I went to him without more ado, so as not to embroil him again with Will, for whom, now that I understood what was troubling him, I was very sorry. It would be a bitter disappointment to him indeed if, after all his anxious study, he could find nobody to give him a title to some curacy or benefice.
As the days went by and Will still stayed at home without employment, and the delay in his marriage kept him doubly dejected, David and I grew to hate Bishop Laud, who by his tyrannous enactments kept our good honest brother so wretched, and a little vexed with Mr. Thorpe too, whose conduct, to children’s eyes, seemed severe and mercenary.
Then, after a long time of trial, at last the way was made clear for Will. Mr. Okell being old began to fail somewhat, and spoke of giving up his ministry. His parishioners, who valued him highly, begged him not to do so, but to take an under-minister instead. Since Mr. Okell had a private estate as well as his benefice, he was able to do this, and he offered the place to Will, and promised to obtain him a preaching licence from the Bishop. Will, dear lad, thought this preferment was, under Providence, due to his own eloquence and learning, but I thought more likely it sprang from Mr. Okell’s great affection for my father. Whichever it was, Will now with great delight settled in a house on Church Bank, and married Elizabeth Thorpe. He made a worthy minister, very industrious; his sermons winning his hearers’ goodwill by a kind of honest simplicity in them.
I thought that Francis would now ride over to Will’s house for his lessons, and indeed at first he did so. But after a few weeks of this he suddenly, as Will—who was glad of the fee, his stipend not being large and Eliza proving a somewhat ineffectual manager—told me regretfully, broke off from his tuition; he did not mean to be a peering scholar, said Francis, so be hanged to stupid books. I was now as distressed by his breaking off lessons as I had been once before by his continuing them, and I urged Francis not to cease from mere caprice what must be of great use to him at the University. But he only laughed, and teasingly asked me why I was so set on sending him away where I could not see him, and at last one day little David, his blue eyes vexed, asked me why I troubled myself, since Francis had never meant to be a scholar. Mr. Wilcocke, he said, had told Mr. Ferrand a long time past that his son had no aptitude for learning, and he had then given up the notion of sending him to Oxford. Then why, I objected, had Francis continued so long with Will?
“To see you, Pen; why else?” said my little brother impatiently.
I could not deny this, nor deny altogether that it was sweet to me, but I was not quite pleased by the stratagem, for anything covert was abhorrent to me, and I was sorry that Francis should not go to Oxford. For what David said of this proved true enough, and Francis stayed on at home, growing from a lad into a young man, living what seemed to me a very idle life, riding about the country and professing to take care of his father’s lands. His time being his own, he came much to our house, and would sit of an evening there and entertain my father, whose eyes worsened, with gossiping stories or playing on his lute. At these times I sat quiet and silent in the shadow, plying my needle; though indeed whenever I heard Francis’s step my heart leaped, and at his voice my fingers trembled. Francis for his part gave me many fiery expressive glances, and many merry teasing smiles. He delighted to play love ballads to me on his lute, and sing them, and I delighted to listen. David too was fond of music, so I often begged my love to play; it was so sweet to have Francis, and my father, and David, the three I loved best in the world, round our hearth, all peaceful and at ease, with no dissension but only friendliness between them.
2
THE RIFT WIDENS
For Mr. Ferrand, alas, had not got his wish, that there should be no more politics; from that time the talk in Bradford was increasingly of politics and religion, and this made an increasing discomfort in our visits to Holroyd Hall.
