find out where she was. That quaint smile, which Frances says, is meant for her; that feeble little bleating cry—all seemed like messages to me to quit myself as a man should, and, protecting my child in her infancy, leave to her and her mother a name which will make them proud to have been my wife and my daughter.'

'And that name you will surely leave, Philip.'

'Be it sooner or later, God grant it,' was the fervent reply.

The Countess soon after went into the house to make some arrangements for departure, and to write a letter to her sister-in-law, with a beautiful christening present, which she was to send by her brother's hand.

Sir Philip lingered still in the familiar grounds of Wilton, which were dear to him from many associations. The whole place was familiar to him, and with a strange presage of farewell, a last farewell, he trod all the old paths between the closely-clipped yew hedges, and scarcely left a nook or corner unvisited.

The country lying round Wilton was also familiar to him. Many a time he had ridden to Old Sarum, and, giving his horse to his groom, had wandered about in that city of the dead past, which with his keen poetical imagination he peopled with those who had once lived within its walls, of which but a few crumbling stones, turf-covered, remain. A stately church once stood there; voices of prayer and praise rose to God, hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, gay young life, and sorrowful old age, had in times long since past been 'told as a tale' in the city on the hill, as now in the city in the valley, where the spire of the new Cathedral rises skyward.

New! Only by comparison, for old and new are but relative terms after all, and it is hard, as we stand under the vaulted roof of Salisbury Cathedral, to let our thoughts reach back to the far-off time when the stately church stood out as a new possession to take the place of the ruined temple, which had once lifted its head as the centre of Old Sarum.

Sir Philip Sidney had left several of his servants at Salisbury, and, when he had bidden the Countess good-bye, till they met again in a few days at Penshurst, he rode back to the city, and, leaving his horse at the White Hart, he passed under St Anne's Gateway, and crossed the close to the south door of the Cathedral.

The bell was chiming for the evensong, and Sir Philip passed in. He was recognised by an old verger, who, with a low bow, preceded him to the choir.

Lady Pembroke was right when she said that her brother looked younger than he had looked some years before.

There never was a time, perhaps, in his life, when his face had been more attractive and his bearing more distinguished than now.

The eyes of the somewhat scanty congregation were directed to him as he stood chanting in his clear, sweet musical voice the Psalms for the second evening of the month.

The sun, entering at the west door, caught his 'amber locks' and made them glow like an aureole round his head, as he lifted it with glad assurance when the words left his lips.

'But my trust is in Thy mercy, and my heart is joyful in Thy salvation. I will sing of the Lord because He hath dealt so lovingly with me; yea, I will praise the name of the Lord Most Highest.'

Those who saw Sir Philip Sidney that day, recalled him as he stood in the old oaken stall, only one short year later, when, with bowed head and sad hearts, they could but pray in the words of the Collect for the week, 'that they might follow the blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that they might come to those unspeakable joys which are prepared for them that love God.'

Sir Philip had not time to delay, though the Dean hurried after the service to greet him and to offer hospitality.

'I must be on my road to London,' he said, 'for a great event awaits me there, Mr Dean—the baptism of my little daughter, to whom the Queen is graciously pleased to stand godmother.'

'And God give you a safe journey, Sir Philip, and bless the child,' the kindly Dean said. 'How fares it with the daughter of my good friend Sir Francis Walsingham? I trust she is well recovered.'

'Fairly well,' Sir Philip replied. 'She is young and somewhat fragile, but I trust will soon be able to join me at Flushing.'

After the exchange of a few more kindly words and congratulations, Sir Philip Sidney was leaving the Cathedral, when a figure, still kneeling in the nave, arrested his attention, and as his footsteps drew near, the bowed head was raised, and Sir Philip saw it was Lucy Forrester.

He passed on, but lingered outside for a few moments, till, as he expected, Lucy came out.

'I am glad to see you once more,' Sir Philip said; 'if only to bid you farewell, and to assure you I will not fail to track out the villain, who may, at least, give me tidings of Mistress Gifford's boy. I will see her also, if possible.'

'You are very good, sir,' Lucy said.

But she moved on with quick steps towards St Anne's Gateway.

'Have you aught that I can convey to Mistress Gifford? If so, commit it to my care at Penshurst, whither, I suppose, you go with the Countess on the morrow or next day. Then we shall meet again—so now, farewell.'

Years had passed since Lucy had subdued the tumultuous throb at her heart when in Sir Philip's presence. He was still her ideal of all that was noble and pure and courteous; her true knight, who, having filled her childish and girlish dreams, still reigned supreme.

There are mysteries in the human heart that must ever remain unfathomable, and it is not for us to judge one another when we are confronted by them, and can find no clue to solve them.

