Take Courage (21 page)

“The treaty is subject to the approval of Parliament,” repeated John, misinterpreting my astounded look.

“Will Parliament approve?” I asked, catching at this straw.

“I doubt it,” said John. “But there will be no fighting till we hear. So if I leave soon, there will be time for me to go and come in peace.”

I saw he wished me to ask him when he meant to leave, and out of wifely duty I tried to do so, but the words stuck in my throat. Fighting in Yorkshire! And John crossing its whole breadth twice, for a few dozen pieces of cloth! I could not speak, from sheer anger and dismay.

“I leave to-morrow at dawn,” said John at length.

Still I did not speak; and although I rose early next morning and saw that John had a good breakfast and wore his warm new cloak, as a wife should, we were not friendly to one another. I had got the children out of bed to say farewell, as was proper, but they were sleepy and seemed not much affected—they were fond of their father but not overmuch, for indeed hitherto poor John had not the faculty of getting himself much loved. John held the children close and kissed them very tenderly, as though his heart was sore and he sought comfort in their sweet flesh; and then I was sorry for him and would have embraced him warmly, but he was too much hurt, and too stiff in nature, to respond swiftly and make an easy reconciliation, and so we parted ill at ease and vexed.

There was little business to do in his absence, trade being so very slack, as we thought at that time. In a way this was a relief, for when Lister had overmuch to do, or some important decision to make, while John was away, he was apt to come and gabble it all out to me in his shrill raw tones. I suffered him patiently, for I knew his faithfulness and skill, but it was a trial for me; for on the one hand Lister would press and press me for an opinion, and go away hurt and grumbling if I gave him none, and on the other if I gave him one he was apt to jeer at it and hold it up to scorn to John when he returned—as indeed he had often every right to do, for though I had always lived where cloth was made, I knew little of its marketing. In the early days when Thomas and Sam were babes, John and I had often laughed together over Lister's expectation that I should understand threads and dyes as well as he did, but now these tales were apt to irritate John's temper and I did my best not to provoke them. Now that things were so quiet about the place, I thought, at least I shall not have to listen to Lister. But I was mistaken; in his enforced leisure he spent long hours leaning against the house door, his freckled face long and mournful, talking about the difficulties of weaving, the iniquities of King Charles and the marvellous
goodness of John. I had not quite understood before the strength of his devotion to my husband, and I schooled myself to listen to him willingly, feeling it a kind of penance for my vexation with John, of which I wished to be ashamed. When letters came from Hull, telling that the business of the cloth ship was proceeding well, for the Governor saw the force of John's argument about the ruin of the Parliament's cause in Yorkshire if the clothing towns were impoverished, I read them aloud to Lister as well as to my sons. Lister was greatly excited, he cracked his great knuckles with glee and quoted half a dozen psalms at once.

I too was glad of the news, for, knowing John's obstinacy well, I knew he would not leave Hull till he had settled the matter one way or the other, and I longed with increasing urgency to have him safe back home. In a very few days after his departure the treaty of neutrality received the fate he had expected; Parliament condemned it, promptly and utterly. Next we heard that Lord Ferdinando Fairfax was appointed General of all the Parliament's forces in our county. This was another shock to me; I had been slowly coming to the notion that there might be fighting in Yorkshire, but now this appointment seemed to make it sure. Armies in Yorkshire! And John with fifty miles of it to cross! And all for a few score yards of cloth!

So, although my anxiety grew, my anger did not diminish, and when at last one afternoon Lister from the loom-chamber suddenly shouted to me that the master was coming up the lane with three other horsemen, though I ran to the door to welcome John as a wife should, in my heart I had not wholly forgiven him. I will welcome him, I will be glad of his return, I told myself mutinously, but I will
not
be grateful for the safety of a shipload of kerseys. I waited for his greeting; will his sons come first, or his cloth, I wondered, half smiling, as two horses drew up at The Breck door—John's strong bay nag looking squat and full of corners compared with the shapely white horse at its side. (For a moment I thought of Snowball—I had not remembered Snowball for nearly ten years.)

