Well! This journey to London hath made me quite notable around Bradford, and even now many of our neighbours will ask to hear its story. But alas, I remember very little of it, for to me it was a nightmare. People and places swam dizzily in and out of it, and changed abruptly, as they do in nightmares; all I remember clearly is that I was never out of suffering, I felt all the time as if I had a fever.
For the most part of the way I travelled in Lady Fairfax’s coach, with herself and her daughter. Lady Fairfax had not changed much, either in character or in looks; only her complexion was a trifle browner, her features a trifle sharper, her tongue decidedly more wandering, than of old. She met me with a long tirade on how she was glad to have an hour’s stay in Doncaster, since she did not wish Moll to be frightened by thinking there was need to hurry—I smiled to myself as I remembered her ways of old, and translated this into anger at our delaying her and her daughter. She was much vexed, if one were to judge by her talk, with the Duke of Buckingham for wedding Moll, and her husband for consenting, yet John told me it was common talk she herself had made the match. At first there was a kind of stiffness between us, which I could not exert myself properly to remove; Lady Fairfax, it seemed, did not know of Chris’s departure, did not know, therefore, why I should be so dumb and dazed. It was the Duchess who discovered my grief, for she had a grief too, and sorrow is a strong bond. As I rode gazing with unseeing eyes out of the window at the fields and woods as they rolled by—it was summer, and the land was doubtless very lovely, but I saw it not—she laid a hand on my wrist and drew my trouble forth from me by gentle questions. She was a woman grown now, this little Moll whom I had fed and tended, and very highly educated by many tutors, poets and such; but she was very much the same in looks and bearing as when she was a child; small and slight and very dark-complexioned, with dark scanty hair, and somewhat unfinished features, redeemed from plainness only by the look of noble benevolence in her fine dark eyes. She explained my trouble to her mother, whom she seemed to manage very well; Lady Fairfax exclaimed, and looked at me, and then leaned out of the coach window and called to a man of Lord Fairfax’s who rode beside, and bade him bring Christopher Thorpe to her. In a moment my Chris appeared, bowing very gracefully but coldly in the saddle. Lady Fairfax spoke a word to him and let him go, then turned to me with all her old kindness in her eyes.
“Why, Penninah Thorpe,” said she, “he is the handsomest lad I have seen these seven years!” Her face changed, and she sighed, then cried out suddenly: “Each of us loves a man who leaves us!”
“Mother!” exclaimed Moll, colouring—for indeed she doted on her husband, who was already not very faithful to her, or so folk said.
From that time Lady Fairfax was her old self to me, and we talked long and intimately of all that happened to us since we parted on the night of the siege. We talked both in the coach, and at nights when we stopped, for she had me in to dine with her. From all she said, the nation’s affairs were in a worse way than we thought, with many intriguings and rebellings amongst the Army officers; and she was very bitter that Lord Fairfax should have to ask a favour of Cromwell.
“’Tis the first and last favour, I warrant you,” she said, tossing her head. “A pretty son-in-law, to necessitate a favour from the Lord Protector.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Moll again, painfully.
At last, four days after we left Little Holroyd, we reached London, and were set out at Lord Fairfax’s house in Lincoln’s Inn, just as it came dusk. John was in great hopes of seeing his General, but these were disappointed; Lord Fairfax was not in the house at the time, and we heard from the servants that Cromwell had that day refused to release the Duke, and the General, deeply angered, meant to set out again for Yorkshire on the morrow. Lady Fairfax exclaimed when she heard this and chattered contradictory orders, and Moll looked dazed and downcast, and we stood in the midst of the Fairfaxes’ baggage, longing to take ourselves from where we were not wanted; and then my heart lifted, for Sam came striding in, very brisk and firm and cheerful. He was a grown man, now, our Sam, not very tall but solid and sturdy, with a very fresh cheek and my father’s sandy hair and a lively eye. He seemed very well pleased with himself, as a young man about to marry ought to be; he greeted John and me very warmly, and was delighted with Chris, holding him at arm’s length and exclaiming over and over how he had grown.
I was afraid lest we should appear very homely and countrified before these London people, these Bagnalls, and not do Sam credit, but when I hinted this Sam laughed heartily.
“Nay, mother,” he said: “They are afraid of you, lest they should not be grand enough.”
I did not see how this could be, but it seemed it was so, for with John having been so close to Lord Fairfax, and David so high up at Clare and now much respected for his preaching, which he did sometimes in London, the Bagnalls thought of us as belonging to the gentry. It is some fifteen years now since I saw these Bagnalls in Cripplegate, and in truth I do not remember them, even if I ever saw them, very clearly; I remember her as a very quiet large woman and him as a smaller perkier kind of person, I remember that they had a kind of accent in their voices which sounded strange to our Yorkshire ears, but what complexion they had, or eyes, or how they bore themselves, I do not know, save that they were kind and godly. Sam’s Constance I remember well, for I was greatly relieved when I saw her; she was a buxom, jolly, warm-hearted girl, not pretty but comely enough in a fair hearty fashion, and she had that strong steady love for Sam which is the right kind for marriage, for it endures through the many chances and changes of married life. She was an excellent cook, and cleanly about the house as Londoners go—though indeed that is not very far, for I saw some strange ways in merchants’ houses in London, both in Cripplegate and with the Bagnalls’ friends; they do not wash and scour as we do.
