Take Courage (44 page)

I was glad of my son's admiration for Sir Thomas, for such an admiration, provided it be for a man of the right kind, is right and proper in a lad and brings out the best in him. But even had I not been glad, I could not have scolded him for it, when Parliament itself displayed an admiration quite as strong. So pleased were both Houses with their General's success at Naseby that they made him a very noble gift: a fair jewel set with diamonds of great value, to be hung round his neck on a blue ribbon. I have seen this jewel—yes, I have seen it, though in very different times from those when it was given. It was a kind of locket, made of two plates of gold. On one plate was a picture in coloured work, enamel I think, of Sir Thomas on the chestnut mare from his own stud, which he rode at Naseby, in front of a distant battle; on the other plate a picture of the House of Commons. Inside, there was a presentation of the battle of Naseby, and
Non Nobis
on a scroll. Indeed it was a very rich fine handsome jewel, and beautiful as well; after I had seen it I determined to copy some part of it with my needle, and so Sir Thomas and his mare and the battle and the scroll live in the set work on our best chair to-day. It was the last piece of fine needlework I undertook.

This Naseby jewel cost seven hundred pounds to make, they say. Whatever it cost, its price could not reach the value of Sir Thomas's services to English liberty—I do not need my Sam to tell me that!

That year we had a heavy visitation of the plague in the West Riding.

Some said that the Scots, who were then quartered on us, had brought it with them, but as to that I do not know. Wherever there is war, there is plague, it seems to me, from what I have read in the history books, though why it should be so I do not altogether understand. I was greatly troubled as the tale of deaths mounted, the more so as I remembered how it had been said before, of the plague in which old Mrs. Thorpe died, that the infection was carried in a pack of wool. Sam was always busy sorting wool, and then too he visited constantly at the markets, where, many people being gathered together, the infection was apt to spread. I wearied myself with thinking what was best to be done, and when one hot August week the deaths in Bradford mounted to the number of twenty-five, I took a resolution, and at breakfast one day told Thomas and Sam that they should go that forenoon to their uncle's in Adel, and stay there till the plague was passed. They stared at me in silence.

“Leave The Breck?” growled Sam.

“If my father came home and found it empty, he would be greatly disappointed,” said Thomas in his clear gentle way. “Besides, there are the oats to harvest.”

“The Breck would not be empty—I should never dream of leaving The Breck empty,” I explained hurriedly. “I shall stay here, and Chris, alas, is not old enough to leave me, so he must stay too.”

“You mean, you will stay here alone with Chris?” queried Thomas, his eyes wide.

“Mother, you must be daft!” said Sam.

“Now, Sam,” said I: “You know I do not like you to use such homely expressions.”

For indeed this was one of my troubles at that time, though a small one: Sam, being about so much with Isaac Baume, amid merchants and weavers and clothiers, was growing very homely in his speech and ways. He said
d'you see
, and
daft
, and
choose how
, and so on, and pronounced his words in a very rough homely fashion, such as we Clarksons had never been accustomed to. I tried to correct him, but I did not like to be always on the lad's back, as we say, for indeed it was not his fault, but that of his company. And then Sam was such a good, stout, warm-hearted lad, so sure and steady in everything he undertook, and we all depended so much on him in all practical matters, that I had not the heart to scold him. Although at this time he was still a mere child, he was already very skilful in all matters concerning cloth, eager to learn more and impatient when Isaac Baume could not answer his questions. “If mi feyther were whoam,” growled Sam on these occasions, saying the words
my father
and
home
thus broadly to express his general irritation: “If mi feyther were whoam, he'd show yon Braume summat.” Then I would make a remonstrance to him, saying how kind Mr. Baume had been to us, and how vexed his father would be to hear him speaking thus roughly. “He'd be more vexed if he saw Baume's cloth,” said Sam with a twinkle in his eye, teasing me. I sometimes troubled myself the more over Sam's speech because it differed increasingly from Thomas's, and it would have been intolerable to me that my sons should be unfriendly or contemptuous one of the other. But in that matter my uneasiness was wasted; though Thomas became more the fluent-speaking scholar, and Sam the Yorkshire clothier, every day, they did not trouble that they differed, but respected each other's qualities and remained staunch friends. With Chris too they were unfailingly kind and loving; I noticed with a quiet pleasure how Sam's speech grew less rough, and Thomas's less learned, whenever they addressed their baby brother.

