Penshurst Castle Part 26

'Not alone!' Humphrey said, 'not alone, but with me. Oh, Mary! I will tend you and care for you, and we will seek together for _our_ boy--mine as yours, yours as mine. We will go to this good man of whom you speak, and all will be well. G.o.d will speed us.'

'Nay, dear friend,' Mary said. 'Nay, it cannot be. I can never be your wife.'

'And, by Heaven, why not? What hinders? Something tells me, presumptuous though it may be, that you might give me a little--a little love, in return for mine. Why is it beyond hope?'

'Hush!' Mary said, 'you do not know why it is beyond hope.'

Humphrey's brow darkened, and he bit his under lip to restrain his irritation.

Presently Mary laid her hand on his shoulder as he knelt by her.

'It is beyond hope,' she said,'because the man who stole my child from me is my husband.'

Humphrey started to his feet, and said in a voice of mingled rage and despair,--

'The villain! the despicable villain! I will run him through the body an I get the chance.'

'Nay, Humphrey,' Mary said in pleading tones, 'do not make my burden heavier by these wild words. Rumours had reached me in the winter of last year, when the Earl of Leicester with his large following were at Penshurst, that my husband was alive. Since then I have never felt secure; yet I did not dare to doff my widow's garments, fearing--hoping the report was false. As soon as I heard of this man lurking about the countryside, a horrible dread possessed me. He asked Lucy to bring Ambrose to meet him--this strengthened my fears. From that moment I never let the boy out of my sight. Thus, on that morning of doom, I took him with me to look for the shepherd and the lost lamb. Ah! woe is me! He was lying in wait. He had told me, when as I sat late in the porch one evening, that he would have my boy, and I knew he would wreak his vengeance on me by this cruel deed. I seized Ambrose by the hand and ran--you know the rest--I fell unconscious; and when I awoke from my stupor, the light of my eyes was gone from me.

'Ah! if G.o.d had taken my boy by death; if I had seen him laid in the cold grave, at least I could have wept, and committed him to safe keeping in the hands of his Heavenly Father--safe in Paradise from all sin. But now--now he will be taught to lie; and to hate what is good; and be brought up a Papist; and bidden to forget his mother--his _mother_!'

Humphrey Ratcliffe listened, as Mary spoke, like one in a dream.

He must be forgiven if, for the moment, the mother's grief for the loss of her boy seemed a small matter, when compared with his despair that he had lost her.

For a few moments neither spoke, and then with a great rush of pa.s.sionate emotion, Humphrey flung himself on his knees by Mary's side, crying out,--

'Mary! Mary! say one word to comfort me. Say, at least, if it were possible, you could love me. Why should you be loyal to that faithless villain? Come to me, Mary.'

The poor, desolate heart, that was pierced with so many wounds, craved, hungered for the love offered her. How gladly would she have gone to Humphrey, how thankfully felt the support of his honest and steadfast love.

But Mary Gifford was not a weak woman--swayed hither and thither by the pa.s.sing emotion of the moment. Clear before her, even in her sorrow, was the line of duty. The sacred crown of motherhood was on her brow, and should she dare to dim its brightness by yielding to the temptation which, it is not too much to say, Humphrey's words put before her.

She gathered all her strength, and said in a calm voice,--

'You must never speak thus to me again, Humphrey Ratcliffe. I am--G.o.d help me--the wife of Ambrose Gifford, and,' she paused, and then with pathetic earnestness, '_I am the mother of his son._ Let that suffice.'

Again there was a long silence. From without came the monotonous cawing of the rooks in the elm trees, the occasional bleating of the lambs in the pastures seeking their mother's side, and the voices of the shepherd's children, who had come down to fetch the thin b.u.t.ter-milk which Mistress Forrester measured out to the precise value of the small coin the shepherd's wife sent in exchange.

It was a sore struggle, but it was over at last.

When Humphrey Ratcliffe rose from his knees, Mary had the reward which a good and true woman may ever expect sooner or later to receive from a n.o.ble-hearted man, in a like case.

'You are right, Mary,' he said, 'as you ever are. Forgive me, and in token thereof let us now proceed to discuss the plans for the rescue of your boy.'

This was now done with surprising calmness on both sides.

Humphrey decided to start first for Douay, and then, failing to trace any tidings of the boy, he would proceed to Arnhem, and enlist the sympathies and help of the good man, George Gifford, to get upon the right track for the recovery of his nephew's child.

'He is a just man, and will tender the best advice,' Mary said. 'It is true that a father has a right to his own son, but sure I have a right, and a right to save him from the hands of Papists. But I have little hope--it is dead within me--quite dead. My last hope for this world died when I lost my boy.'

'G.o.d grant I may kindle that hope into life once more,' Humphrey said, in a voice of restrained emotion, and not daring to trust himself to say another word, he bent his knee again before Mary, took the long, slender hands which hung listlessly at her side, and bowing his head for a moment over them, Humphrey Ratcliffe was gone!

Mary neither spoke nor moved, and when Goody Pea.r.s.e came with a bowl of milk and bread she found her in a deadly swoon, from which it was hard to recall her. Mistress Forrester came at the old woman's call, and burnt feathers under Mary's nose, and, with a somewhat ruthless hand, dashed cold water over her pale, wan face, calling her loudly by name; and, when at last she recovered, she scolded her for attempting to come downstairs, and said she had no patience with sick folk giving double trouble by wilful ways. Better things were expected of grown women than to behave like children, with a great deal more to the same purpose, which seemed to have no effect on Mary, who lay with large wistful eyes gazing out at the open door through which Humphrey had pa.s.sed--large tearless eyes looking in vain for her boy, who would never gladden them again!

'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 gla.s.s 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 Pea.r.s.e 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 Pea.r.s.e, 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 Pea.r.s.e now held to Mary's pale lips.

'I only want quiet,' she said, in a low, pathetic voice; 'quiet, and, if G.o.d 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 Pea.r.s.e was on the watch at the cas.e.m.e.nt 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.'