The King’s necessity for money was such, that he was obliged to call a Parliament again. But like all his family he was very unlucky in his public utterances, these being based on his ideas of his own importance, not on what was right. On this occasion he chose to speak very haughtily to Parliament on its opening, in a manner forgiving them for their past conduct, when most men thought it was his conduct which needed to be forgiven. He threatened to use other methods of collecting money if Parliament did not promptly supply his needs, and then bade them not regard this as a threat, since he scorned to threaten any but his equals. The matter and the manner of these remarks being equally repugnant to free Englishmen, Parliament at once became very stiff-necked and contrary, and began a long contest with the King, as to whether they should first grant money or the King first grant redress of grievances. This contest swayed back and forth, first one side gaining an advantage, and then the other; the King continually sending messages to the Parliament to hurry with his subsidies, and the Parliament as regularly replying by long petitions on the just freedoms of Englishmen. When the King saw he would get no money without granting some redress, he at length assented to one of these petitions—but too late, for the Parliament, out of patience, had now begun to attack the Duke of Buckingham, as the great source of all the country’s evils. The King could not endure a word against his favourite, and though he had secured barely sufficient money to carry on his Court, which was very expensive, and his wars, which were very unsuccessful, he dismissed the Parliament for several months, to the great anger of many of his people.
How all this was argued and canvassed between my father and Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Ferrand, I remember sadly, as a continually rising warmth and discomfort in their discussions. Friendship was never so clear between them after the day on which my father called Mr. Ferrand an Arminian. It seemed as if by doing so he had divided Mr. Ferrand from himself by putting a different mark on him, as brands are put on sheep to show that they belong to different flocks. And everything which happened, in Bradford or in great affairs of state, seemed as it were to deepen the brand, to make the difference between the two flocks, the two kinds of men, appear more clearly. In our town, as it chanced, the magistrates about this time ordered that a stop should be put to the cockfighting and gaming in the Turls on Sunday afternoons. This was in truth a good and necessary thing, for the behaviour there had grown scandalously unmannerly and an offence to decent citizens, and in other times it would have passed as such; but many who were ill-disposed to the Puritan persuasion chose to look on the order as a prim puritanical invasion of the customs of merry England. Mr. Ferrand was one of those who thought so, for he loved all games and sports and wagering; my father and Mr. Thorpe took the other side. This, though it was but a small matter in comparison with the great affairs then carrying in Parliament, being local, loomed large in Bradford minds, and made men more decided in their notions of Puritans and Arminians, Parliament and King, respectively. And so with all things, large or small; the cut of a coat, the depth of a band, no less than the conduct of the war or the predestination of the soul, or the cruel sentences of the Starchamber, seemed to be matters to be decided by political argument.
As I look back over the years I see pictures of us in those times, myself sitting a little distance away beside Mrs. Ferrand and Mrs. Thorpe, listening in growing uneasiness to the men as their voices rose, Mr. Ferrand growing loud and overbearing, Mr. Thorpe red in the face and very homely in speech, my father striking his forefinger resolutely on the table to emphasise his points, striving to make his voice heard between them. It became little pleasure for the families to be together, for we could not keep the men off politics, nor turn their discourse when they had once embarked on those topics. I had always looked forward with joyous anticipation to our family meetings, because of Francis; but now I so often returned from them distressed and uneasy that I began really to dread them, and whenever Mr. Ferrand was present I longed for the moment when the gathering should break up and each family withdraw. Too often it did so with an angry man in its midst. Next day the three would be sorry for what they had said, and when they met again would make
apologies in their several fashions, my father very clearly and graciously, Mr. Thorpe in a discomfited mutter, Mr. Ferrand in a confused bellow. But as time went on and the division between them grew, they began to think each other less agreeable persons than they had previously judged. Mr. Ferrand, as I could see, began to regard his brother-in-law and my father as tiresome fanatics, sound at heart doubtless and good fellows in the main, but led astray by too much prating; while my father and Mr. Thorpe were drawn close by their joint opinion of Mr. Ferrand as a man warm-hearted doubtless but stupid, with no soul above bowls. There was as yet no open breach between them, but they did not seek each other’s company as frequently as hitherto, and Mr. Ferrand especially began to go elsewhere for his talk, being often seen with the Tempests of Boiling Hall.
So it came about that I had much greater pleasure in Francis’s visits to my home, than in mine to his.
