Penshurst Castle Part 37

Lady Pembroke hesitated. Then, after a pause, she said,--

'There are some women who make their own idol, and worship it. After all, it is an unreality to them, because unattainable.'

'Nay, Madam,' Lucy said, with kindling eyes. 'I crave pardon; but the unattainable may yet be a reality. Because the sun is set on high in the heavens, it is yet our own when warmed by its beams and brightened by its shining. True, many share in this, but yet it is--we cannot help it--ours by possession when we feel its influence. Methinks,' the girl said, her face shining with a strange light--'methinks I would sooner worship--ay, and love--the unattainable, if pure, n.o.ble and good, than have part and lot with the attainable that did not fulfil my dream of all that a true knight and n.o.ble gentleman should be.'

Lady Pembroke drew Lucy towards her, and, looking into her face, said,--

'May G.o.d direct you aright, dear child! You have done me and mine good service, and the day, when it comes, that I lose you will be no day of rejoicing for me. When first you entered my household I looked on you as a gay and thoughtless maiden, and felt somewhat fearful how you would bear yourself in the midst of temptations, which, strive as we may, must beset those who form the household of a n.o.bleman like the Earl, my husband. He makes wise choice, as far as may be, of the gentlemen attached to his service; but there is ever some black sheep in a large flock, and discretion is needed by the gentlewomen who come into daily intercourse with them. You have shown that discretion, Lucy, and it makes me happy to think that you have learned much that will be of use to you in the life which lies before you.'

'Dear Madam,' Lucy said, 'I owe you everything--more than tongue can tell; and as long as you are fain to keep me near you, I am proud to stay.'

'I feel a strange calm and peace to-day,' Lady Pembroke said, as she leaned out of the cas.e.m.e.nt and looked down on the scene familiar to her from childhood. 'It is the peace of the autumn,' she said; 'and I am able to think of my father--my n.o.ble father and dear mother at rest in Paradise--gathered in like sheaves of ripe corn into the garner--meeting Ambrosia and the other younger children, whom they surrendered to G.o.d with tears, but not without hope. I am full of confidence that Philip will win fresh laurels, and I only grieve that the parents, who would have rejoiced at his success, will never know how n.o.bly he has borne himself in this war.

There will be news soon, and good Sir Francis Walsingham is sure to send it hither post haste. Till it comes, let us be patient.'

It was the afternoon of the following day that Lucy Forrester crossed the Medway by the stepping-stones, and went up the hill to Ford Manor.

It was her custom to do so whenever Lady Pembroke was at Penshurst. Her stepmother was greatly softened by time, and subdued by the yoke which her Puritan husband, who was now lord and master of the house and all in it, had laid upon her.

As Lucy turned into the lane, she met Ned coming along with a calf, which he was leading by a strong rope, to the slaughter-house in the village.

Ned's honest face kindled with smiles as he exclaimed,--

'Well-a-day, Mistress Lucy, you are more like an angel than ever. Did I ever see the like?'

'Have you heard the good news, Ned?' Lucy asked. 'Mistress Gifford has her boy safe and sound at Arnhem.'

Ned opened eyes and mouth with astonishment which deprived him of the power of speech.

'Yes,' Lucy continued, 'and she is a free woman now, Ned, for her husband is dead.'

'And right good news that is, anyhow,' Ned gasped out at last. 'Dead; then there's one rogue the less in the world. But to think of the boy. What is he like, I wonder? He was a young torment sometimes, and I've had many a chase after him when he was meddling with the chicks. The old hen nearly scratched his eyes out one day when he tapped the end of an egg to see if he could get the chick out. Lord, he was a jackanapes, surely; but we all made much of him.'

'He has been very sick with fever,' Lucy said, 'and, I dare say, marvellously changed in four years. You are changed, Ned,' Lucy said; 'you are grown a big man.'

'Ay,' Ned said, tugging at the mouth of the calf, which showed a strong inclination to kick out, and b.u.t.t with his pretty head against Ned's ribs.

'Ay; and I _am_ a man, Mistress Lucy. I have courted Avice; and--well--we were asked in church last Sunday.'

'I am right glad to hear it, Ned; and I wish you happiness. I must go forward now to the house.'

'I say!--hold! Mistress Lucy!' Ned said, with shamefaced earnestness.

'Don't think me too free and bold--but are you never going to wed? You are a bit cruel to one I could name.'

This was said with such fervour, mingled with fear lest Lucy should be offended, that she could not help smiling as she turned away, saying,--

'The poor calf will kick itself wild if you stay here much longer. So, good-day to you, good Ned; and I will send Avice a wedding gift. I have a pretty blue kerchief that will suit her of which I have no need; for we are all in sombre mourning garments for the great and good lord and lady of Penshurst.'