Lucy Forrester's romantic love for Sir Philip Sidney had worked her no ill; rather, it had strengthened her on the way; and from that night when she and Mary Gifford had exchanged their secrets she had striven to keep her promise, and to be, as she had said she wished to be, really good.

The atmosphere of Lady Pembroke's house had helped her, and had been an education to her in the best sense of the word.

'Fare you well, sir,' she said. 'I must hasten to find Mistress Crawley. We came hither to the city for something wanted from a shop ere we start on our journey; but I craved leave to go to the Cathedral for a few minutes. This is how you found me, sir, there.'

There was something in Lucy's voice which seemed to betray anxiety as to whether Sir Philip might think she was alone in Salisbury; and something of relief when she exclaimed,—

'Ah, there is Mistress Crawley!' as she tripped away to meet her, Sir Philip repeating as she left him,—'Fare you well, Mistress Lucy. Au revoir.'



CHAPTER XI

LUMEN FAMILIAE SUAE

'Was ever eye did see such face? Was never ear did hear that tongue? Was never mind did mind his grace, That ever thought the travail long? But eyes, and ears, and every thought, Were with his sweet perfections caught.'

SPENSER.

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.'



CHAPTER XII

FIRE AND SWORD

'What love hath wrought Is dearly bought.'—Old Song, 1596.

Mary Gifford had found a quiet resting-place in the house of her husband's uncle, Master George Gifford, at Arnhem, and here, from time to time, she was visited by Humphrey Ratcliffe, who, in all the tumult of the war, kept well in view the quest for Mary's lost son.

Again and again hope had been raised that he was in one of the Popish centres which were scattered over the Low Countries.

Once Mary had been taken, under Humphrey's care, to watch before the gates of a retired house in a village near Arnhem, whence the scholars of a Jesuit school sometimes passed out for exercise.

For the Papists were under protection of the Spanish forces, and were far safer than their Protestant neighbours. Spain had always spies on the watch, and armed men ready in ambush to resent any interference with the priests or Jesuit schools.

The country was bristling with soldiers, and skirmishes were frequent between the English and Spaniards. Treachery and secret machinations were always the tactics of Spain, and the bolder and more open hostility of Elizabeth's army was often defeated by cunning.

Mary Gifford's expedition to the little town had resulted in disappointment. With eager eyes and a beating heart she had watched the boys file out in that back street towards the river, and when the boy passed whom, at a sign from Humphrey, she was especially to notice, she turned away. The light of hope died out from her face, as she said,—

'Ah! no, no! That boy is not my Ambrose!'

'He will be changed, whenever you do find him, Mistress Gifford,' Humphrey said, somewhat unwilling to give up his point. 'Methinks that stripling has as much likeness to the child of scarce seven years old as you may expect to find.'

'Nay,' Mary said. 'The eyes, if nought else, set the question at rest. Did you not note how small and deep-set were the eyes which this boy turned on us with a sly glance as he passed. My Ambrose had ever a bold, free glance, with his big, lustrous eyes, not a sidelong, foxy look. Nay, my good friend, the truth gets more and more fixed in my mind that my child is safe in Paradise, where only I shall meet him in God's good time.'

'I do not give up hope,' Humphrey said. 'This is certain, that he was at first at Douay, and that his father took him thence to some hiding-place in the Netherlands. He may be nearer you than you think. I shall not have the chance of speaking much to you for some weeks,' Humphrey said. 'It may be never again, for our great chief, Sir Philip, weary of inaction and sick at heart by the constant thwarts and drawbacks which he endures, is consorting with the Count Maurice of Nassau, and both are determined to capture Axel. The scheme has to be submitted to the Earl of Leicester, and we only await his assent to prepare for the onset, and, by God's help, we will take the town. Sir Philip craves for some chance of showing what he can do. He is crippled for money and resources, and, moreover, the loss of both his parents weighs heavy upon him.'

'Alas! I know this must needs do so, the losses following so close, one on the steps of the other.'

'I have had a letter of some length from Lucy concerning Sir Henry's death at Ludlow, and I look for another ere long with a fuller account than as yet I have received of the Lady Mary's departure.'

'Verily, there is only one staff to lean on as we pass through the valley of the shadow when all human help is vain. None need be lonely who can feel the presence of the Lord near in life and death. We must all seek to feel that presence with us.'

'Alas!' Humphrey said, 'this is a hard matter. It is many a year now since I have ventured to put the question. Do you still hold to the belief that your husband lives?'

'Yes,' Mary said firmly, 'till certain news reaches me that he is dead.'

They were at the door of Master Gifford's house now, and here they parted—Humphrey to the active service which would make him forget for the time the hopelessness of his quest for the boy Ambrose and his love for the mother.

