Take Courage

by Phyllis Bentley

  Then, too, John was now partner with Sam; for Mr. Bagnall dying of the plague, and then the Fire coming, Sam was very short of ready money, of which much is needed in a merchant’s business, and he wrote urgently to his father, and John with great difficulty by using all his credit found him two hundred pounds, and Sam, thus tided over an awkward time, then went on and prospered mightily, and we with him.

  John still held his place with Lady Maynard, and the property left him by his father was now all paying rent again. Besides, our cloth began to sell again—not as it had in the old days before the war, but better than of late. Isaac Baume’s younger daughter, despairing, as I thought, poor woman, of our Thomas, began to wish to marry a former apprentice of theirs who was now in Halifax. Her father was opposed to it at first, for the man was meanly placed, but after a great deal of talk John took him to manage our manufacture for us, at which the Baumes were greatly pleased, and the marriage was celebrated. With this man in the loom-chamber, Lister in Bradford, Sam in London, and John’s great skill over all, our trade prospered. Overseas trade was still poor by reason of the Dutch, and our own English roads were so beset by highwaymen and the like, that we often lost pieces by the way or at least had to ransom them, but still on the whole the nation was settled, and trade in general improved.

  As time went on I noticed a great restlessness growing upon John. He was still a governor of the school in Bradford, and very busy with that and his other work, and ministers often passed through our house and talked with him, so that although his knee prevented him from riding much and he could not go to the distant markets, he need not, I thought, feel that his life was tedious or confined. But he seemed increasingly restless and impatient, and as if our returning prosperity meant little to him. When I asked him, as I did several times, what was wrong he put me off and did not answer; but one day he broke out suddenly:

  “I hear Lord Fairfax is far from well.”

  I was slow in understanding the true meaning of this saying, until I heard John and Baume talking together on the same matter next forenoon.

  “Why, he’s a young man yet,” Baume was saying. “He’s a long way to go to reach the three score and ten allowed by the Psalmist.”

  “He and I are of an age,” said John, nodding.

  “But it’s his wounds, and his marchings in all weathers, d’you see,” went on Baume earnestly. “That’ll be what it is, I reckon.”

  Then I understood that John feared for Lord Fairfax’s life, and his restlessness sprang from a great desire to see him. To try if I was right, I said to him suddenly that evening:

  “How far is it from Bradford to Nun Appleton?”

  John’s start told me I had struck home. “Why, not far, not far,” said he. “Five and twenty miles or so as the crow flies.”

  “But you are not a crow, John,” I said.

  “I am well aware of that,” replied John shortly.

  No more was said at that time, but a day or two later John came in with a scroll in his hand, which when unrolled proved to be a map of the West Riding. It was a very fine map, prettily coloured, with some sheep and a shepherd at one foot and a scale to measure the miles at the other; all the rivers and bridges were clearly marked, the mountains drawn in peaks, the parklands green with little trees, and each church shown by a very delicately drawn steeple, so that it was a pleasure to look at. To see Bradford and Little Holroyd, Coley and Halifax, Leeds and Adel, York and Marston Moor, all the places which were part of my own life, writ clearly on this map gave me a strange feeling.

  “There is Nun Appleton, you see, wife,” said John, pointing.

  After that I began to urge him to go thither. John was very eager to go; but his age was growing on him, so that he found it difficult to make decisions quickly. As oft as I urged him to it, he found objections; it was too far, he could not ride the distance, the carrier’s course did not lie near it; besides, for him to pay a visit to Lord Fairfax uninvited would be presumptuous and improper. He was inflaming his rheumatics by this continual debating, so I wrote privately to Sam on the matter, and Sam replied with a very skilful letter. I wonder you and my Mother do not pay a visit of enquiry on Lord Fairfax, wrote Sam: he is laid by the heels with rheumatism, and is glad to have his old officers visit him. He may feel you are lacking in your duty if you do not go, wrote Sam very skilfully: if it is a matter of the expense of the coach which deters you, let me stand your debtor for it.