“Wife! Wife!” called John in a loud lively tone, dismounting rapidly. “Here is Sir Thomas Fairfax, come to dine with us. Welcome to The Breck, Sir Thomas,” he added, turning to the rider on the white horse with an eager smile.

One of the mounted men behind rode up to take his master's bridle, and I found myself receiving a bow from Sir Thomas Fairfax, against a background of buff leather coats, bristling, as it seemed to me, with swords and muskets.

I was startled by this sudden intrusion of the gentry and the military into our quiet home life, and felt shy and even a little frightened at the prospect of receiving a knight at my table; but as soon as I looked into Sir Thomas's eyes, I knew my fears were petty and ill-founded.

“He is a very noble gentleman,” I thought at once; and I have never had any cause to change that view.

The great Fairfax, as he so soon became, was at that time tall and slight, with long thin dangling hands and a long thin quiet sallow face; his high aquiline features were shaded with a kind of melancholy, a grave reserve that was both stern and dreamy. His dark hair, very fine in texture like that of my little Thomas, fell on his shoulders somewhat carelessly arranged, but his moustache and small tufted beard were trim and comely. In gait he was not graceful in the ordinary sense of the word, but he had an unforced dignity, even in the smallest actions, which came from the noble spirit within him. Yes, he was altogether a most noble and most notable gentleman; not exactly handsome, but yet one to call the eye in any company by some stamp of greatness about his countenance. The prints in the pamphlets, of which there were so many later, never did his looks justice; there was an air of such lofty magnanimity, such honourable integrity, such delicate generosity, in the very turn of his mouth and the look of his fine hazel eyes, as was not to be caught by ink and paper.

“I am very g-g-glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Thorpe,” said Sir Thomas, startling me afresh by his stutter. “I have heard m-m-much of you from your husband.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder at John, who stood eagerly by; it was a glance of affectionate understanding and respect, such as I had seen no man give John before, save perhaps David. “Very m-m-much,” concluded Sir Thomas, and he smiled very kindly at me.

He ever stammered painfully over certain letters, especially when he was nervous or dejected, as I soon learned. But I soon learned, too, that the defect in him seemed no defect at all, but merely a natural feature in the man which you accepted and grew fond of for his sake, like his thick eyebrows or the way the hair grew up from his forehead.

As I had not expected John to dinner, much less a distinguished visitor, I had nothing to put on the table worthy of Sir Thomas; but I had ever disliked housewifely fuss and pretences, and judged he would dislike them too, so I told him simply I had nothing ready, and begged his indulgence while I prepared the best meal I could for him. He bowed gravely, and said he would regard it as an honour.

“There are the men too, wife,” remarked John.

Pleased that John had sufficient faith in my abilities as a housewife to take it all thus quietly, I said: “I will give orders,” and went through into the kitchen, where the two mounted soldiers had already found their way. It seemed they were not Sir Thomas's personal attendants, who had been left behind on the road, somewhat to their discomfiture; these were dragoons, and had soldiered with Sir Thomas and his brother in the Low Countries. Without their leather helmets and their strange-looking muskets, which they had already unslung and stacked neatly by the door, they proved to be very decent sober Yorkshiremen, come off the Fairfaxes' estates in Wharfedale; they tucked themselves into corners as if they were well used to keeping out of the way in kitchens, and began to explain their weapons and the lacing of their buff-coats to little Sam, who gazed at them open-mouthed, and to Lister, who as usual poked his head round the door, eager to hear what was going on. I thought it a marvel to have these two
troopers in my kitchen, little knowing how many I should see there before the year was out; as I attended to the preparing of a couple of fowls and one of our own geese (the season being not far after Michaelmas), the garnishing of a home-cured ham and the setting-out of the best pewter table ware, my heart felt lighter than it had for long enough, from mere excitement. I could hear the voices of the two men—John's strong and homely, Sir Thomas's deep and slow—rising and falling as they strolled about the place together, drew near or walked away. Sir Thomas seemed to know little or nothing of the making of cloth, but he was interested enough to ask questions, and he could not have asked them of any man in the West Riding better able to answer than John. Occasionally I caught sight of them through the open doorway, John pointing and talking with unusual eagerness, Sir Thomas nodding his head and stammering some brief remark which showed that he understood.

