Penshurst Castle Part 25

Lucy's meditations continued in this strain, in alternate fears and hopes, for some time.

The cavalcade stopped at intervals at wayside hostels to bait the horses, and to refresh the travellers with draughts of ale and cider. One of these potations had a soporific effect on Lucy, and, after drinking it, she became oblivious of jolts and stoppages, of the fair country through which she pa.s.sed, and was wrapped in profound slumber, her head resting against the broad back of the servant who held the reins, and urged on old Prince's somewhat slow steps by a succession of monotonous sounds, which now and again broke into the refrain of a song, one of the ballads familiar to Kentish men, and handed down from father to son for many generations.

Humphrey had reached Ford Manor late on the previous evening. He had ridden hard and fast to Tunbridge, and had heard from Dorothy Ratcliffe's father that the Papists' colony was supposed to be broken up, and that they had escaped to Southampton, and taken s.h.i.+p for France.

Two priests had been seized and thrown into prison at Canterbury, and this was supposed to have caused the dispersion of their followers, who had evaded pursuit, and were now thought to be beyond the reach of their persecutors. But neither from his old uncle, Edgar Ratcliffe, nor from any other source could Humphrey glean any information which might throw light on the disappearance of little Ambrose Gifford.

Nor did the intelligence of his loss seem greatly to affect the old man, nor indeed to be of any interest to the few people at Tunbridge of whom Humphrey made inquiries.

They were far more anxious to hear news from the Court, and of the tournament, and whether Mr Sidney had won fresh laurels, and if the Queen was really going to wed with a Popish prince. This was what the Papists built their hopes upon, and then it would be their turn to trample on the Protestants.

As Humphrey rode through Penshurst, the village was wrapt in profound repose, for in those times people went to bed and rose with the sun.

Artificial light was scarcely known in the farms and homesteads of country districts, and there was only one twinkling light in the window of the hostel in the street to show belated travellers that if they desired shelter and rest they might find it there.

Humphrey rode slowly as he got nearer his destination, feeling reluctance to be the bearer of no good news to one, who he knew was eagerly looking for him.

The waters of the little Medway were low, for the season had been unusually dry, and Humphrey's horse knew the ford well, and easily stepped over it, his hoofs making a dull splash in the rippling stream.

The stars were bright overhead and a crescent moon gave a silvery light.

The stillness was profound. At the entrance of the lane leading to Ford Manor the horse stopped short; he evidently wanted to go to his own stable on the crest of the hill.

In that momentary pause Humphrey turned in the saddle, and, looking back, saw the dark outline of the grand old home of the Sidneys and the dark ma.s.ses of the stately trees which surround it, clear cut against the sky, in which the moon hung like a silver lamp.

The peace which reigned seemed to strike him as a sharp contrast with the turmoil and noise of the city he had lately left. The Court, so full of heart-burnings and jealousies and strivings to win a higher place in the favour of those who were in favour with the Queen. The image of him who was, perhaps, at that time Elizabeth's chief favourite rose before him, and he thought how far happier he would be to live, apart from Court favour and rivalries, in the stately home which was the pride, not only of the Sidneys themselves, but of everyone of their tenants and dependents on their wide-stretching domain. For Humphrey could not hide from himself that his chief was often sad at heart, and that sometimes, in uncontrollable weariness, he would say that he would fain lead a retired life in his beloved Penshurst. His moods were, it is true, variable, and at times he was the centre of everything that was bright and gay at Court, sought after as one who could discourse sweetest music, the most graceful figure in the dance, the most accomplished poet who could quickly improvise a verse in praise of his Queen, or a rhyme to commemorate some feat of arms at joust or tourney, like that of the preceding day.

Humphrey Ratcliffe thought that he held the solution of his Master's alternations of sadness and cheerfulness, and, as he rode up to the Manor, he sighed as he remembered Philip Sidney's words.

'Let us hope you may attain your heart's desire, nor have it ever denied you, as is G.o.d's will for me.'

'Denied to me also, but yet I have a hope, Mr Sidney cannot have; no impa.s.sable barrier rises between me and Mary. If I find her boy I may reap my reward.'

At the sound of the horse's feet the cas.e.m.e.nt above the porch was opened, and a woman's head was thrust out.

'Who goes there?'

'It is I, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I have an errand to Mistress Gifford.'

'She is sick, and can't hear aught to-night. It is near midnight. Go your way, and return in the morning, Master Ratcliffe.'

Then there was a pause, the woman's head was withdrawn, and Humphrey's ear, quickened by love, heard Mary's voice in pathetic pleading. Presently the head re-appeared.

'Mistress Gifford says, "Do you bring news?"'

'I would fain see her, if possible. I cannot speak of such matters here.'

'Then you must wait till the morrow, nor parley any longer.'

The cas.e.m.e.nt was shut with a sharp click, and there was nothing left for Humphrey but to pursue his way to his own home, whither George--who had parted from him at Tunbridge--and his servants had preceded him earlier in the day.