Lucy Forrester had acquired, amongst other things in Lady Pembroke's service, the art of writing well, and she kept up communication with her sister by this means. These letters were often sent, by favour of the Earl of Pembroke, in the despatches to Sir Philip Sidney or the Earl of Leicester, and conveyed to Mary Gifford by his servants.

One of these letters awaited Mary this evening on her return, and it was lying on the table by Master Gifford's side, as he sat in the spotlessly clean parlour, with the Bible open before him, and a sheet of parchment, on which he was jotting down the heads of his sermon to be delivered next day in the plain unadorned room at the back of his house at Arnhem.

Master George Gifford was a fine and venerable-looking man, with abundance of grey hair curling low over the stiff, white collar, which contrasted with the sombre black of his long gown made of coarse homespun.

He had escaped to Holland in the days of the persecution of Protestants in England, and, having a natural gift of eloquence, had become the centre and stay of a little band of faithful followers of the Reformed Faith.

But Master Gifford was no narrow-minded bigot, and he abhorred persecution on the plea of religion, as utterly at variance with the Gospel of the One Lord and Saviour of all men.

He was a dignified, courteous man, and treated Mary with the tender consideration which her forlorn condition seemed to demand. Amongst those who at intervals attended his ministry was Sir Philip Sidney, and, on this very day when Mary Gifford had been on her vain expedition to the little out-of-the-way village on the river bank, the young soldier had come to lay before him the scheme for attacking Axel, and had brought with him the letter which, on Mary's entrance, Master Gifford held towards her.

'Here is a welcome missive,' he said; 'but forsooth, my poor child, you look worn and tired. Sit you down and rest. Gretchen has spread the board for you; I supped an hour agone. No news, I take it, Mary?' Master Gifford said.

'No, no, dear uncle, and I can go on no more vain quests. Master Humphrey has the best intention, and who but a mother could recognise her own child? I fear me you have needed my help with distributing the alms to the poor this afternoon, and I should have baked the pasty for the morrow's dinner.'

'Gretchen has done all that was needful. Is it not so, good Gretchen?' said Master Gifford, as a squarely-built, sandy-haired Dutch woman, in her short blue gown and large brown linen apron, and huge flapping cap came into the room.

Gretchen came forward to Mary with resolute steps, and said in her somewhat eccentric English,—

'And what must you tire yourself out like this for, Mistress Gifford? Tut, tut, you look like a ghost. Come and eat your supper like a Christian, I tell you.'

Gretchen was a rough diamond, but she had a good heart. She was absolutely devoted to her master, and with her husband, an Englishman, who had escaped with his master as a boy many years before, served him with zeal and loyalty.

Mary was led, whether she wished it or not, to the kitchen—that bright kitchen with its well-kept pots and pans, and its heavy delf-ware ranged on shelves, its great Dutch clock ticking loudly in the corner, and the clear fire burning merrily in the stove, which was flanked with blue and white tiles with a variety of quaint devices.

'Sit you down and eat this posset. I made it for you, knowing you would be more dead than alive. Come now, and sip this cup of mead, and don't open that letter till you have done. Take off your hood and cloak. There! now you are better already. Give up yawning like that, Jan, or you'll set me off,' Gretchen said to her husband, whose name she had changed, to suit the country of his adoption, from John to Jan, and who had been taking a comfortable nap on the settle by the stove, from which he had been rudely awakened by his wife.

Mary was obliged to do as Gretchen bid her, and was constrained to acknowledge that she felt the better for the food, of which she had been so unwilling to partake.

Master Gifford's house was frequented by many faithful Puritans in Arnhem, and amongst them was a lady named Gruithuissens, who was well-known for her benevolence and tender sympathy with all who were sorrowful and oppressed.

As was natural, therefore, she was attracted by Mary Gifford, and her friendship had been one of the compensations Mary felt God had granted her for the ever present loss of her boy.

Madam Gruithuissens' house faced the street on one side and overlooked the river on the other. The window of her long, spacious parlour opened out upon a verandah, and had a typical view of the Low Countries stretched before them. A wide, far-reaching expanse of meadow-land and water—the flat country vanishing in the sky-line many miles distant.

A contrast, indeed, to the wood-covered heights and undulating pastures of the fair country of Kent, where the home of the Sidneys stands in all its stately time-honoured pride.

Mary Gifford's thoughts were there at this moment. A summer evening came back to her when she sat at the casement of Ford Manor with Ambrose clasped close to her side. The years that lay between that time and the present seemed so short, and yet how they had probably changed the child whom she had loved so dearly.

Humphrey Ratcliffe was right. She had not realised what that change would be. And then came the ever-haunting fear that Ambrose, if he were alive, would fail to recognise his mother—might have been taught to forget her, or, perhaps, to think lightly of her, and to look upon her as a heretic, by the Jesuits who had brought him up in their creed.

