Take Courage (45 page)

In these quiet hours Giles Ferrand talked and talked, flitting from one subject to another, as old people do, and I murmured occasional responses; he talked of his wife, of his son, and of his experiences in the war; of these last especially I heard many interesting particulars. I soon began to understand why he thought the King's cause hopeless, for his tales revealed so much silliness, and so much confusion, among the King's commanders, as did any Parliamentarian's heart good to listen to. He spoke of Prince Rupert's tiresome whimsies and fancies—his standard, which was nigh on five yards long, and embroidered in so thick a gold that it was almost as much
as a man could do to carry it; his dog Boy, which he would always have near him even in battle, so that the poor thing lost its life at Marston. It seemed that the Earl of Newcastle had not been best pleased at Prince Rupert's arrival to raise the siege of York; he was glad enough of the relief of the siege, but did not fancy giving up his command to a man so many years his junior. The Earl did not wish to give battle then at all, said Giles Ferrand, but Prince Rupert said he had a letter from the King commanding it; he would not produce the letter when asked, however, which caused many of the officers to look at each other uneasily. Again, said Uncle Giles, the soldiers within York, when urged to march out and give battle, fell into a raging mutiny, they being many weeks in arrears with pay, and the Prince and the Earl must needs harangue them for an hour to get them moving. The Earl of Newcastle, he said, was ever kindly disposed to him on account of Francis, and on the very evening when Marston was fought, Giles was in the Earl's coach smoking a pipe with him. The Prince had sent word that there would be no battle that night, so the Earl withdrew to his coach to be comfortable, when suddenly the ordnance began raging, and the Earl had to throw on his armour all in a huddle and rush out to the battle. After the defeat at Marston, Prince Rupert, to do him justice, wished the Earl to retire to the north and recruit his forces to fight again, but the Earl said no, he could not endure the laughter of the court at his defeat, he should fly to Holland.

“How can a cause be won with such commanders?” said Giles.

“How indeed?” murmured I, and I thought with great satisfaction of Sir Thomas Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, who were commanders of such different quality.

“'Tis no wonder the King does not come into his own again,” lamented Giles, shaking his bruised old head, then putting up his hand to it.

“Does your head pain you, Uncle?” I said, to distract him from the King's sorrows.

“No—no. I've always been strong and hearty, not one for pains,” said old Giles peevishly. “If I'd not had this bang on the head I'd have lived to a good old age, Penninah.”

I expect there were many such old Royalist soldiers crept home from the wars, by many a kitchen hearth that winter, crouched close to the fire to warm their blood thinned by hardships and rough weather, their feet and elbows well tucked in so as to be out of the way and seem to take up no space, their shoulders drooping, their voices droning. I daresay, too, they set their hostesses back a good deal in fuel and food and drink, as Giles did me. I did not grudge it, though sometimes I smiled ruefully over his appetite and his liking for a heaped-up fire. Baume wondered that I could be so kind to a Royalist, but in truth I was glad of his company, which made a very welcome extension to a social circle bounded for overlong by Isaac Baume and my two boys—then too, as the plague waned, with Thomas at Mr. Blazet's and Sam at market or helping Isaac Baume on his land or ours, which we farmed together, my lads were much away from the house during the daytime, and I was lonely. Besides, Giles played with Chris and kept him occupied while I was busy.