Well, I saw all the sights of London; Paul’s and Westminster, and Whitehall, with the very window where the late King was executed; and Cheapside, with the shops and the bustling crowds; and the Thames, with the pretty boats sailing up and down the river; and the Tower, very stern and frowning, and Blackwell Hall in Basinghall Street, with its heaped piles of pieces and its many little rooms, and its hall where business was done in whispers at the ringing of a bell. Sam was very eager about Blackwell Hall; he spoke much of it and of some part he called “the City,” the locality of which I never could quite fathom. It was Sam who took us sightseeing—Chris and myself, I mean, for John had seen all the sights many times while he was about the country with Lord Fairfax. Chris seemed quite different in London from what he was in Bradford; there were no more moods or lassitudes, he was always bright and eager and helpful, so that the Bagnalls greatly admired him. I spoke of this to John, and he said it was the same on the journey; Chris was the favourite of all the men, being always ready to put his shoulder to a bogged wheel, or his fingers to mending bits and reins, and very quick and apt at any messages, and extremely skilful and daring in horsemanship.
“So it will be best for him to leave us,” said John soberly. “He will do best away and alone.”
Only once did I see the look of distaste and irritation shadow the lad’s face after we left Bradford. It was when I put Sam on to urge him not to cross the sea.
“Wilt stay with me in London, Chris lad?” said Sam heartily. “Could’st live with me and my wife here.”
“You would be very welcome, Chris,” said Constance with a kindly look.
But Chris’s bright face clouded, so we all saw it was no use.
Sam and his Constance were duly married, at St. Giles’ in Cripplegate, and, what gave both the Bagnalls and us great pleasure, David came up from the country and gave us a sermon at the wedding. It was a great pride to me, I own, to see my little brother in a London pulpit. David was as fair and slender as ever, but there was a stern strength, a grave dignity, about him now. He preached on that text from the Philippians: And this I pray, that your love may abound. It was a fine noble sermon on the true n
ature of love, delivered with singular sincerity and beauty; full of scholarly allusions, and yet so clear and simple that a child could follow. Even Sam and Chris, who were neither of them very fond of hearing sermons, listened with all their ears, not stirring; the congregation were very much moved to the Lord’s service; as for me, it was only David’s sermon that brought me through the next forenoon, when Chris’s ship, the Beaver, sailed.
For she sailed, that ship, she sailed; she moved away from the land, drawing my heartstrings after her till they broke at last. We all went far down the river in a small boat with a sail, beneath bridges and between clustered grey houses and then open green fields, till we came to a very large ship hanging in the middle of the water, which had many masts and sails and spars and ropes all entangled, just as you see depicted in the prints. There were waves in the river, grey tipped with white, for it was a chill and windy day, though only September; our little boat rocked and bounced on the water, so that sometimes there seemed to come a hard knock on the bottom of the boat, and the spray flew high all round us. At another time I should have been terrified of all these strange new things, rivers and boats and waves and ships, but then I felt nothing of it at all; I sat and held Chris’s hand, so warm and young and strong, clasped in mine beneath my cloak, and thought only of Chris and his going from me. We reached the big ship, which had Beaver carved on its hull in very large letters, and lay tossing below its huge bulk, and then we all clambered aboard by a narrow ladder of rope, which swayed in the wind, so that I was very thankful when we all stood safe on deck. Sam took us all up some stairs to see the captain, whom he had met before: a large man with a brown face and kind blue eyes. I could see he liked the look of Chris; he said there was a great chance for young men in the Virginia plantation, and Chris seemed just the sort of lad to go. Then there came a deal of shouting and the captain turned hurriedly away and Sam bustled us down the stairs to the deck, and there were sailors running, and ropes sliding over the deck, and men pulling on other ropes, and sails rising, and masts creaking, and over it all the wind and the strange wild smell of the sea. Then John touched me on the shoulder and said:
“It is now, Penninah.”
I took my son in my arms and held him, and kissed him once strongly, and let him go.
I meant to be strong, I did not mean to draw out my farewells; but as I hung on the ladder below, descending to our boat, my flesh betrayed me, and I looked up at him. Chris was standing in the forepart of the ship; he was not looking at me, or at our boat, or at the hurry on the ship, but out to sea. His head was lifted, his rich golden hair blowing in the wind; his eyes were very wide, and there was a smile of joy on his fine red lips. As I watched, he drew a deep breath, and sighed it out, then flung back his head and began to whistle joyously—the clear bright sound was borne on the wind to my ears.
“He is happy,” I thought: “He is fully himself, and going to meet his destiny. I could not wish a better thing for him. So I must be glad.”
