Take Courage (11 page)

So how the King went on in his journey I never very clearly knew, save that his behaviour in Scotland then was the foundation of all our later troubles with that country. We made out from the diurnals that Laud tried to force on Scotland the same church rules he was trying to cram down the English throat; it seemed he carried himself so high at the King's Coronation in Edinburgh as actually to thrust aside from the throne some Scottish Bishop because he was not wearing his whites, as they called surplices in those days. But the Scots were a stubborn folk and very pious, and I think they did not yield much of what was wanted, for the King came very quickly back home from them to London. Then there happened an event most disastrous for our family, as for England, for the Archbishop of Canterbury died, and Laud had his place at the head of the Church.

We soon felt the weight of his hand, in Bradford. Mr. Okell came into our house one autumn evening, leaning on Will's arm, wearing a very grave face; Will looked warm and excited, and was carrying some sort of an official
paper. It seemed the King, on Laud's instigation, had ordered every clergyman in England to read from the pulpit a declaration called the Book of Sports, and it was a copy of this Will held in his hand. My father bade me read it to him, and though Will pouted a little, wishing to read it himself, I knew my father could hear my voice, and understand it, more easily than that of other folk, so I took the paper and read it aloud. It commanded that after church on Sundays everyone should be allowed to indulge in lawful recreations, such as dancing and archery and vaulting; and it scolded the Puritans roundly for having tried to prohibit them. In some dioceses, explained Mr. Okell when I had finished, the Bishops were demanding from each parish a certificate that this proclamation had been duly read, signed by the churchwardens.

“I will never sign such a certificate!” cried my father feverishly, his poor old head nodding.

“I shall not read the proclamation. I believe it to be against the law of God,” said Mr. Okell.

“It is a desecration of the Sabbath!” cried Will warmly.

I could not help remembering how Christ had said the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath; moreover, in the Book of Sports itself there were some phrases, explaining how the labouring sort of men had only Sundays on which to refresh their spirits, which seemed to me very just and of a kindly intention. Yet, man's whole duty on earth, and surely his highest pleasure, should be the service of God, and it seemed little enough to give Him one day out of seven. So I remained perplexed and doubtful on this matter.

Although the Book of Sports was not read in our church, other pulpits nearby published it, and its tenor became generally known in Bradford, and fanned all the bitter dissensions there, which had been a little fading, into life again. Mr. Ferrand and those of his party were highly pleased; they laughed heartily at the stricter people's discomfiture, and encouraged the townsfolk to dance and enjoy themselves on Sundays, so that the Turls were once
again full of men cockfighting and gaming and shouting. By way of answer to this, those of the Puritan persuasion kept Sunday more strictly than before; they would not eat cooked meats that day, or read, or indulge in any recreation or visiting, but devoted the Lord's Day wholly to His service, in fasting and preaching and prayer.

This made our Fairgap very quiet on Sundays, most of our neighbours being Puritans, and caused Sarah and David to look askance at Francis if he came in on that day; for with his spirited horse and his bright clothes and his lively laughter he seemed a noisy disturbance, almost a breach of the peace. On such occasions Sarah would try to hush him down, and David sat in a corner with a frown above his gentle eyes and his rosy mouth puckered. But I could not bring myself to drive Francis away by scolding him. I judged that it was far more pleasing to God that he should be with us than with the Tempests, and if my father did not see fit to rebuke him, I did not feel called upon to do so. But this last, I knew, was an evasion, for my poor father's mind wandered so, he was often uncertain which day of the week we were at.

One Lord's Day afternoon when Francis came thus to us, he brought his lute, and sat lightly strumming on it, while my father drowsed in his chair by the hearth. It was the day of the first autumn frost, so that the brightly leaping fire was very agreeable. After a time Francis began to play an old ballad,
There is a Garden in her Face
, and sang it softly, fixing his eyes in a fiery glance on me the while. It seemed to me that, in the pause between the verses, I heard a kind of murmur of voices outside the house; I felt vaguely troubled and uneasy, but put that aside for the pleasure of listening to Francis. Then suddenly the voices swelled to a shout as the house door was thrown open. Will and John stood on the threshold, both looking extremely vexed; Eliza, carrying the baby, came next, looking down her nose with a virtuous disapproving air; behind them loomed a crowd of prim and angry-looking faces.

