Penshurst Castle Part 12

Voices below and the sound of heavy feet warned her that the meeting in the barn was over, and her stepmother would require her presence.

The little company which had met in the barn was composed of labourers and shepherds, with one or two of the better sort of work-people holding superior positions on the estate of the Sidneys.

Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal tw.a.n.g to bless the humble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before the benches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread and milk, flavoured with strips of onion, were attacked by the hungry brethren with large, unwieldy, wooden spoons.

Mary waited on the guests, and, filling a large earthen cup with cider, pa.s.sed it round. One man who took a very prolonged pull at it, wiping his mouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysterious whisper,--

'There's a nest of Papists hiding in Tunbridge, and one of those emissaries of the Evil One is lurking about here, Mistress Forrester. Let us all be on guard.'

'Ay,' said another, 'I've seen him. He wears the priest's garb, and he is plotting mischief. What can he want here?'

'He can work us no harm; the tables are turned now, and the Papists are getting their deserts,' Mistress Forrester said.

'I wouldn't trust them,' said the first speaker. 'They would as lief set fire to this house or yon barn as to a stake where the blessed martyrs were bound. You looked scared, Mistress Gifford. But, if all we hear is true, you rather favour the Papists.'

Mary rallied, with a great effort.

'Nay,' she said; 'I do not favour their creed or their persecuting ways, but I may no less feel pain that they should be hunted, and, as I know, in many cases, homeless and dying of hunger.'

'Mary consorts with grand folks down at the great house,' Mistress Forrester said, 'who look with as little favour on us, or less, than on the Papists. For my part, I see but small difference between the bowings, and sc.r.a.pings and mummeries practised in the church down yonder, and the ma.s.s in the Papists' worship.'

'You are near right, Mistress Forrester; and those who are aiding and abetting the Queen in her marriage with a Popish prince have much to answer for.'

'Which Popish prince?' asked one of the more ignorant of the a.s.sembly.

'Is not the man, Philip Sidney, who is set up in these parts as a G.o.d, getting ready to take a share in the tourney which is to do honour to the men sent by the brother of the murderous French king?'

'I never heard tell on't,' gasped an old dame. 'Dear heart! what will the country come to?'

'_Ruin!_' was the answer. 'And tell me not a man is G.o.dly who has ordered the Maypole to be set up this coming first of May, and gives countenance by his presence on the Sabbath day to the wrestling games of the village louts, and the playing of bowls in the green at the back of the hostelry.

But let us praise the Lord we are delivered from the bondage of Satan, and have neither part nor lot in these evil doings and vain sports, working days or Sabbath!'

Fervent Amens were uttered, and, wrapt in the mantle of self-satisfaction that they were not as other men, the company gathered in the kitchen of Ford Manor broke up, and, in the gathering twilight, dispersed to their homes.

Mary Gifford hastened to put away the remnants of the supper, and reserved the broken fragments for the early breakfast of the poultry the next morning.

Mistress Forrester did not seem inclined for conversation, and yawned audibly, saying she was tired out and it was time to lock up for the night.

'The days are lengthening now,' Mary said. 'I do not feel inclined for bed.

Leave me, mother, to make all safe.'

'As you will,' was the reply. 'I'll hear what you have to say about Lucy to-morrow. Jabez Coleman says we are sending her to the jaws of the lion by this move, and that she will never return, or like you--'

'Spare me, mother!' Mary said. 'I cannot bear much more to-night.'

'Much more! Sure, Mary, you make an ado about nothing. What have you to bear, I'd like to know, with a roof over your head, and your child fed and clothed? Bear indeed!' and with a low, mocking laugh, Mistress Forrester stumped with her heavy tread up the stairs which led to the upper floor from the further end of the kitchen.

Mary went into the porch, and the peaceful landscape before her seemed to quiet her troubled spirit. She was so keenly alive to all that was beautiful in nature; her education had been imperfect, but she was open to receive all impressions, and, during her short married life, she had been brought into contact with the people who were attached to the Earl of Leicester's household, and had read books which had quickened her poetic taste and given a colour to her life.

It is difficult for those who live in these times to realise the fervour with which the few books then brought within the reach of the people were received by those who were hungry for self-culture. The Queen was an accomplished scholar, and did her best to encourage the spread of literature in the country. But though the tide had set in with an ever-increasing flow, the flood had not as yet reached the women in Mary Forrester's position. Thus, when she married Ambrose Gifford, a new world was opened to her by such books as Surrey's _Translation of the aeneid_, and Painter's _Tales from Boccaccio_. She had an excellent memory, and had learned by heart Wyatt's _Translation of the Psalms_, and many parts of Spenser's _Shepherd's Calendar_. This evening she took from the folds of her gown a small book in a brown cover, which had been a gift to her that very day from Mary, Countess of Pembroke.