One evening when Francis was sitting with us as usual, and as usual strumming on his lute, there came a sudden thunderous knocking on the door. David ran to open it, when in rushed the Thorpes’ apprentice, Lister, his red hair flying, his freckles mottling his face very disagreeably, his skin being white with excitement. He cried wildly:
“Buckingham is murdered!”
“What!” cried my father, laying down his pipe.
We all dropped silent at once and sat staring. Rapidly Lister told us the news which had just reached Bradford, that Buckingham had been stabbed at Southampton, as he made ready to take some soldiers overseas. The murderer was a fanatic, who thought he was doing his country a service.
“And so he was indeed,” concluded Lister in a rapture.
“Praise be to God,” cried Sarah, suddenly appearing from the kitchen with her hands uplifted: “A David has slain the Goliath of the Philistines!”
“Amen, Amen!” sang Lister. “The Lord abhorreth the blood-thirsty and deceitful man.”
“Woman!” cried my father, half rising from his chair in anger: “Murder is against the law of God.”
“And a direct contravention of the sixth commandment,” added David.
“It might be the murderer was an instrument of God for the punishment of wickedness, Mr. Clarkson,” protested Lister.
“Good cannot come of evil,” said my father sternly.
“What do you know of the matter, you prating Puritans!” shouted Francis, springing to his feet. “The Duke was a great and noble lord, brave and handsome.”
His voice quite broke on the last words; I glanced at him quickly, there were tears in his eyes. With a shock of alarm I saw that, as boys will with some great personage, he had made the Duke his hero.
“The murderer gave himself up and confessed, and the King will demand death by the rack, they say,” went on Lister with relish.
“It is no more than he deserves,” muttered Francis, turning his face from us.
I said quickly: “No man deserves the rack.” I did not mean to speak thus, the words were out before I knew I had uttered them.
My father looked at me with approval.
“Your heart is too gentle, Mistress Penninah,” simpered Lister.
“The Lord is known to execute judgement,” said Sarah sternly. “Master Francis, do you mean to stay for supper?”
“I must go and tell the news to my father,” muttered Francis sullenly, his eyelids down. (His long golden lashes, sweeping his cheek, were very dear to me.) “By your leave, Mr. Clarkson.” He made for the door; Thunder, who had been lying against Tabby on the hearth, jumped up promptly.
“I can take the news to Holroyd Hall, Master Francis, if you wish not to leave Mistress Penninah,” offered Lister, grinning.
He meant no harm, the simple lad, but Francis did not wish to be prevented from leaving, and he took the reference to me as an impertinence, from an apprentice; moreover, Lister’s manners were ever rough and homely.
“Stand out of my way,” he ordered Lister imperiously, and, as the lad moved but slowly, being awkward in his gait and not very quick in the uptake, as we say in Bradford, Francis gave him a box on the ear which sent him sprawling. Thunder barked and stood over him, and Lister scrambled up looking white and frightened.
“Francis, Francis!” my father reproved him.
And my heart too cried: “Francis, Francis!” At my father’s rebuke he turned back, and made careless apologies to Lister, and a loving one to me, but when he had gone I sat down by my father in silence, sadly. I was sad because Francis had struck Lister, for any violence, or cruelty between persons, ever wounded me intolerably. I was sad that my dear love should think a man like the Duke of Buckingham admirable; I was sad because he was wrong to do so, and also because I knew he was wrong. It was the first time I ever saw a blemish in Francis. The moment that I saw it, and knew that I still loved him, I grew, I think, though I was yet young, from a girl into a woman.