  At this last expression John quite bounded in his chair; if Sam thought he could not pay for a visit to his own General he was much mistaken, cried my John indignantly. I curbed my smile, and said very seriously that perhaps his not going had lent colour to the foolish supposition.

  “Sam seems to think I should take you with me,” said John after a pause.

  “Why, it would be a great pleasure to me, John,” said I. This was the truth, but it was truth too that I was afraid to let him go alone. His knee sometimes swelled suddenly, and if I were not there to dress it he would suffer.

  “If you accompany me, a coach will be necessary,” said John.

  “Yes, that is so,” said I, taking the necessity for the coach upon myself, very gladly.

  The only matter which now remained to be settled was whether a letter should be writ to Lord Fairfax, asking his permission to call, or no. This debate too continued for several days; John being unable to decide which would be most presumptuous, to write, which would perhaps seem to be asking for an invitation, or to present himself uninvited. I thought it would be best to drive there, put up at some neighbouring inn, and thence send a respectful message, which thus would not appear to request hospitality. But perhaps my urgency for this course drove John from it; for he wrote to Lord Fairfax and sent off the letter by a special messenger, which was very costly. He was on tenterhooks, poor man, till the answer came; but when it at last arrived nothing could have been more satisfactory, for one of Lord Fairfax’s liveried men appeared at the door of The Breck to say that his master had sent a coach for us, with horses arranged for, and we were to take our time and set off when it was convenient to us—he had just left the coach, he said, put up at the Pack Horse in Bradford. John was overjoyed, and in a fever for departure.

  So next forenoon early we set off driving. It was a very lovely spring day, full of clear bright sunshine; the trees and hedges were all budding, the grass very green, the birds singing, the lambs plentiful, very young and curly; the roads were at their best, neither muddy nor dusty, and we soon reached Leeds, where we paused to change to Lord Fairfax’s own horses. When we left there, as I mounted the coach I noticed several armed men, mounted, were gathered about us. The man who was helping me in saw my look of question, and told me this was an escort Lord Fairfax had sent for us, to guard against highwaymen.

  “Are there highwaymen in these parts?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Why, yes and no,” replied the man: “There is a gang of them roaming about Yorkshire. They are joined under the leadership of one—a very daring valiant man, well-spoken and personable, with the air and carriage of a gentleman. They profess to take only from the rich, and give part of their booty to the poor. But do not be troubled, madam,” he went on soothingly: “They are always very polite to ladies—and besides, they will not dare attack men belonging to Lord Fairfax.”

  He was very apologetic for having mentioned this matter, fearing he had frightened me, for I judge I had turned pale. But I was not frightened; only a cold trembling had seized me as he described the highwaymen’s captain, for I thought:

  “That is what Chris would have become, had we kept him in England.”

  As we went east from Leeds we came to a different kind of country from ours in the western part of the Riding. Our country is steep and rocky, with tumbling becks and much heather; but the further east you go, the lower and broader the hills, till they sink finally into a great wide plain, with slow streams and rich soil, very fertile, both in crops and pasture. The sheep here were whiter and fatter,
with larger faces and longer fleeces; the cows too were fat, with very lustrous brown coats, almost red in the sunlight. I said to John that perhaps Virginia was like this, since Chris said often that it was a rich country, but John thought differently.

  No highwaymen—a word which now would always make me shudder—attacked us, and we reached Tadcaster safely and got to Nun Appleton in the late afternoon.

  This house was new, not yet thirty years built, a very great fine house of brick, with a very steep roof and many chimneys; it had a centrepiece with a kind of tall dome atop, and two long wings, so that the buildings formed three sides of a square. There was a very noble park, with many splendid oak-trees, and on the other side the grey ruins of the old nunnery from which it took its name, and flower-gardens bright with tulips, and very green flat meadows stretching down to the river. As we drove through the park John suddenly pointed towards one of the trees:

  “Look, wife,” said he: “Those are deer.”