“Francis Ferrand,” cried Will warmly, “will you cease this unruly behaviour, this ungodly desecration of the Sabbath?”

Francis, without stirring from his chair, lazily rolled his head round and raised his thick fair eyebrows in a look of mock astonishment. “What desecration, pray?” he drawled. Will, pursing his lips, shot out his finger and pointed accusingly at the lute. “What harm is there in sweet music?” drawled Francis, plucking a descending chord from the strings.

“You are making Penninah's house a scandal,” said John.

Francis's face changed, and he sprang to his feet.

“Why, you prick-eared prating Puritan!” he shouted: “What is Pen's house to you?”

At this John's face quivered with rage, and he suddenly raised his fist and brought it down full on the lute in his cousin's hand. The frame broke, and the strings twanged piercingly and rent. Francis gave a cry of fury and sprang at him, striking him on the mouth. Then they fought savagely, knocking down the chairs, and falling to the ground, rolled over and over. They were not now boys, but men, and they used their full strength, striking hard and viciously at each other's faces. Francis had the greater skill, I saw as if in a dream, John was the stronger. The neighbours recoiled and shouted for the Constable, Eliza wept, Will with some courage strove vehemently to separate them, following them as they moved and receiving not a few blows in the process. David threw himself in front of my father's chair, for the poor old man, so suddenly and alarmingly awakened, was unable to stir, but sat still and trembled. For my part I stood numb with anguish, my hands to my heart.

At length the two were dragged apart and held back from each other, breathing heavily and glaring, and Will seized John's arm and urged him out of the house and down towards Kirkgate. My father staggered to his feet, and waved the crowd away with a shaking hand; from respect to him they withdrew, though somewhat discontented
and muttering. Francis, his doublet torn, a deep jagged scratch on his arm, a heavy bruise on his forehead, leaned against the table, panting, and hurled insults after them, till David slipped across and closed the door. Then at last I found my voice and my power of movement.

“You are hurt, Francis,” I whispered, going to him.

He brushed back his hair and looked down at his arm from which blood was welling.

“I can't deny it,” he said in a vexed tone, and began to curse softly.

I took him into the kitchen, and sat him by the hearth and took off his doublet, and fetched towels and water, and began to bathe his injuries. Although I was so much distressed I could hardly stand, I could not but rejoice to take my lover's face between my hands and minister to him, to turn his strong white arm over and bathe it gently.

“Thy hands are the softest in England, Pen,” murmured Francis. He turned to me and put his arms round my waist as if he were a child, like David, and I bent over him and cradled his head on my breast and spoke words of love to him.

“I fear Mr. Ferrand will be grieved over this,” I murmured presently.

Francis laughed. “Aye, that he will,” he said. “Especially since he forbade me this house long ago, after the murder of Buckingham.”

“He forbade you to come here?” I cried. “Oh, Francis!”

My father's voice cried out suddenly behind me: “I your father has forbidden you to come here, Francis Ferrand, leave my house and do not enter it again without his permission. Do me the favour to tell him I did not know of his prohibition.”

He was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his stick but otherwise looking strong and well, as he used, with a spark in his eye and a flush on his face. David stood beside him.

“Why, Mr. Clarkson!” protested Francis.

“Go now, go now!” cried my father, and he struck his stick angrily on the ground. “Leave my house. Go now.”

Francis shook back his hair, snatched up his doublet and sauntered away coolly.

“I have been dull in this matter, Penninah,” went on my father. “I see it is Francis you love. I thought that was over long ago and John was your choice for a husband.”

I wept without speaking.

“Why do you weep for Francis, Pen?” said David, in a quick hard tone. “He is not worthy of you.”

“I fear indeed there are some personal vices and licences in Frank's life,” agreed my father. His voice began to droop and quaver, till it no longer held its former strength but sank to its customary frailness. “Yet there is a kind of brightness and glory in him. But Giles Ferrand …And John…” He broke off, and shook his head sadly. “I could wish to see you safely married, Pen,” he quavered, “before I leave you.”

“Don't speak of leaving us, Father,” I murmured.

He shook his old head again sorrowfully, and stumbled back to his chair, David helping him.

In a moment or two David came back to the kitchen, where I in a daze was tidying away the water and towels.

“There is someone to see you, Pen,” he said.

Hoping he meant Francis, I turned to the door eagerly. John stood there. He was a sorry spectacle; his mouth looked torn and inflamed, his nose bruised and swollen.