3
MY FATHER FALLS ILL
I Comforted Myself with hoping that the death of the Duke might heal the division between the King and his Parliament and thus between Mr. Ferrand and my father, since now the prime mover of their dissensions was gone. But in the event it proved far otherwise, evil, as my father said, never bringing forth good, but the good in an action ever bringing forth good, and the evil evil, mingled in the result as in the cause. Buckingham was gone, it was true, but the King chose Bishop Laud as his near counsellor in Buckingham’s place, and thereafter the affairs of the nation steadily worsened. For while the Duke was a careless, licentious man, who cared something for honour and glory but more for luxury and ease, and was not ill disposed to any man who was not ill disposed to him, Laud was a fanatic, a man, as folk said, too fierce and cruel for his coat, too savagely contentious to wear the garb of the servants of the Prince of Peace. Under his direction, the King’s Council pressed the Duke’s murderer hard to say if he was instigated by the Puritans; this he denied and was not to be shaken in his denial, but many people disbelieved him.
Amongst these was Mr. Ferrand. The very next Market Day after the news of the Duke’s death reached Bradford, my father suddenly stumbled into our house in the middle of the morning, looking white and shaken, and sat himself down heavily in a chair by the door. I ran to him and asked him what was wrong; he told he, gasping, that Mr. Ferrand, on a disagreement over the price of some wool, had snatched the fleece from my father’s hand, saying he did not care to sell wool to a murdering Puritan.
“A murdering Puritan!” repeated my father in amazement. “He called me a murdering Puritan!”
He seemed so dazed and shaken that I coaxed him to stay at home for an hour and rest, and he fell asleep in his chair. When he awoke it was dinner time, but he could eat nothing; he pushed his trencher away irritably, and sat sideways at the table, musing.
“England is tearing herself into halves, Penninah,” he said at length, shaking his head. “I pray God mend the rent.”
Mr. Thorpe came in then, seeking him, and he roused himself and went back to the market.
I believe it was this shock, of Mr. Ferrand’s words, which began my father’s illness; certainly it was the growth of political faction which fed it.
The King, out of grief for the Duke perhaps, put off the reassembling of the Parliament till the next year, and meanwhile levied illegally such taxes and impositions as the country groaned under. Merchants were haled before the Council for not paying customs dues and the like, and one having the courage to complain that in England nowadays buyers and sellers were more screwed up than under the Turks, he was committed to prison without trial, and condemned to pay a fine quite out of proportion. This touched all merchants very nearly, and my father and Mr. Thorpe and other clothiers of Bradford spoke of it long, looking grave and shaking their heads. Then the Parliament met, and very swiftly ordered enquiries into all these violations of rights and liberties; and then, instead of granting the King the taxes as he urged them, fell to discussing that right of higher nature, the religion of the soul, which as they nobly said th
ey preferred above all earthly things whatever. This made the King very angry, and when they began to attack his favourite Laud for his Arminianism, he instructed the Speaker of the House not to put any motion pointing at Laud, to the vote. Then the Parliament-men were bitterly angry in their turn at this invasion of their privileges, and two held the Speaker down in his place, and another locked the door of the House of Commons so that the King’s messenger could not enter, and they rapidly passed a remonstrance saying that all who brought in innovations in religion, or levied taxes without the consent of Parliament, or paid such taxes, should be reputed enemies of the King and the nation. The next Monday the King dissolved the Parliament, and it was very clear from his harsh expression and bitter scoldings that he never meant to call another; and there were the people of England lying helpless and without defence in his hand as regards money, and for religion, in Laud’s.
All this, read constantly in pamphlets and diurnals and public proclamations, and talked over almost every time two men met, roused in my father so much distress and just indignation that it wore sadly upon his health. He was often called upon to explain the rights and wrongs of these matters, the privileges of Parliament, the King’s prerogative, and the like, to fellow-clothiers and merchants in Bradford, seeing he had read much and was of a just understanding. He began his explanations quietly, but soon grew shrill and tense, making his points with his forefinger with excessive emphasis, and speaking so high and fast that it quite exhausted him. Then when he read some bad news of the King’s haughty behaviour, or some new arrogant rule of Bishop Laud’s about altars or surplices, he would fling down the paper and stamp headlong up and down the room, shaking his head and muttering. Sometimes he paused in his stumbling stride to look at me and cry out mournfully:
“Penninah, Penninah, the hand of the Lord is heavy on us!”
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