She was roused from her meditations by Mistress Gruithuissens' abrupt entrance.

'Great news!' she said, 'Great news! Axel is taken, and Sir Philip Sidney has done wonders. A messenger has just arrived with the news at the Earl of Leicester's quarters, and Master Humphrey Ratcliffe has been sent by barge with others of the wounded. There has been great slaughter, and terrible it is to think of the aching hearts all around us. Women widows, children fatherless. Yet it is a righteous war, for Spain would massacre tenfold the number did she gain the ascendant—hearken! I hear footsteps.'

In another moment the door was partly thrown open, and a young soldier, evidently fresh from the scene of action, came in.

'I am seeking Mistress Gifford,' he said. 'I am esquire to Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and he has dispatched me with a message.'

'I am Mistress Gifford,' Mary said. 'What is your news?'

'My master is wounded, and he lies in Sir Philip Sidney's quarters in the garrison. He bids me say he would fain see you, for he has to tell you somewhat that could be entrusted to no one but yourself.'

'How can I go to him?' Mary said helplessly.

'How? With me, and my servants to guard us. But do not look so terror-struck, Mistress Gifford,' Madam Gruithuissens said, 'it may, perchance, be good news. I will order the servants to make ready—or will we wait till the morrow? Nay, I see that would tax your patience too far; we will start at once.'

As Mary Gifford and her new protectress passed through the streets of Arnhem to the garrison where Humphrey lay wounded, they saw knots of people collected, all talking of the great event of the taking of Axel. Some women were weeping and unable to gain any exact information, most of them with a look of stolid misery on their faces, with no passionate expression of grief, as would have been seen in a like case amongst Italian and French women, or even amongst English sufferers in the same circumstances.

Mary Gifford's ear had become accustomed to the Dutch language, and she spoke it with comparative ease, having, in her visits of charity amongst the poor of Master Gifford's followers and disciples, no other means of communicating with them.

Madam Gruithuissens spoke English, for, like so many of those who sought safety in the Low Countries from the persecution of the Papists in England, she had been brought thither by her father as a child, and had, till her marriage, spoken her native tongue, and had read much of the literature which was brought over from England.

Humphrey Ratcliffe was lying in a small chamber apart from other sufferers, by Sir Philip's order. He was wounded in the shoulder, and faint from the loss of blood.

Mary Gifford did not lose her self-control in an emergency. Like many gentle, quiet women, her strength and courage were always ready when she needed them.

'I am grieved to see you thus,' Mary said, as she went up to the low pallet where Humphrey lay.

'It is nought but a scratch,' he said, 'and it has been well worth the gaining in a noble cause and a grand victory. I have certain news of your boy. He was in a Jesuit school. It was burnt to the ground, but the boy was saved. In the confusion and uproar, with the flames scorching hot on us, I felt pity for the young creatures who were seen struggling in the burning mass. With the help of my brave companions I rescued three of the boys. I was bearing off one to a place of safety when I felt a blow from behind. This stab in my shoulder, and the pain, made me relax my hold of the boy.

'Instantly one of the Jesuit brothers had seized him, saying,—

"You are safe, Ambrose, with me."

'I knew no more. I swooned from pain and loss of blood, and, when I came to, I found I was in a barge being brought hither with other of the wounded.'

'But my son!' Mary exclaimed. 'Are you sure it was my son?'

'As sure as I can be of aught that my eyes have ever looked upon. I saw the large eyes you speak of dilated with fear, as the flames leaped up in the surrounding darkness. And I verily believe the man who tore him from me was him who gave me this wound, and is the crafty wretch whom you know to be your husband.'

'Ah me!' Mary exclaimed, 'it is but poor comfort after all. My boy may be near, but I can never see him; he who has him in his power will take care he eludes our grasp. But I am selfish and ungrateful to you, my good friend. Pardon me if I seem to forget you got that sore wound in my service.'

'Ah! Mary,' Humphrey said, 'I would suffer ten such wounds gladly if I might but win my guerdon. Well for me, it may be, that I swooned, or, by Heaven, I should have run that wily Jesuit through the body.'

'Thank God,' Mary said fervently, 'that his blood lies not on your head.'

Madam Gruithuissens had considerately withdrawn to a long, low chamber next the small one where Humphrey lay. She knew enough of Mary Gifford's history to feel that whatever Humphrey Ratcliffe had to say to her, he would prefer to say it with no listeners.

And, full of charity and kindness, the good lady moved about amongst the wounded and dying, and tried to cheer them and support them in their pain, by repeating passages from the Bible, in English or in Dutch, according to the nationality of the sufferer.