  I had never seen deer before, and followed his finger very eagerly; they are very gentle graceful animals with light fawn coats, very velvety, and slender legs and large frightened eyes; some have little horns and some have them large and branching.

  And so we arrived at the great doors of Nun Appleton, and dismounted, and walked stiffly in. I felt somewhat anxious and apprehensive, and I think John did too, though he was more used than I to fine dwelling-houses, from his travels with Lord Fairfax. A very polite young man in a serving coat came up to us, and asked us would we eat and rest first, or would we see Lord Fairfax.

  “I will see my General,” said John quickly, breathing fast.

  At this the young man gave him a respectfullook, and said:

  “My father was killed at Marston Moor, sir.”

  John asked him his name, and seemed to know it, and smiled and nodded, at his ease; and the young man led us into the long gallery to see Lord Fairfax. This gallery was indeed a great hall, its floor a sea of polished wood, gleaming like waves in the spring sunshine; it had great tall windows, finer even than those at Boiling Hall, and many wooden shields on the walls, painted with armorial bearings. While we were looking about us we heard a noise of wheels rolling, and turning, startled, saw Lord Fairfax.

  He was sitting in his special chair, and coming gently towards us; for this chair was balanced on three wheels, and had levers and handles, so that he could propel it wherever he wanted to go, causing the wheels to turn and steering them. Black Tom looked an old man now, worn and frail, his hands being gnarled with rheumatism, his sallow face wrinkled, his lean body bowed and his dark hair grizzled, but he had still the same kind half-smile, the same beautiful dark eyes, the same look of noble magnanimity, as he had when I last saw him, in the yard of the Pack Horse eighteen years since. John sprang forward, seized his hand and kissed it and I think wept over it; Lord Fairfax put his other hand on John’s shoulder and said:

  “G-g-greeting, old c-c-comrade.”

  To think I had forgotten how he stammered! All the old days came rushing back to me, and I was much affected. Lord Fairfax smiled at me very kindly, and gave me his other hand over John’s shoulder.

  Well! We stayed at Nun Appleton three days. It was a time of great happiness for John, and I think not without content for Lord Fairfax. He told us of all the pursuits he followed to occupy his long leisure: his translations from the Latin and the French, his poems, his metrical versions of the Psalms, his treatises on the history of the Church, and, as a contrast, on horse-breeding. They were all very honest gentle occupations, noble and serviceable to humanity, like himself. We saw many wonders at Nun Appleton; the Naseby jewel, the lovely park with the deer, the bright flower-beds heaped up in the fashion of little forts, the wide, gently-flowing river; we saw the books and medals and coins in the house; and John saw the fine horses in the stable, though I did not go there. Indeed I tried to keep myself in the background, so as not to come between these two old friends; I liked best to see them together in the distance, deep in talk, John limping happily beside Lord Fairfax’s slowly rolling chair. They went over all their old battles and hazards; they talked of Marston Moor and Naseby, gesticulating with their hands and drawing maps in the path with John’s stick, and of the New Model, and Parliament; they spoke of Prince Rupert, Lambert, Cromwell. John told me that Lord Fairfax had never taken a penny for his General’s services; in his great days Parliament had granted him some lands of the Duke of Buckingham, but he had restored them, they had granted him some lands of the Royalist Earl of Derby, including the whole Isle of Man, but apart from some provision for schools and ministers, he had turned their profit over to their rightful Countess.

  “It is what I should have expected of him, John,” said I.

  “They are few who always act as one expects of them,” replied John grimly.

  I sighed a little, feeling not guiltless in this way, myself.

  On the last day of our stay the weather turned cold and dreary, and when Lord Fairfax came out—he rose late and dressed very slowly on account of his many ailments—he was wearing a very fine furred cloak. I saw John looking at this very particularly, and Lord Fairfax evidently saw him too, for he said:

  “Art looking at my c-c-cloak, Jack?”

  “I crave pardon, sir,” said John hastily, as he had doubtless been used to saying to his General. “I looked because the cloth seemed like some of my own cloth, cloth from The Breck.”