We saw the ship sail, watching at a distance from our little boat, though we had long enough to wait before she moved, and the wind rose and rose, so that the waves grew great and the boat tossed lamentably. David, poor lad, was constrained suddenly to vomit, for which he apologized with his usual courtesy. But at last the sails were all in place, and billowed out with the wind, very white and curved and huge, and there came a sound of singing and a rattling of chains, and our boatmen said the Beaver was taking up her anchor. And then with infinite grace the ship moved, heeling over to the wind, shearing easily through the tossing waters, and she glided ever more swiftly away and away and away, till at last we could scarcely see her, and then our boatmen shipped their oars, put up our sail, turned our boat about and made for London. I gazed back, shading my eyes, till I could see the ship no longer.
And so the son of Francis Ferrand set sail for the New World.
When I reached the Bagnalls’ house I told John and Sam I must go home. I felt I must have the familiar things of The Breck about me, quickly, or my brain would crack; I could endure no further strain. At first Sam put me off, and I saw he meant to try to keep me for a longer stay, but after he had been out next forenoon he came to us with a very sober face, and said it was best for John and myself to go at once.
“I have it on good authority,” said he, “that the Protector is very ill and like to die.”
“Then England will be free again!” cried John.
Sam grimaced. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe not. I think we shan’t see better till we have seen worse. You and my mother are best at home.”
We took him at his word very thankfully, and set off with the Halifax carrier the next morning. John was to ride one of our horses and lead the other, but his knee had grown so bad, with too little rest and too much anxiety, that he was fain to sit, while for my part I still felt feverish and sick. We pushed on with the rest, however, enduring as best we could, and at last we came to Bradford, and to the lane, and to our own dear home.
Although we had so longed to see it, when we reached it we felt strange there after our travels, and as if we should never settle down. But time went on and we grew into our old ways again, with letters coming often from Sam and Thomas, and Abraham a great joy to John. I picked up my old duties and found some new ones, and tried to put my love for Chris into them, visiting old Ralph, whom I had put to board with Sarah, very regularly, and devoting myself very carefully to Abraham and John. And presently my whirling thoughts settled, I was able to see things clearly again; I dared begin at last to remind myself of Chris’s sailing.
Whenever I thought of it, the picture of his eager daring face, keen set for adventure, between the ship’s sails and the tossing waves, came before my eyes, and I knew we had been right to let him go. I know I shall never see him again; I have lost him. England has lost him too. Something of brightness and joy, something of the glory and splendour of life, left the West Riding, perhaps for ever, when Chris found he could not endure to live there any more. I am sorry for that loss, as I am for my own. Still, he will help to make that far land bright. I am glad to think that there is something of Francis, and something of myself, in that far New World.
VI
Retrogression
1
A MAN IS BURIED WITH HIS CAUSE
Sam was right when he said we should not see better till we had suffered worse. From a tyranny, England now turned into a chaos, so dreadful that at last decent men thought any government at all, however tyrannous, would be preferable to this state of having none.
How this chaos came about, I do not altogether know; I did not take as much notice of what went on as I should. At the time I excused myself for this, saying that I was so tired, so worn-out and weary with all the long struggles, private and public, I had gone through in my life, that I could struggle no more. But now I see that I was in fault; it was because too many English folk were tired and allowed themselves to take little notice, that the good old cause went down in ruin.
On his deathbed, Oliver, perhaps because he was afraid to trust anyone else, named his son Richard as his successor, and so we had as Protector a young gentleman who, as the soldiers said with truth, had never drawn sword or lifted voice in the Commonwealth’s cause. If Richard had possessed the virtues of angels, still to many zealots of our cause, and I own to myself also, it was very repugnant that we should have shed so much blood simply to establish another dynasty on the throne. But as it chanced, Richard Cromwell, though doubtless a mild good lad enough, had no qualities fitting him to govern England; indeed he was less fitted even than princes are who inherit a kingdom on the hereditary principle, for he had not been trained and exercised to government as are princes of the blood. If there is anything worse for a nation than a strong tyrant, it is a weak one; and looking back on poor Richard Cromwell now I am reminded of that Old Testament King—Reho-boam I think his name was, yes, Rehoboam, Solomon’s son—who, speaking very high to his people on his accession, with threats to cha
stise them with scorpions where his father had used only whips, very soon found himself with but few subjects left to chastise. So it was, perhaps, with poor weak Richard; he spoke high but lost all.
At first things went well; a Parliament was called, Lord Fairfax was welcomed there warmly as Member for Yorkshire, and the Duke of Buckingham was released. But this quiet did not last long. The Royalists sprang up and rebelled, though for the time they were put down again; Parliament was angry with the Army, and the Army with Parliament. Parliament contended that the sword should lie in the people’s hand, that is, the Army should obey the Parliament; but the Army objected that it had fought the battles and won the victories, and it was not right to leave the soldiers rebuked and scorned and on free quarter and in such long arrears of pay. Then there came divisions in the Army itself, the older officers playing a haughty, self-seeking game, the younger ones, as we heard, caring more for Parliamentary government and a quiet behaviour. Lambert was in favour again, and then out, and then in again. Richard was turned out, and the Army came in; then somehow the Parliament seemed to be in power again. I simply could not make head or tail of it all; the people we had been used to trust and admire seemed all at each other’s throats, so we knew not whom to believe in.
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