When Madam Gruithuissens returned to Humphrey's room, Mary said,—

'I would fain watch here all night, and do my utmost for all the sufferers. Will you, Madam, give my uncle notice of my intention, and I think he will come hither and pray by the side of those whom I hear groaning in their pain.'

'I will e'en do as you wish, and send my servant back with cordials and linen for bands, and such food as may support you in your watch.'

When Madam Gruithuissens departed, Humphrey and Mary Gifford were alone together. The servant who had been sent with the news keeping watch at the door outside, and Humphrey, for the time, seemed to go over, half unconsciously, the scenes of the taking of Axel, and Mary listened to it not exactly with half-hearted sympathy, but with the perpetually recurring cry at her heart that God would restore to her her only son.

It is ever so—the one anxiety, the one centre of interest to ourselves, which may seem of little importance to others, drives out all else. All other cares and griefs, and grand achievements of which we hear, are but as dust in the balance, when weighed down by our own especial sorrow, or suspense is hardest, perhaps, to bear, which is pressing upon us at the time.

Mary Gifford had often told herself that hope was dead within her, and that she had resigned her boy into God's hands, that she should never clasp him in her arms again, nor look into those lustrous eyes of which she had spoken to Humphrey. But hope is slow to die in human hearts. It springs up again from the very ashes of despair, and Humphrey Ratcliffe's words had quickened it into life. Thus, as Humphrey described the events of the past forty-eight hours, and forgot pain and weariness in the enthusiasm for the courage and heroism of Sir Philip Sidney, his listener was picturing the blazing house, the flames, the suffocating smoke, and the boy whose face had been revealed to Humphrey as the face of her lost child.

She was haunted by the certainty that the man who had stabbed Humphrey was her husband, and that it was he who had called the boy by name, and snatched him from his deliverer.

This was the undercurrent of thought in Mary's mind, while she heard Humphrey describe to her uncle, who promptly obeyed the summons, the capture of the four citadels and rich spoil.

'Ours was but a little band,' Humphrey was saying, 'but three thousand foot soldiers. I was one of the five hundred of Sir Philip's men, and proud am I to say so. It was at his place we met, on the water in front of Flushing, and then by boat and on foot, with stealthy tread lest we should disturb the sleepers.

'Within a mile of Axel Sir Philip called us near, and may I never live to forget his words. They were enow to set on fire the courage of all true soldiers. He bade us remember it was God's battle we were fighting, for Queen and country and for our Faith. He bade us remember, too, we were waging war against the tyranny of Spain, and exhorted us to care nought for danger or death in serving the Queen, furthering our country's honour, and helping a people so grievously in want of aid. He said, moreover, that his eye was upon us, and none who fought bravely should lose their reward.

'I thank God I was one of the forty men, who, headed by our gallant leader, jumped into the turbid waters of the ditch, swam across, and, scaling the walls, opened the gate for the rest.

'The men we attacked were brave, and fought hard for victory; but they were but just roused from slumber, it was too late to resist, and Sir Philip had, by his marvellous wisdom in placing the troops, ensured our success. It was a fearful scene of carnage. I only grieve that I did not get my wound in fair fight, but by the back-handed blow of a Jesuit. Some of our men set fire to the house where those emissaries of the devil congregate, and Mistress Gifford here knows the rest, and she will relate it to you, Master Gifford, in due time.'

'Ah, my son,' Master Gifford said, 'let us pray for the blessed time when the nations shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning-hooks, and learn war no more.'

'But it is a righteous war, sir, blessed by God. Sure, could you have heard Sir Philip bid us remember this, you would not soon forget his words, his voice, his gallant bearing. He is ever in the front rank of danger, nor spares himself, as it is reported some other great ones are known to do. And his brothers are not far behind him in valour. That slight stripling, Mr Thomas Sidney, is a very David in the heat of the battle.'

'Let us try to dismiss the dread conflict from our minds,' Master Gifford said, 'while we supplicate our Father in Heaven that He would look with eyes of pity and forgiveness on the wounded and the dying, the bereaved widows and the fatherless children.'

And then the good old man poured out his soul in prayer as he knelt by Humphrey's side. His words seemed to have a composing effect on Humphrey; and when Master Gifford left the room to go to the bedside of the other sufferers in the adjoining chamber, Mary saw, to her great relief, that Humphrey was sleeping soundly.



CHAPTER XIII

RESTORED

'Good hope upholds the heart.'

Old Song, 1596.

There were great rejoicings at Arnhem when Sir Philip Sidney came back to join the main army, stationed there under the command of the Earl of Leicester.

Sir Philip had been appointed Colonel of the Zeeland regiment of horse and, to the disappointment of his friends, the Queen chose to be offended that this mark of honour had been conferred upon him.

