Take Courage

by Phyllis Bentley

  “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.”

  “But will there be fighting in Bradford?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Perhaps,” said John.

  “We will try to keep it aw-w-way,” said Sir Thomas gravely.

  “As I understand the matter,” began John, “Parliament holds Hull and Selby in the east of the county, and these clothing towns in the West; York and Pomfret are for the King.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sir Thomas.

  “It will be very difficult for us here,” said John, frowning: “If the King’s men spread over the middle of the county. We shall be cut off from our markets and our wool, and our roads to London and to Hull; we shall starve and make no cloth, and there will be no money from us for the Parliament’s army.”

  Sir Thomas gave h
im a keen searching look.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Well,” began John.

  Sir Thomas took a step or two, John moved beside him; they began to walk up and down by the front of the house, talking and drawing maps in the air with their hands. I went in and took the children with me (though they were very reluctant to come) so that the two men might have peace for their discussion. After a time the air grew chill, and I sent Sam out with Sir Thomas’s cloak, for I thought he looked not very strong, with his sallow face and thin frame; he wrapped it round him, but continued walking. It was not till long after I had seen the boys in bed that they came in. I rose from my chair by the hearth to meet them.

  “Wife,” said John in an eager tone: “Perhaps Sir Thomas would stay the night here, if you asked him.”

  “It would be a great honour for The Breck,” said I. “Will you honour us thus, Sir Thomas?”

  I spoke very cordially, for I wished it with all my heart, and Sir Thomas gave me his searching look and his gentle smile, and accepted.

  I stayed with them only long enough to see them well settled by the hearth, and then went away to prepare his room. It gave me pleasure to light a big fire there and thrust our best copper warming-pan between the sheets, for when a woman sees a sickly and melancholy man of a kindly disposition, she tends to think that his wife scants her care of him, and that she could make a better job of it herself. The voices below still sounded in earnest talk; pausing a moment to listen, I heard Sir Thomas say, clear and deep and without any stammer:

  “The welfare of the people is the supreme law of nations, and resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.”

  I went to see how the dragoons were faring, sent the maids to bed and saw the men housed in Lister’s room, he being both fearful and eager of this military company; then I went to bed myself. But I had twice slept, and twice waked to put fresh logs on Sir Thomas’s fire, before at last I heard John showing our guest upstairs. Then he came in to our room, treading very softly so as not to disturb me, for indeed the hour was very late.

  “I am awake, John,” I said.

  Then he began to pour out all the history of his meeting with Sir Thomas; how he had had to take devious ways home to avoid the Royalists, and how he had fallen in with Sir Thomas and his brother-in-law, who were about the business of raising the West Riding Train-Bands and their own tenants. The brother-in-law, being Will’s patron at Adel, knew John, and introduced him to Sir Thomas as a man of good spirit and plentiful estate, and a strong supporter of the Parliament in Bradford—“Those were his very words,” said John. At this Sir Thomas looked him over with a mild gaze which seemed to see everything right through to his backbone, said John, laughing, and asked him some searching questions about Bradford affairs. His answers to these evidently gave satisfaction, for Sir Thomas invited him to ride with their party. He had been of some slight service in writing letters and keeping records of the numbers of men promised, said John, and so it had come about that Black Tom, as his men called him, consented to visit The Breck.

  To me it was clear, first that Sir Thomas knew a useful man when he saw him, and second that he and John had become friends the moment they met. They were made for each other’s friendship, religious fervour, hatred of injustice, strange fires, sombre depths and all; already, I saw, Sir Thomas understood John better than I did, though I was his wife and had known him nigh on twenty years; while I suspected that in the world of shifting loyalties which high-up gentry then lived in, the solid integrity of John was to Sir Thomas at once a healing balm and a pillar of support. John was speaking now of Sir Thomas’s commission under his father, of Train-Bands and Constables and commissions of array issued by the King. I had never heard him speak so eagerly before, even when the subject was cloth.

  “And what of the kerseys, John?” I said as he blew out the candle, not without a slight intent to tease.

  “They sailed for Hamburg on Thursday,” said John shortly. “Sir Thomas is not very happy with his wife,” he went on, lowering his voice. “I think it was not a match with any love in it.”

  I hoped, with some reproach for myself, that this was not another point in which John and Sir Thomas found themselves in agreement.

  “What is wrong with Lady Fairfax?” I whispered.