At dinner all went well. Sir Thomas ate heartily, if in a somewhat abstracted manner, and my two little sons behaved as they should. Not that I ever doubted of Thomas in this matter, for he was always a courteous gracious child, never thrusting himself forward, but Sam was apt to be a little brusque and over-lively. This day, however, to my great pleasure, he stayed silent and still, for he hung open-mouthed on every word Sir Thomas uttered, fixing his childish eyes on him in a round wonderment which was very flattering to any man who understood children's ways. Sir Thomas after his grave dreamy fashion was such a man; he asked the boys' names, and addressed them sometimes, kindly but without condescension, speaking to them seriously as though they were grown men, which ever wins the hearts of children.

I ventured to ask if Sir Thomas Fairfax had children of his own; he said he had been married five years, and had a little girl of four whom he called Moll, and another little girl, born last year, who had recently died. Sam's face fell ludicrously to hear that his hero—for Sir Thomas was
already his hero—had only girls, for Sam despised girls greatly at that age; I have often noticed that those men who are most manly and most susceptible to women's charms when they are grown, are most regardless of them when they are small. But if Sam thought little of Moll, that was not her father's opinion; Sir Thomas's dark eyes brightened and the shade of melancholy slipped from his face like a cloud from the sun, as he talked eagerly to me of his little daughter. When we had finished our meal, and bowed our heads in thanks to God for His mercy, and left the table, Sir Thomas resumed his talk of Moll; she was inclined to be sickly, he said—in my mind's eye I saw her, a dark plain serious little thing like her father, with fine eyes—and he asked my advice on some of her childish ailments. I gave it as well as I could, for indeed the remedies he told me the physician had advised his wife to apply seemed to me too severe and chancy for a child so young.

“But I have no skill in medicine,” I added hastily.

Sir Thomas stretched out his hand and laid one finger very gently on Sam's cheek.

“The hue of this b-b-belies you, madam,” said he.

The touch of Sam's fresh warm skin seemed to move him, I thought, for he turned away abruptly, walked towards the house door and looked out. It was a very fine autumn day, and at this hour the westering sun lay very clear and still, making long shadows, across our fields. The air was crisp, with a hint of frost in it, the sky a pale clear blue, every blade of grass seemed to stand out distinct and still; from time to time a handful of leaves from our beech trees down by the beck loosed themselves from the branches with a gentle rustle, and floated very softly and lightly to the ground, a golden shower. Bradford in the distance looked as if it had been washed, its grey walls clean and full of light.

“The lot is fallen unto thee in a fair ground, Jack,” said Sir Thomas, resting his hand on my husband's shoulder. “Yea, thou hast a goodly heritage.”

John flushed with pleasure. “Aye, The Breck is a gradely
spot,” he said gruffly. “And the price of a virtuous woman is above rubies.”

Sir Thomas gave his gentle half-ironic smile, and looked over his shoulder at me.

“Virtue shows a g-g-greater g-grace,
Smiling from a beauteous face,”

said he.

“It is true enough,” agreed John, looking aside and colouring, but not ill pleased.

I could not but smile in reply, but I was not as content as my looks showed me. I had never heard anyone call my husband
Jack
before, and it was a measure of my failure as a wife to him, I felt, that I myself had never thought of doing so. I was struck silent, and stood pondering. John was now pointing out Bradford Church and the inns and so on, and giving the hills their names.

“It is a very untenable place,” observed Sir Thomas, shading his eyes with his hand and following John's explanations keenly. “Down in a dale, with heights all round. A couple of cannon well placed could play on the whole town.”

“Bang, bang!” cried little Sam at this, rushing out and throwing himself down on the grass. Thomas imitated him, more quietly.

“Cannon in Bradford!” I exclaimed.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Thorpe,” said Sir Thomas, turning quickly. “I am a s-s-soldier, and see things ever with a s-s-soldier's eye.”