Penshurst Castle Part 34

'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 pa.s.s.'

'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; G.o.d'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, "G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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.