  “Oh—nowt special,” said John cheerfully. “I think it is just that she is—shallow. And talks too much,” he added. “’Tis an intolerable fault in a woman.”

  “It is not one of my faults, is it?” I said on an impulse.

  As soon as I had spoken I wished to recall my words, for the coy practice I often saw in women, of referring to themselves everything said, whether it was meant so or not, in order to draw attention, was one I despised heartily. But I need not have troubled myself, for John’s attention was not drawn; he uttered a rapid perfunctory “No,” and went on about Lady Fairfax and Sir Thomas.

  “At one time he almost broke off the marriage contract,” he said. “I think ’twas respect for his late General, her father, that brought him to the altar. A fatherless girl—he could not leave her.”

  It was long before we slept; but we were both astir early next morning. I had my guest’s entertainment to see to; John roused Lister, and they sat together in the loom-chamber, busy with papers and figures and letters, putting the affairs of the cloth-ship into good order. Sir Thomas slept long; the boys had both gone off to school before he woke, though they lingered so long in the hope of seeing him that they had to run all the way to Bradford for fear of being late. Sir Thomas seemed vexed with his own lateness when he at last came down, and also quite astonished; he made a deep apology to me, with a colour of embarrassment in his sallow cheek. It was rare, he said, for him to sleep so long; indeed he was not much of a sleeper at any time, it was his practice to read a great deal during the night. He had already noticed the books about our house, and asked now if one of the family were a scholar, and listened attentively while I told him about David.

  Then John and he sat down to the long table, and one of the troopers brought in papers from a pack, and they began to work. I left them; but once or twice as I passed by the door I saw Sir Thomas striding slowly up and down, with his hands behind his back, dictating letters in his low uneven stutter to my husband.

  While they were busy, there came a great jingling up the lane, and several gentlemen and their attendants rode up and enquired for Sir Thomas Fairfax. Black Tom was not too well pleased to be interrupted thus, I thought; and indeed these visitors seemed to do more talk than work, though they spoke soberly and gravely about the Parliament. I had them served with wine, and their horses fed and watered, for they had come some distance. They left, but more came, and yet more, and again more, so that the knocker seemed never silent. All day long gentlemen stood about in every corner of our house, waiting to see Sir Thomas to receive instructions, or talking of rumoured battles in the south. There was a hum and a bustle about The Breck, such as had not been there since the day of my Thomas’s christening; the yard was full of strange horses—of which I have always had a foolish fear—whinnying and stamping and backing their great haunches against the windows. In the kitchen the maids flew about with warm cheeks, laughing and busy.

  Sir Thomas was courteous but decided with his visitors, and between each interview he dictated, and my husband went on writing and figuring. The hours went on; I laid a slight refreshment of powdered meat, cheese and apples at their elbows; they munched and went on working.

  At last, all of a sudden as it seemed, everyone save Sir Thomas and his two men had departed; not a horse was left (for which I was truly thankful), not a gentleman to stare at me as I passed by. The sun shone in clear and strong, and everything seemed very still and empty.

  “The house looks as if it had been sacked,” I said to myself—but that was one of those exaggerations of youth, which uses phrases whose true meaning it has not yet learned by experience.

  Then John came out, looking weary but content, and called
for Sir Thomas’s horse, and bade me go in so that our guest could take leave of me.

  Sir Thomas was lounging in a chair by the hearth with his cloak already round him; he looked tired, but scarcely as much so as I expected. He rose as I entered, and bowing over my hand, told me my husband and I had done good service to the cause that day.

  “We are very grateful for the opportunity,” I said.

  “This house and all in it are always at your service,” said John gruffly, coming up behind us.

  “I h-h-hope I shall visit The Breck m-m-many times,” said Sir Thomas, looking about him with an air of affection.

  Just as he crossed the threshold I called to him on an impulse: “Will you not bring your little Moll to see us?”

  As soon as I had spoken I felt abashed, fearing I had been presumptuous, but he turned and gave me the happiest smile I had yet seen on his reserved and melancholy countenance.

  “It is a p-p-p,” he began, but could not get the word promise out, so said simply: “I will b-b-bring her.”

  John saw him to his horse, and stood beside him a moment when he had mounted, in silence. Sir Thomas sat silent too, looking in front of him.

  “Then,” he said at last, as if continuing a previous conversation: “If I need thee, Jack, thou’lt come?”

  “I will come,” said my husband steadily.