Having nothing else to do, as it seemed, for he did nothing towards putting his land under plough or pasture, save to lay in a few poor-looking sheep, Giles was always ready to play with Chris some game of ball or marbles, or tell him stories. These were of a martial kind, or about horses and dogs and hawks and hunts and the like, such as Chris did not hear from our family, and which therefore engaged his attention. As his brothers were so often out or occupied, and I was busied with the work of the house, Chris grew to turn to Giles for amusement, and slowly, and to me very poignantly, the old man's love fixed itself upon his grandchild. As Chris grew he was indeed a very lovely boy; his skin white, his nose straight, his eyes sparkling, his mouth very red and comely. His hair darkened a little from its baby gold, and swept about his head in great
thick rich russet curls. He was always very merry and fond of fun, with a sweet golden laugh, full of affection and knowing no malice; it was no wonder anyone should love him. Giles began to bring him presents: a woollen ball, a bow and arrows, a whip, a set of red woollen reins for driving; none of these toys were new, and I guessed they had belonged long ago to Francis, and Mrs. Ferrand had treasured them. Then, too, Giles taught Chris to play bowls on his private alley. Best of all in Chris's view, at Holroyd Hall there was a very ancient rocking horse, with painted red nostrils and black spots and somewhat threadbare tail; it was Chris's greatest joy to ride him. And so we often saw Giles Ferrand and Chris together; sometimes Giles was seated, talking, twirling his moustache that drooped, his faded old eyes very wide and innocent as he told some lengthy story; sometimes they were about the land together, crossing the beck to the Hall or back again, Chris skipping and leaping about so that the old man seemed almost to totter in the wind of his passing. Well, even if Giles tore my heart some times by saying with a chuckle over some daring liveliness of the child's: “My Frank was just the same when he was a lad,” yet Chris was learning good manners and speech from his grandfather, I thought—and besides, I was glad for the old man to have some interest to distract him from his politics; for by this time the Royalist cause was falling in ruin, and the King had fled away in total defeat to the Scots, who were now negotiating on what terms to deliver him to Parliament.

It was one day about this time, as I remember, that Sam, coming in on a showery afternoon and finding old Giles seated by the hearth as usual, said to him in a very loud voice:

“Have you signed your composition yet, Mr. Ferrand?”

Giles was in truth a little deaf, but not very much so, and like all persons in that predicament disliked to be shouted at; it was one of Sam's ways of indicating his disapproval of Royalists, to speak loudly to him. But to-day I thought the old man's vexation out of all proportion, for
crying: “Eh? What? What are you talking about?” he rose up at once and almost ran from the house, though the rain outside still came down heavily. I scolded Sam a little, then asked what he had meant by his question. Sam said he did not properly know, but there was a great deal of talk in the market about delinquent Royalists' estates being sequestered, or some such word, and if they wanted to be let off they had to sign a composition. It seemed to me then that old Giles had understood Sam's question very well, and run from the truth of it, and I took the next chance I had to ask Isaac Baume about the matter. He told me: yes, it was true; the estates of all who had served against the Parliament were thus sequestered, confiscated wholly; but if the Royalist concerned made a petition saying he had given up his evil courses, and took the oath to Parliament, he was let off with a fine, and this was called
making your composition
. The great nobility, he said, were obliged to go to London to make this settlement, but he believed the lesser gentry could do it at the quarter sessions, locally. An oath had to be sworn before a minister or a magistrate.

“And what kind of a thing is this petition which must be signed?” I asked.

“Oh—a kind of obliging letter, d'you see,” said Baume.

“Will you find out what it should be, and I will speak to my uncle about it?” I requested him.

In a week or two he brought me a couple of papers which he said were copies of the compositions of certain Royalists in Halifax and Bradford; he had bribed some clerk or other to get them for him. They were writ in a somewhat crabbed hand, so I laid them aside for the moment, and that evening bade Thomas read them to me.

“This petition sheweth
,” read Thomas in his clear voice:
“That your petitioner was unhappily persuaded to take upon himself the command of Captain of a troop of horse under the command of the Earl of Newcastle, in which service he continued until September
1645,
and being then convinced of his error——”

“Mr. Ferrand won't like
that,”
said Sam.

“—did lay down arms
,” continued Thomas, “
and hath since lived at his house in Halifax since November last under the power of Parliament.”

“That suits Mr. Ferrand's case very well,” I said.

“That he is heartily sorry for the said error and humbly submits to the mercy of Parliament
,” concluded Thomas.

“Whew!” said Sam. “Mr. Giles Ferrand of Holroyd Hall won't sign that, I promise you.”

“What does the other paper say, Thomas?” I asked uneasily.

“That your petitioner assisted the forces raised against the Parliament for which he craves pardon for his offence and voluntarily submitteth himself,
” read Thomas.