The character of the Queen was full of surprising inconsistencies, and it seems incredible that she should have grudged one whom she called the gem of her Court the honour which she actually wished conferred on Count Hohenlo, a man who, though a brave soldier, was known for his drunken, dissolute habits.

The Earl of Leicester made a jest of the Queen's displeasure, and only laughed at the concern Sir Francis Walsingham showed in the letter in which he announced it.

'Let it not disturb your peace,' the Earl said to Lady Frances, who, filled with pride in her husband's achievements, was depressed when she heard her father's report that the Queen laid the blame on Sir Philip's ambition, and implied that he had wrung the honour from his uncle.

'Let it not disturb your peace,' the Earl repeated, 'any more than it does mine. It is but part and parcel of Her Highness's ways with those whom she would seem at times to think paragons. Do I not not know it full well? I have said in my despatch the truth, and I have begged your father, sweet Frances, to communicate what I say without delay to the Queen; my words for sure will not count for nought.'

'The Queen had not heard of the last grand victory, the taking of Axel, when she made the complaint. Ambitious! nay, my good uncle, Philip is never ambitious save for good.'

The Earl stroked the fair cheek of Philip Sidney's young wife, saying,—

'Philip is happy in possessing so loyal a lady for his wife; he can afford to let the smiles or frowns of the Queen go by. And here he comes to attest the truth of what I say.'

Sir Philip had often to doubt the ability of his uncle as a general, but at this time they were on terms of greater friendliness than ever before. Sir Philip had, in a few short months, lost both father and mother, and he probably felt the tie between him and his mother's brother to be stronger than in former times. Had not his mother often bid him remember that he came of the noble race of Dudley, and that he bore their crest with that of the Sidneys—a proud distinction.

If there had been jealousy in the Earl's heart when he saw his nephew rising so rapidly to a foremost place in the esteem of all men—a place which, with all his brilliant gifts, he secretly felt he never had filled—it was subdued now.

He did not grudge him the praise his splendid achievement awoke, and, in his despatch to the English Court, he gave the whole credit of the capture of Axel to his nephew.

The Earl always took care to have the room he inhabited, whether for a longer or a shorter time, luxuriously furnished.

If the word 'comfortable' does not apply to the appointments of those days, there was abundance of grandeur in fine tapestry hangings, in soft-cushioned seats, and in gold and silver plate on which the delicacies that were attainable were served.

Sir Philip and Lady Frances were the Earl's guests, with the young Earl of Essex and Mr Thomas Sidney. The elder brother, Robert, had been left in command at Flushing with the nine hundred trusty soldiers Sir Philip had left in the garrison there.

'What truth am I to attest?' Sir Philip asked, as he came up the room with his quick, elastic step.

His wife went forward to meet him, and, clinging to his arm, said,—

'Our good uncle was consoling me for those words in my father's letter.'

'And on what ground did I console you, Frances?' the Earl said. 'You give but half the truth; go on to say the rest.'

'Nay,' she said, hiding her face on Sir Philip's shoulder, as he put his arm tenderly round her. 'Nay, there is no need—'

'To tell him he is happy to possess a loyal wife? You are right, dear niece; he knows it full well.'

'Ay, to my joy and blessing,' was the answer. 'The favour of the Queen is, I do not deny, precious; but there are things more precious even than that. But, Frances, I come to tell you I think it is time we return to Flushing. We have had many bright days here, but I must soon be at the work I came hither to perform, and there is much to do, as you, my Lord, know full well.'

'Ay, surely, but we need not be rash, or in too great haste.'

'The investment of Doesburg is imperative,' Sir Philip said, 'and, if we wish to gain the mastery of the Yssel, this must be done. There are some matters which cause me great uneasiness. Stores are short and money greatly needed; nor do I put much faith in some of our allies. There is a mutinous feeling abroad amongst the troops.'

'You may be right,' the Earl said, 'but let us away to our supper, it must needs be served, and afterwards you shall take the viol, and chase away any needless fears by your sweet music.'

The Earl was always ready to put away any grave or serious matter, and Sir Philip was often hampered by the difficulty he found in bringing his uncle to the point on any question of importance.

When Sir Philip and Lady Frances were alone together that evening, he seemed more than usually grave and even sad.

'Are you grieved, Philip, about the Queen's displeasure? As soon as she hears of Axel she will sure cover you with honours.'

'Nay, sweetheart, it is not over this matter that I am brooding. Concern for you is pressing most.'

'For me! But I am merry and well.'

'Will you choose to remain here at Arnhem or return to Flushing with me? A sore struggle must ensue before long, and Zutphen will be besieged. I have been meditating whether or not I ought to send you and our babe under safe convoy to England.'