It was the Psalms in English verse, which the brother and sister had produced together in the preceding year when Philip Sidney, weary of the Court, and burdened with the weight of his love for Stella, had soothed his spirit by this joint work with his sister as they walked together in the wide domain of Wilton, the home to which Mary Sidney went from her native Penshurst, and which was scarcely less fair and beautiful than that which she left to become the wife of the Earl of Pembroke.

It was at Wilton that _The Arcadia_ had its birth, and the description of the fair country where Sir Philip Sidney and his sister placed the heroes and heroines of the story may well answer as a description of both places, as they write of proud heights, garnished with stately trees; and humble valleys comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; the meadows enamelled with all sorts of flowers; the fields garnished with roses, which made the earth blush as bashful at its own beauty--with other imagery which, after the lapse of more than three hundred years, shines out through the tangled labyrinth of the story of _The Arcadia_, like golden threads, the l.u.s.tre of which time has no power to dim.

Mary Gifford has paid dearly for those five years spent in the world, which was so far removed from the peace and seclusion of her native hills. And now, as she sits in the porch, and opening the little book which had been the gift that day from the Countess of Pembroke, she tried, in the dim waning light, to read some verses from the thick page, which the lines printed close in black letters made somewhat difficult. Presently the book fell from her hand and she started to her feet, as there was a rustle near and a soft tread of stealthy footsteps.

In another moment the tall black figure Lucy had spoken of stood before her.

Her heart beat fast, and it needed all her courage not to cry aloud with fear.

'What is your pleasure, sir?' she said.

The slouching hat was removed, and she saw before her her husband,--

'You thought I was dead; is it not so? I crave your pardon for being alive, Mary.'

'I heard a rumour that you lived,' she replied; 'but why do you come hither to torture me?'

'I have an errand, and I shall fulfil it. I am come hither for my son.'

'You come, then, on a bootless errand,' was the answer. 'No power in Heaven and earth will make me surrender my child to your tender mercies.'

'We shall see,' was the cool reply. 'Hearken, Mary! I left the country after that fray with the man you know of. They left me for dead, but I rose and escaped. The man lay dead--that consoles me--his wife--'

'Do not go over the miserable wickedness of your life. You were covered with dishonour, and you betrayed me. I would die sooner than give up my child to you; you shall kill me first--'

'Nay, Mary, do not give vent to your hatred and abhorrence of me. Hearken!

I know I was a sinner, not worse than thousands, but I have sought the shelter of the Holy Catholic Church, and I am absolved from my sins by penance and fasting. The unhappy woman for whom I sinned is now a professed nun in a convent. I shall never look on her face again. I have joined the priests at Douay; one Dr Allan has the control of the school. It is there I will take my son, and have him brought up in the Catholic faith.'

'Never!' Mary said. 'My son shall be trained in the Protestant faith, and I will hold him, by G.o.d's grace, safe from your evil designs. Ah, Ambrose, be not so pitiless; be merciful.'

'Pitiless! nay, it is you who are pitiless. You scout my penitence; you scorn and spurn me, and you ask me, forsooth, to be merciful. I give you your choice--commit the boy to my care within one week, or I will find means to take him whether you will or no. I give you fair warning.'

'You have robbed me of peace and love, and all a woman counts dear. You betrayed me and deserted me; you slew the husband of the woman you ruined, and fled the country with her. The sole comfort left me is my boy, and I will keep him, G.o.d helping me. I will not put his soul in jeopardy by committing him to a father unworthy the name.'

Could this be gentle Mary Gifford? This woman with flashing eyes and set, determined face, from which all tenderness seemed to have vanished as she stood before the man from whom she had suffered a terrible wrong, and who was the father of her child.

The mother, roused in defence of her boy--from what she considered danger both to his body and soul--was, indeed, a different woman from the quiet, dignified matron, who had stood in that very spot with Humphrey Ratcliffe a day or two before, and had turned away with sorrowful resolution from the love he offered her, and which she could not accept.

What if it had been possible for her to take refuge with him! What if she had been, as for years everyone believed her to be, a widow! Now disgraced, and with the death of the man, whom he had killed, on his head, and as one of the hunted and persecuted Papists, her husband lived! If only he had died.

The next moment the very thought was dismissed, with a prayer for grace to resist temptation, and pardon even for the thought, and Mary Gifford was her true self again.

With the fading light of the April evening on her face--pale as death, but no longer resentful--her heart no longer filled with pa.s.sionate anger and shrinking from the husband who had so cruelly deserted her, she stood before him, quiet and self-possessed, awakening in his worldly and deceitful heart admiration, and even awe.

There was silence between them for a short s.p.a.ce.