“That is not so—humiliating,” I said, more hopefully.

“Why should you persuade him to make his composition, Mother?” said Sam. “Let him have his whole estate sequestered, or whatever it is; he's a malignant Royalist and well deserves it.”

“His laithe sheltered our cow,” mentioned Thomas.

“You and our Mother are too good to live,” grumbled Sam. “It's only Chris and me that has any sense in us.”

It was on Thomas's lips, I saw, to say that Chris had a fondness for Mr. Ferrand, but I shook my head at him to forbid the utterance, for I did not want Sam's love for Chris clouded by jealousy.

Next time I had Giles Ferrand to myself, I began in a very frank manner on him, saying I was sorry Sam had vexed him by referring to his composition, which must be a very sore trouble to him, although necessary.

“Necessary?” growled old Giles.

“Others seem to find it so,” I said, and I mentioned the names of some notable Royalists in the neighbourhood who, according to common gossip, had already compounded or were about to do so, Sir Richard Tempest of Boiling Hall being one of these latter. Giles seemed struck by this, and fingered his drooping moustache thoughtfully.

“Aye, but,” he burst out suddenly, “I shall have to take an oath and make a submission.”

“There is some sort of a negative oath, I hear,” I urged him, “never to fight again, or some such promise. It can be sworn before our Mr. Blazet here. If Sir Richard Tempest can take it, surely you can.”

“And there is a petition to draw,” he objected in a weakly, peevish tone.

“Why, that is simple,” I said cheerfully, and I began to tell him some of the words Thomas had read to me, which I had committed to memory for this end. But when I reached
craves pardon
, poor Mr. Ferrand went off like a cannon.

“Never! Never!” he shouted, swelling and bristling in his chair. “I have done no wrong and will crave no pardon. Me ask pardon of a set of pestilential Roundheads! You must be mad!”

I left the matter for that time, but returned to it again often, so that it became a regular dispute between us in the next few months. I was determined he should compound, and pay his fine, and then live at peace, for I could not endure to think of the old man having his whole estate taken from him, and being imprisoned perhaps, as a persistent delinquent; I felt too that till all Royalists had thus compounded, we should have no true peace and comfort in the land. But Giles was as strongly determined against composition. “I have committed no error, and so cannot be convinced of it,” he argued stoutly. “I have fought for the right, and no man living shall make me say otherwise.” And again: “I will not crawl in the dust for any Parliament.” At last one day, in a fury, his flaccid cheeks purple and quivering, he struck his fist on the table and shouted at me:

“Never open this subject to me again, Penninah!”

“It shall be as you please, Uncle Giles,” I said quietly. “But I could not stand by and see you ruined, without trying to save you.”

There was a pause; I went on rolling out the oatcake I was baking.

“And what does it matter if I am ruined?” muttered Mr. Ferrand suddenly in a low wailing tone. “It harms no
one but myself. I have no son to inherit from me, no son, no son, no son.”

I felt such a rush of pity, and perhaps some other strange emotion, to my heart that for a moment my eyes dimmed and my hands paused and fumbled. When I could raise my head and look again, I saw that tears stood on his quivering cheeks. His eyes sought mine, very mournfully; by one of those strange truancies of the flesh, which betrays us to acts the will disapproves, I glanced involuntarily towards the open kitchen door, where Chris, his hair tossing, singing at the top of his voice, could be seen galloping round outside astride his whip, making pretence it was a horse. Mr. Ferrand gave a sudden start; his eyes rounded, his mouth gaped, his old face whitened.

“Penninah!” he whispered with a look of awe. “Penninah! The lad is Frank's!”

The blood rushed to my face, and the thoughts flew through my mind. Was it a terrible temptation, or a means of grace, thus to admit my sin? What an inexpressible relief, to share the weight of my secret with another person! But John? Old people were apt to babble. Would not such a confession betray John for the second time? I had to take a decision on the instant; I gasped, then cried out hoarsely:

“No. No!”

Giles sighed and turned away, dropping his chin again on his limp folded hands. In the silence that followed, Chris's voice came to us very clearly.