“Aye, how indeed? It’s against our just English liberties to restrict us so,” said Mr. Thorpe.
“It all springs from James’s notion of Divine Right,” began Will, eager to show his learning in matters of religion. “The King believed he had a Divine Right by inheritance to rule his kingdom, and the Bishops a Divine Right to rule the Church.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Thorpe in a comfortable tone. “Help yourself to the ale, Will, and don’t talk to me about Divine Right and such; it’s nowt.”
“Perhaps this new young King will do better for us,” simpered Elizabeth. Her tone was foolish, but I was glad to find her interposing on behalf of Will.
“What, with a French Papist for a wife?” said Mrs. Thorpe. “It’s not likely.”
“Is King Charles’s wife truly a Catholic?” asked Elizabeth.
She sounded shocked, and I felt shocked and uneasy too. Now that I am old, and have seen much life and many men of differing opinions, I find in myself a disposition (though I dare not confess it to my son) to believe that a good man may please God in any religion, Catholic or Church or Presbyterian, provided he follows it with his whole heart. But when I was a little girl, Catholics, to the ordinary English people, meant the foul treachery of the Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament, and persecutions, and Spain; and Spain meant attempts to murder our former great Queen Elizabeth, and to bring England under the rule of the Pope and suppress our English rights. So when Mrs. Thorpe nodded assent to her daughter, I had for a moment an uncomfortable feeling, as if something were suddenly unsafe and wrong, and I ventured to ask disapprovingly in my timid childish voice:
“Why did King Charles want to marry a Catholic lady?”
“All his family lean towards the Catholics, love,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “All the Stuarts do. His grandmother, that daughter of Belial, Mary Queen of Scots, was a Catholic.”
“You can hardly blame the poor lad for his grandmother,” said my father with a twinkle in his eye.
“No—no,” conceded Mr. Thorpe, though as it seemed with some reluctance. “But I blame him for choosing that Duke of Buckingham as his favourite.”
“A most haughty and licentious man,” Mrs. Thorpe said sternly. “He cannot guide himself aright, never name a king.”
“Let us trust that the King will let himself be guided by Parliament,” said my father.
“Aye, Parliament will keep an eye on him,” said Mr. Thorpe with a grim relish. “If only he’ll keep out of matters he knows nothing about! Look at that Cockayne business! It well nigh brought the whole cloth trade of England to destruction.”
“What was the Cockayne project, Father?” asked John, his gruff voice sounding for the first time since we came to table.
“It was a proclamation, son, forbidding white cloths to be sent out of England. They were to be dyed and dressed at home by a company, headed by Sir William Cockayne, and not sent abroad except they were finished and coloured.”
“Why did it bring ruin, then?” asked John.
“The foreign countries declined to buy the coloured cloths—they had always dyed and dressed the cloths themselves, and wished to continue the employment,” explained my father.
“Aye! And besides, Sir William had no more idea how to dress and dye than little David here,” said Mr. Thorpe. “Nay, he had less. I saw some of his wares at Hull. Cockled! I tell you, Robert, I’ve never seen the like, before or since. I wouldn’t send such poor stuff out of Little Holroyd; I’d be ashamed. No wonder the foreigners wouldn’t buy. More than seventeen thousand less cloths than customary were sent out of the port of London in the first three months that the Cockayne company was at work. The markets in London were loaded with unsold cloths, and the country was stuffed with ’em.”
“Indeed we have had some strong blasts of adversity in the cloth trade of late,” agreed my father. “I hear that five thousand Yorkshire pieces lay unsold at Blackwell Hall last week. Is it true, do you know?”
His voice was low and hesitating, very unlike his usual clear tones, and Mr. Thorpe kept his eyes down as he answered: “Aye, Robert, it’s true enough. I’ve fifteen there myself.”
Mrs. Thorpe exchanged a glance with her husband, then spoke up briskly.
“Son,” she said to John, “Penninah and David will like to see the farm. Joseph Lister, you can go with them. And you, Will and Elizabeth, have you nothing to say to each other? Take a walk down by the beck.”
