Penshurst Castle Part 24

'Forgive me, Madam; do not dismiss me without forgiveness.'

'Nay, surely, dear child,' Lady Pembroke said. 'I would fain see you happy, and content with the lot appointed you by G.o.d. There are manifold temptations in this world for us all. We need grasp the hand of One who will not fail to lead us safely in prosperity, and by the waters of comfort in adversity. Seek Him, Lucy, with your whole heart, and I pray G.o.d to bless you.'

Lucy kissed the hand held out to her with pa.s.sionate fervour, and then went back to do Lady Pembroke's bidding.

The expedition to Hampton Court was the topic of conversation amongst the ladies of the household.

Several of the elder ones were to accompany Lady Pembroke in the earl's barge; and Lucy heard the glowing accounts of the splendour of the entertainment there, related in triumphant tones by those who were fortunate enough to be selected to accompany the Countess.

They dilated on the theme with some satisfaction, as poor Lucy sat at her lace-mending, too proud to show her mortification, and yet inwardly chafing against the hard fate, which had prevented her from being one of the party.

'Better never to have tasted the sweets of a bright, gay life, than be so suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed from it,' she thought. But her better self a.s.serted itself as she thought of Mary's distress in the loss of Ambrose.

For Lucy had a better self, and she was not without higher aims. She possessed natural gifts which, though perhaps inferior to her sister's, only wanted cultivation. She eagerly devoured any books that came in her way; and she had a keen perception of all that was beautiful--perhaps it is safer to say, all that was grand and imposing.

She loved to dream of herself as the lady of some fine house, surrounded by all that wealth and rank could give.

The ideal knight who was to endow her with this splendour was partly ideal, but he took the form of Mr Sidney. She dare scarcely acknowledge this to herself. He was set on high, so far above her, it is true; yet he was never too high above her to forget her presence. His smile was a guerdon which she craved to win; the glance of his grave, beautiful eyes thrilled through her; the sound of his voice was music, stirring within her an answering chord, the echo of which was ever sweet and sweeter every time it was awakened.

It was, she felt sure, by his kind offices she had been placed in Lady Pembroke's household. And did he not seem sad--sorry for her--when Mistress Crawley pursued her in the gallery? Did he not call her 'My poor child!'

looking down at her with that light of sympathy in his eyes which seemed at the moment to compensate for all else?

Perhaps unconsciously to himself, Philip Sydney touched the hearts of many a fair dame and youthful beauty about the Court of Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, we know it to have been so, and that the charm he exercised was as subtle as it was irresistible. This charm increased year by year, and perhaps never was greater than at the time of which we are writing, when the struggle within--a struggle in which he was to come out the victor--gave a pathetic earnestness to his manner, and quickened his sympathies for every kind and degree of sorrow or disappointment.

It was as poor little Lucy said: 'He was not too high to stoop to care for her, or for others.'

In the early morning of the next day Lucy stood disconsolately in the courtyard of Lord Pembroke's city house watching the packing of the baggage, and awaiting the orders of the gentleman who was Master Thomas Sydney's tutor, and was in command for the journey.

All was in the bustle of departure, and Lucy felt that no one cared on which pillion she was to ride, nor where her own modest packages were to be stowed.

She wore a scarlet riding-robe, with a hood which was lined with white taffeta. It fell back, and made a background to her shining hair, and defined the outline of her small, well-shaped head as she leaned against the doorway in listless dejection, which was a contrast indeed to her bright, sparkling mood as she bent over the edge of the booth at the tournament.

A sharp altercation was going on between two of the servants, each wishing to have the honour of taking Lady Mary Sidney's youngest son on his pillion.

Presently the boy himself appeared in his black velvet riding suit, booted and spurred, his red-gold locks--the true Sidney badge--falling over his shoulders from under the stiff, pointed cap which shaded his forehead.

'I am to ride alongside of you, not on the pillion like a babe. Peace! I tell you, Mr Philip saith so. I am to ride Joan, the black mare, Master Paynter saith it is Mr Philip's order.'

'Philip,' the boy said, springing towards his brother who now came into the yard, 'Philip, do not let them treat me as an infant.'

Thomas Sidney was very small for his age, and was treated as youngest children often are treated by the elders of a family, as if he were much younger than his years.

His delicacy appealed particularly to his brother Philip, who was always ready to stand his friend, when his elder brother Robin was inclined to exercise a boyish tyranny over him.

'Yes, forsooth, Thomas, you shall ride old Joan. Come, let me see you mount. That is it, spring into the saddle; nay, do not take the rein so slackly, and settle firmly in the saddle, nor use the stirrup for support.