“Well, Mother,” said Sam now in a reasonable tone, “if you can tell me a better word nor daft for what you said, I'll use it.”

“You are in danger, here, Sam,” I said: “The plague grows every day. At Adel you would be out of the infection.”

“Let Thomas go to Adel and study his book with Uncle Will instead of Mr. Blazet,” said Sam. “I shall not leave you, Mother.”

“I shall not leave The Breck till Father comes,” said Thomas quietly.

“To leave you and Chris! The idea! I never heard such nonsense! Daft, I call it,” grumbled Sam. “You don't want your brothers to leave you, do you, Chris lovey?”

Chris, understanding, as children do, by the tone though not the words, that some reply was expected of him, beat his spoon on the table very heartily.

“That's a good lad,” said Sam, delighted. “No, you don't want us to leave you. No.” He shook his head gravely, and Chris imitated him, laughing joyously, so that it was pretty to see them together. Indeed Chris was the sweetest, merriest child, and the quickest in understanding, I ever saw.

So we all stayed on at The Breck together. But the plague in Bradford grew and grew that autumn; the deaths amounted to two hundred in September, and still increased. With what anxiety I watched Sam daily, to see if he looked heavy or haggard or had signs of the fatal bubo on him, I shall never forget; it left a heavy mark on me. Then at last one day Baume, looking very grave, announced that he thought we must cease from our cloth trade for a while, it was too dangerous. This was a relief to me, though it would make us much the poorer; we both determined, the Baumes and ourselves, to stay on our own land and not draw nigh to anyone till the danger should be overpast; and Sam put a chain on our gate and built it up with furze and twigs, in order that Chris, who was growing very swift on his feet though uncertain, and was of a roving mischievous disposition so that with the work of the house to do I could scarcely manage to keep an eye on him,
should not stray out into the lane and run the hazard of meeting some person bearing the infection.

So I shall never forget the horror and self-reproach I felt when one bright autumn forenoon, the older boys being at work in the fields, glancing out of an upstairs window I saw Chris talking to a man, a stranger. Right in front of the house the two were standing, Chris swaying on his feet a little and his petticoats blowing in the wind, looking up into this man's face and laughing.

“Chris! Chris!” I cried out in an agony. “Come away!”

Chris looked up at me and laughed, but did not stir, and the man actually bent down and took the child's hand in his own.

Then I gave a wail of anguish, for the plague infection is easily carried by touching, and I ran down and out before the house, and cried to Chris again and snatched him away and ran, scolding over my shoulder at the stranger.

“I have not been in Bradford, Penninah,” he called after me. “I have come directly hither from Wakefield. Believe me, I have not been nigh any infection.”

At this use of my name I turned to look at him, and I knew him at once; it was Giles Ferrand. Though indeed he was greatly changed, poor man; his shanks shrunken, his florid face flaccid and melancholy, and part of his hair shaved off, revealing a swollen purple patch on his scalp which looked very tender. One of the moustaches of which he used to be so proud still stayed up firm and curled, but the other drooped mournfully, so that his fingers continually strayed to it. His eyes, faded and rheumy, had a piteous defeated look about them, like a beaten hound's.

“I have not been nigh any infection,” he repeated stiffly. “I saw this youngster tumbling about by the beck just now, and went to his assistance, that is all.”

“Well,” I began, and paused and drew breath, for I was in doubt what I ought to say to him. “Well! You have returned from the war then, Mr. Ferrand?”

“Aye. I got a bang on the head at Marston, and it does not heal,” he said, lifting his fingers to the purple scar.

It seemed a sign from Heaven that he should approach our house holding Chris by the hand, and I thought: However it be, I cannot deny admittance to my own son's grandfather. So I said:

“Come in, and welcome.”