“Under favour,” said Will, stammering: “I had thought to take Elizabeth to the afternoon exercises.”
Mrs. Thorpe, well content with such a religious occupation, gave prompt permission, and Will and Elizabeth scrambled up and were off to Bradford Church before she had time to change her mind, though I thought Elizabeth looked as if she could have found something better to do on a June afternoon with a man she loved than listen to sermons. Still, at these afternoon exercises the listeners were allowed to walk about the church and talk if they were so minded, so perhaps it would not be as dull as she feared. The four of us children—as I suppose we were, though I felt quite a woman grown at the time—ran out of the house too, glad to escape from our elders’ talk into the sunshine, and Lister began to jump David down from the steps outside the door. David laughed with glee, and as Lister caught him carefully in his big rough hands I saw no cause to forbid the pastime.
“Would you like to see our looms, Penninah?” said John beside me.
I had no great wish to do so, thinking they would be just like ours at home, but I could see John was proud of them and wished to show them, and I was willing to give him pleasure, so I followed him through the kitchen—where stood the biggest meal-ark I had ever seen, twice the size of ours—upstairs to the loom-chamber. It was silent and still, as was natural, being Sunday.
I saw at once that everything here was much finer and better kept than ours at home. There were three looms, each carrying an unfinished piece; his father would take one on horseback to Bradford next Thursday, John said, if he could get it fulled and milled at Bradford mill by then, and the other two would go with the carrier to Black-well Hall in London, along with a heap of kerseys, thirty of them lying already in the corner. In the next chamber, the taking-in place, there was a huge pack of rough fleece wool, waiting to go out to be carded and spun, and then a pile of neat hanks of yarn, ready to be woven. In this chamber, too, three pairs of huge walker shears hung on the wall, their big broad blades all skew and dangling; we did not have such tools at home, so I did not know their employment till John told me that they were used in dressing the cloth, as were also the long curved shear board, the teasels in handles, the presses and press papers. All these things were polished and clean and orderly arranged; and long sheets of foolscap lay folded on a desk which stood on a table in the corner, so neatly written with figures and characters, I had never before seen anything like them. John seemed pleased when he saw my glance rest on these; he told me eagerly that he had kept the accounts, of wool and yarn and pieces, and where they went and when, and the price they gained, for his father for the last two years. To please him I went over to the desk and looked at them more closely; the sheets were neatly stitched together with pack thread at the side, and the figures all being in rows made broad and narrow margins by turn, like a pattern; I would not have believed that John’s thick short fingers could have composed anything so pretty.
Then we went down the stairs again and out of doors, passing behind our parents on our way. Their heads were close and they were talking very earnestly, but seemingly in good friendship, to my relief; “they are discussing the marriage treaty,” said John to me, smiling. His smile was a little stiff on its hinges, as if he did not use it often, so that I felt embarrassed to be watching it, though kindly towards him, and turning aside asked what was the little low building on the right of the house, behind the tenters. John said it was the lead-house, where cloths were dyed. We had no lead-house, so partly in interest and partly to pass the time, I asked to see it, whereup
on John ran to the house and begged the key of his father, and opening the door bade me hold my skirts tight, lest they be discoloured. Indeed the roof, walls, floor and pans, seemed all thickly smeared in blue; I did not like to withdraw in discourteous haste, since I had asked to see the place, but I was glad when John asked me if I would care to visit the laithe on the other side of the house. Here there was a mistal for the cows, a great bin of corn, a heap of hay with a fork stuck into it, and two brown horses with well-brushed tails, in narrow stalls. John slapped their haunches to make them turn so that I could see their heads, but indeed I wished he had not, for the strong beat of their hoofs as they moved, their glistening eyes and huge teeth, alarmed me, and I was loth to stroke their noses as John wished, though too proud to show my fear. The stables seemed close and dark, musty with floating shreds from the corn and hay, and very quiet, the only sound being that of the horses munching. John rested his arms along the top of the stall, leaned his head on his hand and fixed his gaze on me. Though his face was plain his eyes were very fine when he opened them wide, dark brown with a kind of glow in their depths, so that they gave him a very serious and expressive air; and suddenly I felt uneasy at being indoors alone so long with him, I wanted to be out in the air with other people about me. I said quickly:
“I must find David,” and began to move towards the door.