Lucy found her stepmother seated in the old place on the settle, but not alone. 'Her master,' as she called him with great truth, was with her, and two of 'the chosen ones,' who were drinking mead and munching cakes from a pile on the board.

He invited Lucy to partake of the fare, but she declined, and, having told her stepmother the news about Mary, she did not feel much disposed to remain.

'The boy found, do you say?' snarled her stepmother's husband. 'It would have been a cause of thankfulness if that young limb of the Evil One had never been found. You may tell your sister, Mistress Lucy, that neither her boy nor herself will ever darken these doors. We want no Papists here.'

'Nay, nay, no Papists,' echoed one of the brethren, with his mouth full of cake.

'Nay, nay,' chimed in another, as he set down the huge cup of mead after a prolonged pull. 'No Papists here to bring a curse upon the house.'

Lucy could not help feeling pity for her stepmother, who sat knitting on the settle--her once voluble tongue silenced, her mien dejected and forlorn. Lucy bent down and kissed her, saying in a low voice,--

'You are glad, I know, Mary has found her child.'

And the answer came almost in a whisper, with a scared glance in the direction of her husband and his guests,--

'Ay, ay, sure _I am glad_.'

Lucy lingered on the rough ground before the house, and looked down upon the scene before her, trying in vain to realise that this had ever been her home.

The wood-crowned heights to the left were showing the tints of autumn, and a soft haze lay in the valley, and brooded over the home of the Sidneys, the stately walls of the castle and the tower of the church clearly seen through the branches of the encircling trees, which the storm of a few days before had thinned of many of their leaves.

The mist seemed to thicken every minute, and as Lucy turned into the road she gave up a dim idea she had of going on to Hillside to pay her respects to Madam Ratcliffe, and hastened toward the village. The mist soon became a fog, which crept up the hillside, and, before she had crossed the plank over the river, it had blotted out everything but near objects. There seemed a weight over everything, animate and inanimate. The cows in the meadow to the right of the bridge stood with bent heads and depressed tails. They looked unnaturally large, seen through the thick atmosphere; and the melancholy caw of some belated rooks above Lucy's head, as they winged their homeward way, deepened the depression which she felt creeping over her, as the fog had crept over the country side. The village children had been called in by their mothers, and there was not the usual sound of boys and girls at play in the street. The rumble of a cart in the distance sounded like the mutter and mumble of a discontented spirit; and as Lucy pa.s.sed through the square formed by the old timbered houses by the lych gate, no one was about.

The silence and gloom were oppressive, and Lucy's cloak was saturated with moisture. She entered the house by the large hall, and here, too, was silence. But in the President's Court beyond, Lucy heard voices, low and subdued. She listened, with the foreshadowing of evil tidings upon her, and yet she stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to turn fears into certainty, suspense into the reality of some calamity.

Presently a gentleman, who had evidently ridden hard, came into the hall, his cloak and buskins bespattered with mud. He bowed to Lucy, and said,--

'I am a messenger sent post haste from Mr Secretary Walsingham, with despatches for the Countess of Pembroke. I have sent for one Mistress Crawley, who, I am informed, is the head of the Countess's ladies. My news is from the Netherlands.'

'Ill news?' Lucy asked.

'Sir Philip Sidney is sorely wounded in the fight before Zutphen, I grieve to say.'

'Wounded!' Lucy repeated the word. '_Sore wounded!_' Then, in a voice so low that it could scarcely be heard, she added, 'Dead! is he dead?'

'Nay, Madam; and we may hope for better tidings. For--'

He was interrupted here by the entrance of Mistress Crawley.

'Ill news!' she exclaimed. 'And who is there amongst us who dare be the bearer of it to my lady? Not I, not I! Her heart will break if Sir Philip is wounded and like to die.'

Several young maidens of Lady Pembroke's household had followed Mistress Crawley into the hall, regardless of the reproof they knew they should receive for venturing to do so.

'I cannot tell my lady--nay, I dare not!' Mistress Crawley said, wringing her hands in despair.

'Here is the despatch which Sir Francis Walsingham has committed to me,'

the gentleman said. 'I crave pardon, but I must e'en take yonder seat. I have ridden hard, and I am well-nigh exhausted,' he continued, as he threw himself on one of the benches, and called for a cup of sack.

Lucy meanwhile stood motionless as a statue, her wet cloak clinging to her slender figure, the hood falling back from her head, the long, damp tresses of hair rippling over her shoulders.

'I will take the despatch to my lady,' she said, in a calm voice, 'if so be I may be trusted to do so.'