His face brightened a little, and he followed me in and sat himself down by the fireside in the kitchen, and stretched out his hands to the blaze as if he had been chilled to the marrow. I noticed how white and thin and gnarled his fingers were, and how his shoulders stooped and his mouth pouted, in the manner of old people, and I remembered many old times when he had been kind to me, and how his wife had taught me her skill in embroidery, and I looked at Chris, who was leaning against his knee, and I remembered Francis. Then I felt a warmth in my heart towards the old man, and I spoke kindly to him, calling him Uncle Giles, and I fetched some ale and warmed and spiced it. He drank gratefully, but I saw his eye on the cheap rough tankard, though he was too mannerly to speak of it. This gave me an opening, and I said:

“We have had hard times at The Breck in your absence, Uncle.”

“The King's men have had hard times, too,” he said, sighing mournfully.

“Doubtless; but the Hall has not been sacked like The Breck,” I told him.

“The Breck sacked?” he said, startled.

So then I told him what the Royalists had done to us, and he told me how, after the Earl of Newcastle had revoked the order for no quarter, there had been high words between them, and he had betaken himself to the garrison at York, to be out of the sight of Bradford. He had suffered all the siege of York, and fought at Marston Moor, and got away in the train of Prince Rupert, and marched all over England, and fought again at Naseby. The poor man, at first very stiff and mindful of the political differences between our families, as he spoke of his troubles grew softer, and presently broke down and wept on my shoulder very piteously.

“I have crept home to die, Penninah,” said he. “The King—God bless him!—is lost, and my heart is broken.”

“But they are still fighting,” I objected. “I know that our cause will triumph at last, but it surprises me that you already admit it to be so.”

“My heart is broken,” he murmured. “The King is vanquished.”

I pressed him to tell me why he thought so, but that day he would not, merely sighing heavily and shaking his head. To cheer him, I told him how his name and his laithe had saved our cow, whereat he exclaimed and smiled, then took to shaking his head again.

When my boys came in from the fields and found him there, Thomas frowned slightly and shrank into himself and barely opened his lips in greeting, while Sam glowered and was rude outright. I could not find it in my conscience either to command or to coax them into a more gracious behaviour to the cause's enemy, though for my part I saw him only as a lonely old man; and Mr. Ferrand, seeing how things were, rose up and took his leave.

“You have three fine lads, Penninah,” he said, looking round at them wistfully. Chris, whom Sam had put into the high chair he had made for him, to be ready for dinner, chose this moment to laugh his golden laugh and beat joyously with his spoon; Mr. Ferrand stooped to him, smiling, and patted his cheek.

“'Tis long since I saw anything as good as you, little man,” said he.

It was a strange and poignant moment for me, tugging at my heartstrings almost as if it would break them. I could not speak.

Giles Ferrand, straightening himself, explained that he had brought Ralph back with him, and that he should keep only the old manservant to wait on him for the present, at the Hall. If Ralph could be of use with the harvest, he offered, we were to call on him—but here Sam glowered very noticeably, so I was obliged politely to refuse.

When he had gone: “Why did you invite him into the
house, Mother?” said Thomas in his clear quiet voice. “He is a Royalist, and I do not like him.”

“He is your father's uncle, a lonely old man who has lost both wife and son, and a defeated enemy; we must show him kindness and pity,” I said.

“I did not like Captain Ferrand,” said Sam shortly.

“But Mr. Ferrand loved him—as you love Christopher,” I said.

Sam glanced at Chris, who, his mouth smothered in porridge, gave him the sweetest, brightest smile imaginable.

“I never saw such a boy as you for getting your mouth dirty, Chris,” said Sam in a severe tone, wiping the child's mouth energetically, “Never! Your hands, too!” Chris, looking serious, stretched out his hands, and Sam cleaned each little finger separately. “That's better—that's a good boy,” he said, mollified, and Chris, hearing in his tone that he was forgiven, smiled again and stretched out one clean hand to me to see what I thought of it.

After this Sam and Thomas did not glower and shrink, but behaved with a complete though cool respect, when they found Mr. Ferrand by our hearthside—which was well, for he came often. He did not stay long, and always hauled himself up and tottered away as soon as the boys came in, but he liked to sit an hour or two with me, watching me while I cooked or cleaned or sewed; it seemed to soothe and cheer him.