'No—oh, no! I would fain stay with you—near you—especially now. My ladies take good care of me, and little madam Elizabeth. She is well and hearty, and so am I; do not send us away from you!'

'It shall be as you wish, dear love,' was the answer; 'though, I fear, you will see but little of me. I have much to occupy me. But I will come to you for rest, dear heart, and I shall not come in vain.'

In all the events and chances of war, Sir Philip did not forget his servants; and he had been greatly concerned at the wound Humphrey had received, which had been slow to heal, and had been more serious than had at first been supposed. Before leaving Arnhem, Sir Philip went to the house of Madam Gruithuissens, whither Humphrey had been conveyed when able to leave the room in the quarters allotted to Sir Philip's retainers, where he was nursed and tended by Mary Gifford and his kind and benevolent hostess.

Humphrey had chafed against his enforced inaction, and was eager to be allowed to resume his usual duties. It was evident that he was still unfit for this; and Sir Philip entirely supported Madam Gruithuissens when she said it would be madness for him to attempt to mount his horse while the wound was unhealed and constantly needed care.

It was the evening before Sir Philip left Arnhem that he was met in the square entry of Madam Gruithuissens' house by Mary Gifford. She had been reading to Humphrey, and had been trying to divert his mind from the sore disappointment which the decision that he was to stay in Arnhem had occasioned him. But Humphrey, like most masculine invalids, was very hard to persuade, or to manage, and Mary, feeling that his condition was really the result of his efforts to save her boy and bring him to her, was full of pity for him, and self-reproach that she had caused him so much pain and vexation.

'How fares it with my good esquire, Mistress Gifford?' Sir Philip asked, as he greeted Mary.

'Indeed, sir, but ill; and I fear that to prevent his joining your company may hurt him more than suffering him to have his way. He is also greatly distressed that he could not prosecute inquiries at Axel for my child. In good sooth, Sir Philip, I have brought upon my true friend nought but ill. I am ofttimes tempted to wish he had never seen me.'

'Nay, Mistress Gifford, do not indulge that wish. I hold to the faith that the love of one who is pure and good can but be a boon, whether or not possession of that one be denied or granted.'

'But, sir, you know my story—you know that between me and Master Ratcliffe is a dividing wall which neither can pass.'

'Yes, I know it,' Sir Philip said; 'but, Mistress Gifford, take courage. The wall may be broken down and his allegiance be rewarded at last.'

'Yet, how dare I wish or pray that so it should be, sir? No; God's hand is heavy upon me—bereft of my boy, and tossed hither and thither as a ship on a stormy sea. All that is left for me is to bow my head and strive to say, "God's will be done."'

It was seldom that Mary Gifford gave utterance to her inmost thoughts; seldom that she confessed even to herself how deeply rooted in her heart was her love for Humphrey Ratcliffe. She never forgot, to her latest day, the look of perfect sympathy—yes, of understanding, which Sir Philip Sidney bent on her as he took her hand in his, and, bending over it, kissed it reverently.

'May God have you in His holy keeping, Mistress Gifford, and give you strength for every need.'

'He understands me,' Mary said, as she stood where he left her, his quick steps sounding on the tiled floor of the long corridor which opened from the square lobby. 'He understands, he knows; for has he not tasted of a like cup bitter as mine?'

Mary Gifford was drawing her hood more closely over her face, preparing to return to Master Gifford's house, when she saw a man on the opposite side of the street who was evidently watching her.

Her heart beat fast as she saw him crossing over to the place where she stood on the threshold of the entry to Madam Gruithuissens' house.

She quickened her steps as she turned away in the direction of Master Gifford's house, but she felt a hand laid on her arm.

'I am speaking to one Mistress Gifford, methinks.'

'Yes, sir,' Mary said, her courage, as ever, rising when needed. 'What is your business with me?'

'I am sent on an errand by one you know of as Ambrose Gifford—called by us Brother Ambrosio. He lies sick unto death in a desolate village before Zutphen, and he would fain see you ere he departs hence. There is not a moment to lose; you must come at once. I have a barge ready, and we can reach the place by water.'

Mary was still hurrying forward, but the detaining grasp grew firmer.

'If I tell you that by coming you will see your son, will you consent?'

'My son! my boy!' Mary exclaimed. 'I would traverse the world to find him, but how am I to know that you are not deceiving me.'

'I swear by the blessed Virgin and all the Saints I am telling you the truth. Come!'

'I must seek counsel. I must consider; do not press me.'

'Your boy is lying also in the very jaws of death. A consuming fever has seized many of our fraternity. Famine has resulted in pestilence. When I left the place where Brother Ambrosio and the boy lie, it was doubtful which would depart first. The rites of the Holy Church have been administered, and the priest, who would fain shrive Brother Ambrosio, sent me hither, for confession must be made of sins, ere absolution be bestowed. If you wish to see your son alive you must not hesitate. It may concern you less if I tell you that he who was your husband may have departed unabsolved through your delay.'