Mary Gifford lay sleepless and restless all through the long hours of the night, watching for the dawn. She longed, and yet half dreaded her meeting with Humphrey. She felt so utterly weak and broken-hearted, so forlorn and deserted--what if he again urged his suit!--what if she had now to tell him what had been at their last interview only a probability, and was now a certainty! Her husband was no vague, shadowy personality; he was alive and strong, to work for her the greatest evil that could befall her in stealing her boy from her.

When Mistress Forrester came in, on her way to the dairy, to see how it fared with Mary, she found her, to her surprise, dressed, while Goody Pea.r.s.e was snoring peacefully on the pallet bed, where Ambrose had slept near his mother.

'Dear heart! Mary Gifford, what do you mean by getting up like this? I thought, forsooth, you were so sick you had need of a nurse, to take a few more s.h.i.+llings out of my pocket, and here you are at five o'clock, up and spry. Well-a-day, I never did come to the bottom of you. Deep waters, they say, make no noise.'

Mary had braced herself to bear anything and everything, and was strangely unmoved by her stepmother's innuendoes, of which she took no notice, and only said, in a gentle voice,--

'Is Ned astir yet?'

'I don't know. He came hobbling in after his goose-chase to London on your account, losing a couple of days' work; and I warrant he will have to be shaken before he gets about his business.'

'I can get downstairs,' Mary said, 'if Ned will help to carry me. I fear I cannot put my leg to the ground yet.'

'No; and you may give up the notion. If you come down, you may as lief do without a nurse, and take to your lawful business. It is a pretty thing!--one of you gadding off to town and thinking herself a fine lady, and t'other laming herself and wanting to be tended by a paid woman.'

At this juncture Goody Pea.r.s.e awoke, bewildered and much alarmed by the presence of Mistress Forrester. She expected a sharp reprimand, but Mistress Forrester left the room without another word either to nurse or patient.

'Dear heart! what made you get up afore I was ready? You'll have raging pain in your foot again, sure as fate.'

'I must get downstairs to-day to see Master Humphrey Ratcliffe. Ned will help me.'

Mary's resolution did not falter. Her humble and faithful admirer, Ned, appeared at the attic door, when summoned by Goody Pea.r.s.e, to help her downstairs. Ned made short work of it; he lifted Mary in his arms, and trudged down the creaking steps with her without a single halt, and placed her by her desire on the settle, where her leg could rest. Mary's smile was a sufficient reward for Ned. But when Mary held out her hand, and said she owed him more than tongue could tell for going to London, Ned was speechless with emotion. At last he blurted out,--

'I'd walk a hundred miles to serve you, Mistress; I'd even ride 'em for your sake. But, oh, Lord! I am sore to-day with the cramp I got a-horseback. Here is a letter from Master Ratcliffe; he bid me put into your hands and into none other, and I have kept to the order. Take it, Mistress.'

Mary held out her hand, and took the much crumpled and soiled letter from Ned's large, brown fingers. But she had not opened it when Humphrey Ratcliffe himself came up to the porch, and stopped short on the threshold as if struck by some sudden blow.

He was not prepared to see so great a change in Mary in so short a time.

Pain of body, however severe, nor the deep cut in her forehead, could hardly have left such traces of suffering on her face--still, in Humphrey's eyes, beautiful, though with lines of sorrow round her mouth and eyes.

'Enter, my kind friend,' Mary said, in a low, sweet voice, holding out her hand to him. 'This good Ned,' she said, 'has faithfully performed his errand, and deserves our thanks.' Ned, bashful and awkward, made for the door and disappeared. 'But what news? Is there aught to tell me of my child?'

Humphrey had by this time advanced to the settle, and, kneeling by it, he took Mary's hand in his, and kissed it gently and reverently.

'I could find no trace of the boy in Tunbridge. The whole colony of Papists has broken up and fled. Some of their number have been thrown into prison, awaiting judgment for conspiracy. I did not tarry, therefore, at Tunbridge, but rode on here last night.'

'Yes,' Mary said. 'I heard your voice; and now--now what next?'

'It is my purpose to follow that villain who kidnapped the boy, and regain possession of him. It is a puzzle to me to understand why he should steal him.'

'He is so handsome, so clever,' his mother said. 'Humphrey, I cannot, I cannot lose him. I must find him; and he will break his heart for his mother,' she said pa.s.sionately. 'His mother! bereft and desolate without him.'

'We will find him,' Humphrey said, 'never fear. My n.o.ble master has given me leave to go on the quest to France, or, it may be, the Low Countries, for the Papists have schools and centres of wors.h.i.+p in all the Protestant towns.'

'The Low Countries,' Mary said, 'I have a friend there, at Arnhem, one George Gifford; he is an honest and G.o.dly minister. In my first grief and despair years ago, I sent a letter to him for counsel. He was then in England, and acted a father's part by me, though only my husband's uncle.

Yes, I will go to him as soon as I can put my foot on the ground. I will leave all things, and go on the quest myself--alone.'