“Lister will take good care of him,” said John. But he did not try to detain me; with true kindness he roused up and led the way into the open without more ado.
It was now for the first time that I saw how well The Breck was situated, and what a fine prospect it had of Bradford. The house stood on a green slope, the fields, divided here and there by low stone walls, rolling away down in front of it towards the town; away down to the right rose the square church tower, and the lines of the streets, Kirkgate and Ivegate and Westgate, were plain to be seen, though both Bradford Beck and Bowling Beck seemed hidden by the curve of the hills. I tried to distinguish our own house, but could not quite pick it out, though John, standing behind and pointing over my shoulder, guided my eyes towards the Packhorse Inn, which stood, then as now, at the corner of Westgate and Fairgap. The grey stone houses so neatly and cosily clustered in the dale, the many hills rising in courses behind the town, green on their lower slopes, darker towards the summits as the grass gave way to rock and heather, the nearby fields, patterned with buttercups and daisies or silvery green with oats, all made a pleasant picture beneath the blue sky and bright June sun; and as I could hear David’s voice raised in laughter though he was out of sight, and judged he did not need me, I shaded my eyes with my hand and stood looking at the prospect for a while, John close at my side.
Then David laughed again and I turned and made towards the sound, John leading me. We climbed a flagged stile through a wall to the right of the house, and saw David with Joseph Lister. The field, which here led down to the small beck running close by the house, was dotted with sheep and this year’s lambs; Lister had caught a lamb in his arms, and was holding it so that David could stroke its wool. A sheep’s fleece, though very curly, is not as soft as it looks, but rather harsh and oily to the touch; David’s face betrayed a surprise, and a kind of disappointment, mingled with delight, which was very comical, and we all stood and laughed together.
3
THE FERRANDS OWN HOLROYD HALL
Then Suddenly There was a great splashing and trampling down by the beck, and a huge white horse came scrambling through the water over the stones and made straight as a dart up the field towards us, so it seemed it would surely trample us underfoot. A big brindled mastiff puppy, its tongue hanging, galloped fiercely at its side. We were all frightened and cried out, and scattered, running; at this the lad on the horse laughed down at us and struck its haunch with his whip, so that it flew up the field.
He was the handsomest lad I had ever seen; very slender and exactly well-proportioned, his complexion brilliantly fair, his hair a golden colour, very thick, softer than silk, and curling into loose great rings at the ends; his eyes a lively grey and full of vigour, his mouth very ruddy and graceful; his nose very straight, and a deep cleft in his chin. At the top of the field he set his horse at the wall; I screamed, for I thought he would not clear it, but he went over like a bird, and the mastiff with him, and before I had caught my breath he had leaped back again, the dog in scrambling over bringing a stone down from the top course. The lad eased his pace at the sound of this, looking back over his shoulder to see if the dog were injured, no doubt; then walking his horse back to the wall dismounted, and tucking his whip beneath his arm tried to raise the stone. It was too heavy for him; he beckoned imperiously to John to help him, and we all drew near, though for my part I kept David at a distance from the horse, for it was a huge heavy beast, and I feared its great hoofs.
“You fool, Francis!” cried John in angry tone: “What do you mean by frightening the children so?”
“He that calleth his brother a fool shall perish in hell fire,” chanted Francis, mocking.
“You’re not my brother, God be praised,” muttered John.
“Cousin, then,” said the lad. “The fire would be just as hot for a cousin.” His speech was light and quick, and he laughed easily.
