The two sisters were locked in a long embrace.
"I am sorry you are fetched back from all your pleasures, little sister,"
Mary said at last.
"Nay, I am glad to come. I have had a taste of happiness, and it will last till you are well, and we both go away from here, and the boy is found--for he will be found--Humphrey Ratcliffe will scour the world ere he gives up finding him, and Mr Sidney has granted him leave to go whither he lists, to get hold of that wicked man with his horrible, cruel, black eyes. How I hate him!"
"Do not speak of him," Mary said, shuddering; "do not speak of him," and she put her hand to her side, as if the very mention of him sent a pang through her heart. "Let me look at you, Lucy," she said presently. "Turn your face to the light that I may scan it. Ah!" she said, "still my little, innocent sister, and with a happy light in her eyes."
Lucy"s face grew crimson.
"Yes," she said. "I have been happy, though there have been some crooks and quips to bear from old Mother Crawley. Yet, oh, Mary! when there is one big heart-joy, everything else seems so small, and poor, and mean."
"Have you made George Ratcliffe happy, then, with a promise to requite his love?"
"George Ratcliffe!" Lucy exclaimed. "Nay, Mary--not for a lap full of gold."
"Who, then, is it? for there is someone? Who is it, Lucy? I pray G.o.d he is a n.o.ble Christian gentleman."
"He is the n.o.blest, and best, and highest that ever lived. Hearken, Mary!
and do not scoff at me--nor scorn me. No, you can never do that, I know. My knight is far above me--so far, it may be, that he will never stoop so low as to give me more than pa.s.sing signs of his good-will. But I _have had_ these. He has shone on me with his smile, he has thought of my comfort, he did not deem the country maiden of no account, when grand ladies were ogling him, and trying to win his favour, he did not think me beneath notice when he lifted me on the saddle this very morning, and covered me with a warm cloth, and bade me "G.o.d speed." If nought else comes--well, I will live on what I have had from him. The crumbs of bread from him are sweeter and richer than a feast from another. As I have jogged hither to-day, there has been the thought of him to make me willing to give up everything to gain his approval--his meed of praise. He bid me come to you, and I came. Nay, it was my Lady Pembroke who _bid_ me come--it was Humphrey Ratcliffe who said I _must_ e"en come--but it was my knight who told me I _did well_ to come. And at these words a new feeling quickened in me about it.
"You do not understand, Mary, I see you do not understand. You think me silly, and vain, and selfish--and you are right. I am all three. I have been all three, and hot-tempered, and saucy, and oh! a hundred other things, but now I have an aim to be good and act in all things as my knight would have me. Oh, Mary, could you have seen him as he rode into the tilt-yard on Whit-Monday, in his blue and gold armour, sitting on his fine horse, so stately and grand--could you have seen him break lance after lance, his face shining like the sun, you would know what it is for me to feel such an one can give a thought to me--even a pa.s.sing thought.
"Mary! Mary! I cannot help it. I love him--I worship him--and there is an end of the whole matter. It will make no odds whether what looks impossible becomes possible--he is to me what no one beside can ever be. There, it is out now, and I pray you do not despise me. I will be ever so patient now. I will do all I am bidden, and one day, Mary, we will leave this place--it is no home now, and I will return to my Lady Pembroke, and Humphrey Ratcliffe will find Ambrose, and you will be his wife, and--"
"Hush, Lucy; not a word more. I will keep sacred and secret in my heart what you have told me, dear child. I will not judge you hardly. You are young--so young--as young as I was when I went forth to sorrow and misery.
For you, even though I think your dream baseless, and that you are feeding hope on what may turn out to be the ashes of disappointment, I will not despair. I know your idol is worthy, and love for one who is pure and n.o.ble cannot work ill in the end. I will keep your secret; now, Lucy, little sister--keep mine. I can never wed with another man, for my husband lives--and has stolen from me my boy."
"Mary, Mary!" Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister"s pillow. "Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only of myself--I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really so heartless and vain, I will be good and comfort you, Mary."
Mary Gifford stroked Lucy"s brown head, and murmured,--
"Dear child! dear child! we will help each other now as we have never done before."
From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester seemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking girlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and river of womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares--others with reluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to face with the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly find themselves on the other side to return no more.
BOOK II
Since nature"s works be good, and death doth serve As nature"s work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve, Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, Disarming human minds of native might; While each conceit an ugly figure bears Which were we ill, well viewed in reason"s light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed with pa.s.sions be, And scarce discern the dawn of coming day, Let them be cleared, and now begin to see Our life is but a step in dusty way, Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind; Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find.--_Arcadia_, p. 457.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
CHAPTER X
AT WILTON
"The silk well could they twist and twine, And make the fair march pine, And with the needle work; And they could help the priest to say His matins on a holy day, And sing a psalm at kirk."
_November 1585._ _Old Rhyme._
The chastened sunshine of an All Saints" summer was lying upon the fair lawns and terrace walks of Wilton House, near Salisbury, in the year 1585.
It was November, but so soft and balmy was the air that even the birds were apparently ready to believe that winter was pa.s.sed over and spring had come.
The thrushes and blackbirds were answering each other from the trees, and the air was filled with their melody and with the scent of the late flowers in the pleasance, lying close under the cloisters, facing the beautiful undulating grounds of Lord Pembroke"s mansion near Salisbury.
The graceful figure of a lady was coming down the gra.s.sy slope towards the house; a boy of five or six years old, with a miniature bow and arrow in his hand, at her side.
"I would like another shot at this old beech tree, mother," the child said.
"I do not care to come in to my tasks yet."
"Will must be an obedient boy, or what will Uncle Philip say, if he comes to-day and finds him in disgrace with his tutor?"
"Uncle Philip isn"t here," the child said.
"But he will be ere noon. I have had a despatch from him; he is already at Salisbury, and may be here at any hour."
At this moment Lady Pembroke saw one of her ladies hastening towards her, and exclaimed,--
"Ah, Lucy! have you come to capture the truant?"
"Yes, Madam, and to tell you that Sir Philip Sidney"s courier has ridden into the courtyard to announce his Master"s speedy arrival."
"Then I will not go till I have seen Uncle Philip!" and Will dragged at Lucy"s hand as she attempted to lead him towards the house.
"Nay, Will," his mother said, "you must do as you are bid." And forthwith the boy pouted; yet he knew to resist his mother"s will was useless. But presently there was a shout, as he broke away from Lucy Forrester"s hand, with the cry,--
"Uncle Philip!" and in another moment Sir Philip had taken his little nephew in his arms, and, saluting him, set him on his feet again. Then, with a bow and smile to Lucy, he bent his knee with his accustomed grace before his sister, who stooped down and kissed him lovingly, with the words,--
"Welcome! welcome! dear Philip. Thrice welcome, to confirm the good news of which my lord had notice yester even."
"Yes; I have come to say much, and to discuss many schemes with you. I stay but till the morrow, when I would fain you got ready to see me later at Penshurst."
"At Penshurst!"
"Yes. I have set my heart on meeting all my kindred--more especially our father and mother--there ere I depart. Now, now, Will! wherefore all this struggling to resist Mistress Forrester? Fie, fie! for shame!"
"It is the attraction of your presence, Philip, which is too much for Will," Lady Pembroke said.