The twilight was deepening, and there were but few people in this quarter of the town. Mary hesitated no longer, and, with an uplifting of heart for the strength Sir Philip's parting blessing had invoked, she gathered the folds of her cloak round her, pulled the hood over her face, and saying, 'Lead on, I am ready,' she followed her guide through some narrow lanes leading to the brink of the water, where a barge was lying, with a man at the prow, evidently on the watch for their coming.

Not a word was spoken as Mary entered the barge, and took her seat on one of the benches laid across it, her guide leaving her unmolested and retiring to the further end of the vessel.

There was no sound but the monotonous splash of the oars, and their regular beat against the edge of the boat, as the two men pulled out into the wider part of the river.

Above, the stars were coming out one by one, and the wide stretch of low meadow-land and water lay in the purple haze of gathering shadows like an unknown and undiscovered country, till it was lost in the overarching canopy of the dim far-off heavens.

Mary Gifford felt strangely indifferent to all outward things as she sat with her hands tightly clasped together under her cloak, and in her heart only one thought had room—that she was in a few short hours to clasp her boy in her arms.

So over-mastering was this love and hungry yearning of the mother for her child, that his condition—stricken by fever, and that of his father lying at the very gates of death—were almost forgotten.

'If only he knows my arms are round him,' she thought; 'if only I can hear his voice call me mother, I will die with him content.'

After a few hours, when there were lines of dawn in the eastern sky, Mary felt the barge was being moored to the river bank; and her guide, rising from his seat, came towards her, gave her his hand and said,—

'We have now to go on foot for some distance, to the place where your son lies. Are you able for this?'

For Mary was stiff and cramped with her position in the barge for so long a time, and she would have fallen as she stepped out, had not one of the watermen caught her, saying,—

'Steady, Madam! steady!'

After a few tottering steps, Mary recovered herself, and said,—

'The motion of walking will be good for me; let us go forward.'

It was a long and weary tramp through spongy, low-lying land, and the way seemed interminable.

At last, just as the sun was sending shafts of light across river and swamp—making them glow like burnished silver, and covering every tall spike of rush and flag with diamonds—a few straggling cottages or huts came in sight.

A clump of pollards hid the cluster of buildings which formed the nucleus of the little hamlet, till they were actually before a low, irregular block of cottages, and at the door of one of these Mary's guide stopped.

'A few of our brethren took refuge here after the taking of Axel and the burning of our habitation there. We are under the protection of the Duke of Parma, who is advancing with an army for the relief of Zutphen, and will, as we believe, drive from before us the foes of the Holy Church.'

As they passed under the low doorway into a narrow entry paved with clay, Mary's guide said,—

'Tarry here, while I find what has passed in my absence.'

Mary was not left long in suspense.

The man presently returned, and, beckoning her, said,—

'Come, without delay!'

Mary found herself in a low, miserably furnished room on the ground-floor, where, in the now clear light of the bright summer morning, Ambrose Gifford lay dying.

The 'large, cruel, black eyes,' as Lucy Forrester had called them long ago, were dim now, and were turned with pitiful pleading upon the wife he had so grievously injured.

The priest stood by, and signed to Mary to kneel and put her face near her husband, that she might hear what he had to say.

As she obeyed, the hood fell back from her head, and a ray of sunshine caught the wealth of her rich chestnut hair and made an aureole round it. The grey streaks, which sorrow rather than years, had mingled amongst the bronze locks, shone like silver. She took the long, wasted hand in hers, and, in a low, clear voice, said,—

'I am here, Ambrose! what would you say to me?'

'The boy!' he gasped; 'fetch hither the boy!'

One of the Brothers obeyed the dying man's request, and from a pallet at the farther end of the room he brought the boy, whose cheeks were aflame with fever, as he lay helpless in the Brother's arms.

'Here, Ambrose,' the dying father said—'this—this is your mother; be a good son to her.'

Often as Mary Gifford had drawn a picture in her own mind of this possible meeting with her son, so long delayed, such a meeting as this had never been imagined in her wildest dreams.

'Thus, then, I make atonement,' the unhappy man said. 'Take him, Mary, and forgive it all.'

'Yes,' Mary said, as the boy was laid on the pallet at his father's feet, and his mother clasped him close to her side. 'Yes, I forgive—'

'All?' he said. 'All?'

'As I pray God to be forgiven,' she said, womanly pity for this forlorn ending of a misspent life thrilling in her voice, as hot tears coursed one another down her pale sweet face. 'Yes,' she repeated, 'all! Ambrose.'