The cousins heaved up the stone together and wedged it on the wall, then Francis struck his hands fastidiously together to rid them of dust. He was very finely clad in a slashed doublet of bright blue silk, thickly trimmed with gold braid, with breeches and a short cloak all to match. John in his plain suit of black cloth looked a crow to a flower, beside him.
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you, mistress,” said Francis, and he made me a wonderfully graceful bow, half in mockery and half in earnest. “Who is this young lady and what is her name?” he asked.
“She is sister to Will Clarkson and her name is Penninah,” John told him, looking at me kindly.
“What an outlandish name!” laughed Francis, rolling his eyes at me. “It sounds like a mountain.”
At this I hung my head, for I knew my father had chosen my name because it sounded like our Pennine Hills, which he loved dearly.
“It’s a good Bible name,” said John in his staunch way. “And if you can’t be civil to our guests, Francis Ferrand, I’ll thank you to keep off our land.”
“I wish I had never come near your beggarly land!” shouted Francis.
“So do I,” said John, looking squarely at him.
Francis exclaimed, and taking the bridle of the horse in his hand, began to lead it down towards the beck. “Hi! Thunder!” he called to the mastiff.
We all turned and watched him, sorry in a way to see so much brightness leave us, and without quite meaning to follow trailed slowly after him down the slope.
“Whose horse is that, anyhow?” said John at last in a still reluctant tone, as his cousin halted the animal to mount him.
“Father bought him yesterday at Adwalton Fair,” replied Francis. “He’s from the Fairfax stables, his name is Snowball.”
“Won’t Uncle Giles ride Betty any more?” mumbled John.
“He’s grown too heavy for her,” said Francis shortly. With a sudden quick spring he vaulted nimbly into the saddle, and this feat seemed to restore his good humour, for he gave us his brilliant flashing smile and cried out cheerfully: “Penninah, would you like a ride?”
God Almighty, who made the human heart and understands all its strange workings, doubtless knows why I had of a sudden such a strong desire to ride. I had never mounted a horse, I had no trust in Francis, yet I wished with all my heart to sit with him on that great white beast. I knew it would not become me to do so, however, so I merely shook my head and looked away. But David cried out suddenly:
“I want to ride! I want to ride!”
And he held out his arms to Francis, who laughed and swung him up to the saddle.
Then I took a quick step forward, for indeed—though that was not the whole of it—I could not let David ride alone; and Joseph Lister, grinni
ng, bade me put my foot in his hand, and Francis reached down and swung me up, and before I knew what I meant I was perched astride of Snowball between David and Francis, looking down into Lister’s grinning face and John’s sombre one, below. I was suddenly grieved for John, and thought to say something kindly to him, but before I could do so Francis set the horse in motion, and we paced slowly round the field, John walking beside us all the way. Francis held me strongly, and his other hand, so fair and slender, was yet firm on the rein, so that I was not afraid. As we climbed up the field a little, a fine large house, with a courtyard and mounting-block and many mullioned windows, came into view on our right hand.
“That is Holroyd Hall, my father’s house,” said Francis, pointing to it proudly.
“Does Uncle Giles know you are riding his horse?” said John.
“No. But there’s no harm in it,” said Francis impatiently. “Don’t be a spoil-sport, John. Why are you so cross today?”
John looked glum but said nothing, and Francis, lightly shaking the rein, caused Snowball to trot and then to canter. We soon left John and Lister far behind, and they ceased following us and took a course across the field to intercept us later.
“We’ll jump the beck,” said Francis in my ear, and he put Snowball to the gallop in that direction.
The horse flew over the uneven field, my heart beat fast, my hair streamed back in the wind of our passage, David laughed on a high shrill note, Thunder raced beside. We had topped the bank when suddenly John’s face, crimson with anger, loomed up before me, there was a strong jerk at the bridle, and Snowball swerved aside and reared. David screamed in fear, and I threw my arms round the horse’s neck, but John clung hardily to the bridle, and soon Snowball was standing on all four hoofs, trembling but obedient. Lister ran up and lifted the weeping David to the ground. John pulled me, somewhat roughly as I thought, down too.
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