“I have come to say I am sorry, Penninah,” he said.

“Well, you have said it,” I answered him, my voice trembling with anger.

“You are angry with me, Penninah,” he went on in his stiff steady tone, “and rightly. I was in the wrong.”

“Yes, you were in the wrong,” I told him.

“Aye! It is wrong to mingle a private grudge with a public duty,” said John.

“A private grudge? What grudge have you against your own cousin?” I wondered.

John gave me a steady look. “I am of a very jealous disposition, Penninah,” he said drily.

Such a mingling of feelings raged in my heart just then that I was almost distracted. However little a woman may care for a man, she cannot be unaffected when she learns he loves her strongly enough to be shaken from his ordinary courses for her sake. I was deeply angry with John, sorry for him because I could not love him and yet exasperated with him for ever thinking I could do so, grateful to him for his kindness to my father; I respected him for his honesty and goodness and at the same time detested him for having these qualities which Francis lacked. I was angry with Francis, to whose light delays and deceptions all this trouble was attributable, yet full of a searing love for him. In a kind of despairing impotence between the two of them I stood before John in silence, my breath coming unevenly; and in a moment he gave me a short clumsy bow, and left me.

All that week I waited for Francis. I had to suffer some scoldings from Will and some coolness from the neighbours, on the subject of the unseemly disturbance at our house on Lord's Day, but I took it all very quietly, for indeed I scarcely heard it; I was waiting for Francis. Every minute, every hour, I waited for him. Every footfall I heard in Fairgap I thought might be his; every horse's hoof might herald his coming. At every sound which came near our door I broke off from my work about the house, sweeping or sewing, and raised my head, and listened, waiting. The footfall approached, I smiled with hope—then it passed, dying away in the distance, and I returned to my broom or my needle. On Thursday, I made sure Francis would come, and fondly tricked myself into believing he would bring Mr. Ferrand with him. In the afternoon my father roused himself and went down to the Cross. David was at school, Sarah was baking in the kitchen, so I was alone. I sat myself down at my tapestry frame and tried to occupy myself with it. After a while I could bear it no longer; I rose and paced the room, gazing at the door every time
I turned. Francis did not come. Then sick with longing I went to the door jamb and leaned against it, listening and waiting, and stayed thus, silent and motionless, while the fire sank and the autumn day waned. Now it was dusk, and the men began to come home from Market; their footsteps approached, my heart leaped; then a door opened up the street, a woman's voice was raised in welcome—she had her man safe home, but I had not mine. I seemed to live a hundred years as I leaned thus against the door, listening and waiting. Then David ran in, rosy from the cold, and then Will came with my father, and the Market was over and hope for that day was done. Then I hoped for Francis on Friday, and then on Saturday; and then I rose happily on Lord's Day, making sure to see him at church, but he was not there. I felt a slight bitterness rise in my heart at this; if Sarah's faithful Denton were to absent himself from morning service, he would be haled before the magistrates and fined, but Francis Ferrand of Holroyd Hall could stay away as he chose, with impunity. It was not fair.

Will was to preach that day at the afternoon exercise, and my father, who took great pleasure in Will's ministry, was determined to go hear his son. I tried to dissuade him for it was a very cold grim day, a hard frost on the ground and the air grey and sullen, but he became petulant, complaining that I always wished him not to do what he wished to do and to do what he wished not to do. At this David laughed, saying it sounded like the General Confession in the Prayer Book, and my father smiled, and I, seeing he seemed himself to-day, yielded gladly, for I ever hated to cross those I loved, and ran to warm his cloak by the fire. We set off in good time and went fairly briskly down Westgate, and turned into Kirkgate and went at a slower pace, as my father's steps flagged, down the hill and across the bridge. The steep Church Bank was nowadays a great trial to my father; we took it very slowly, halting often, and David ran ahead to greet Eliza, who was just entering, and many folk who had left their homes long after us overtook
us and passed before us into the church. They all had a word for my father, who was much loved; and what with his replies to these greetings, and the steepness of the hill, he was somewhat breathless when we reached the church, and I was anxious for him. But such a sweet look of contentment came to his face when Will's voice sounded, that I felt the risk of a little fatigue was worth taking to give him so much pleasure. Mr. Okell was not present, for of late his infirmities gained on him, so Will had it all in his charge. At length he mounted the pulpit, and my father looked up towards him, smiling happily.