A man should be able to ride with nothing but himself to trust to for a safe seat.'

Thomas was triumphant, and resisted his governess's attempts to throw a cape over his shoulders, saying,--

'The wind was in the east, and would be like to bite their heads off when they turned into the country.'

But Thomas threw off the wrap with an impatient gesture, and, in falling, it hit the good woman on the face.

'Ask pardon at once, Thomas,' Philip said sternly; 'nor forget the manners of a gentleman, while you aspire to ride as one.'

The colour rose to the boy's fair face, and, stooping from the saddle, he said,--

'I am sorry I was rude, Mistress Margery, but oh! I hate to be treated as a babe.'

Mistress Margery was easily mollified. She conspired with the rest of the family to spoil the boy, of whom it was said that he resembled his sister Ambrosia, who died of wasting sickness and was buried at Ludlow.

But Thomas had a brave spirit if his body was weak, and to all the refinement of his race he added indomitable courage and a perseverance which surmounted what seemed insuperable barriers.

When the avant-couriers had ridden off, Philip turned to Lucy.

'On which horse are you to ride, Mistress Forrester? Let me lift you to your place.'

Lucy was trembling with joy that Mr Sidney should care for her comfort, and, as we all know, joy lies very near the fount of tears.

She dare scarcely trust herself to speak, as she heard Mr Sidney call a groom to bring up the grey horse, Prince, for Mistress Forrester.

'Poor old Prince!' Philip said, stroking the horse's neck, who knew his hand and bowed his head in acknowledgment, 'he has been a trusty servant, and will carry you safely, I know. But bring hither another cushion for the pillion,' he called to an attendant, 'and put a package below, for Mistress Forrester's feet to rest upon.'

Then he lifted Lucy to her place, saying, as he did so,--

'Methinks Prince will not complain of the burden he has to carry to-day, it is but a feather's weight. See, place your feet on this roll, and let me cover them with the haircloth--so; does that suit you?'

The groom was about to take his place on the side of the pillion nearest the horse's head, when he remembered he had forgotten to fill the powder flask, for no horseman ever ventured on the Queen's highway without abundant supply for the musket, which lay across the saddle bow.

The delay caused by this gave Mr Sidney time to say,--

'Heaven grant you may find Mistress Gifford in better case than we fear.

You do well to go to her, and comfort her; commend me to her, and say Humphrey Ratcliffe has my freely-given permission to scour the country to find her lost boy. He will do so if he is to be found, and it will be a double grace if he does, for we may be able to unearth some of these foxy Jesuits who are lying in wait in every hole and corner.'

Then, as Lucy did not speak, Philip laid his hand gently on hers as he leaned against the horse, with one arm caressing his old favourite's neck.

'Smile on me before you set off, Mistress Lucy, nor look so doleful. The clouds will clear away, I doubt not, and you will return to my sister, the Countess, to be blythe and happy in learning all Mistress Crawley would fain teach you of handicraft, and still more, all my sister can instruct you in, for she is ever ready to give out the treasures which she has stored up in her brain and heart.'

And now the groom appeared, and mounted to his place, and still Lucy could not find any words.

'G.o.d speed you in your journey,' was Philip's good-bye, and Lucy could only murmur a few half-inaudible words, as she looked down on the true knight who filled her girlish dreams, and to whom there never was, and never could be, any rival.

And as the steady-going Prince footed it with even steps over the stones, and trotted along the somewhat rugged roads on the way to Tunbridge, Lucy tormented herself with her folly in never telling Mr Sidney in so many words how grateful she was to him.

'Fool that I was!' she thought. 'And he so tender and careful for my comfort. What a poor idiot I must have seemed! Yet, sure, I must find favour in his eyes, or he would not have wrapt the cloth so deftly round my feet. Oh, is he not n.o.ble and beautiful beyond all men who ever lived? I hear them say the Queen calls him "her Philip" and "her bright gem," and that he is the wisest statesman, and grandest poet and finest scholar of the age, and yet he is not too great to be good to me--little Lucy Forrester. And it may be I shall never see him again--never return to Lady Pembroke--live up on that hill all my days, and get as stupid and dull as the old brindled cow that stares with big, dull eyes straight before her, and sees nought, nor cares for nought but to chew her food.

'Alack! I am right sorry for Mary's grief. But I wish, if Ambrose was to be stolen, she had not fallen sick, so that I must needs go and tend her. I am a selfish hussy to feel this--selfish and hard-hearted! But, oh, was ever anyone more grievously disappointed than I am. A few short, bright days, and then back, back to the old, dreary life. Still, I am young; yes, and I am fair too. I know it, and I may yet be happy.'