  “Why, that may very well be,” said Lord Fairfax, smiling, “seeing it was your s-s-son S-S-Sam who sent me this cloak last winter.”

  John flushed with pleasure, and I could not forbear telling of how Sam saved his General’s boots from the soldiers when The Breck was sacked. Lord Fairfax laughed out at this, heartily, and fell into questioning us about our sons. I told him, perhaps with too great length and mournfulness, about Thomas’s marred life.

  “Why, Mrs. Thorpe,” said he with great gentleness: “I cannot agree with you. It s-s-seems to me that he has been more active, and his m-m-ministry more f-f-fruitful perhaps, than if he had been a c-c-comfortably settled minister. The sentiment of this nation,” he went on, “which ever res-pecteth c-c-consistency of c-c-conduct, will surely one day be turned towards this band of honourably det-t-termined men—more especially,” he concluded, “in view of the noble behaviour of some of the ejected m-m-ministers during the P-P-Plague.”

  “My brother David was one of those who ministered in the Plague,” I said with pride.

  “‘Tis what I should have expected from him,” said Lord Fairfax.

  Remembering what John had said of those who had acted as one expected of them, I felt some considerable pride for my brother, but naturally made no comment. Lord Fairfax was silent for a moment, then broke out suddenly, very quick and without a stammer:

  “I hope that God will one day clear that cause we undertook, and the integrity of such as faithfully served Him.”

  “Nay,” said John, “with all respect, my General, it is partly cleared now, for the King rules with a Parliament.”

  “Yes and no,” replied Lord Fairfax thoughtfully. “He obs-s-serves the forms.”

  “Why, that is much,” said John.

  “You are not so cheerful about the cause when you are at home, John,” said I, surprised.

  John wagged his head, somewhat disconcerted. “Well, we have taught those who rule that they have a joint in their necks,” said he.

  “Nay, now you are talking like C-C-Cromwell,” said Lord Fairfax, smiling sadly.

  They fell to talking of Cromwell, of the Commonwealth and the bitter disappointment of the Protectorate.

  “Where did we fail, Jack?” said Lord Fairfax sadly. “Where did we stray from the true path?”

  “It was not in the war,” said John very staunchly.

  “No, I think it was not much in the war,” mused Lord Fairfax. “It was in the peace.”

  “Aye, it was in the peace,” agreed John gruffly. “Oliver should not have had Parliament purged
to his own pleasure.”

  “And we should not have killed the King,” said Lord Fairfax.

  “No,” agreed John. “We should have deposed him bloodlessly.”

  “In favour of his eldest son,” went on Lord Fairfax.

  John pursed his lips and sighed, and said: “I suppose so.”

  Lord Fairfax went on to speak of the Restoration and the disappointments it had brought him, but I saw that he thought the crown should descend from king to prince, as a title went from man to son, and that England was best governed by a King, provided only he were a good one. John seemed to agree, but I was not so sure; Lord Fairfax told me jokingly I had very levelling ideas, and indeed it may have been so. As I grow older, all pretensions of birth and wealth seem to me very strange in the sight of God.

  We should have left sooner, not wishing to outstay our welcome, but we were detained by Lord Fairfax so that we might have a glimpse of the Duchess, who was expected in the forenoon of that day. She did not come in the forenoon, however, nor by noon, nor for an hour or two after, and while this seemed natural enough to me, I could see that to Lord Fairfax it was a torment.

  “Her husband d-d-delays her,” he muttered.

  At last it was clear that we must postpone our departure no longer if we were to reach home that night, we should be very late even as it was. We made our preparations, and the coach was ordered and came round, and Lord Fairfax rolled himself to the great doors to say farewell to us. He stretched out a hand to one of his men, who put into it a very handsome polished stick of some dark wood, banded and topped with silver; and with the help of this he rose, and stood to say farewell to us. I exclaimed and begged him to sit, but he would not, putting it aside with a smile; then he bowed over my hand as if I were a great lady, and kissed it, and said:

  “God be with you, Penninah Thorpe, and bless you.”