Take Courage

by Phyllis Bentley

  Then it was time for him to say farewell to John. I went away and sat in the coach, so that they might be alone to it; I even took care not to look in their direction.

  It was long enough before John came limping out, very quick and heavy in his step; there were tears on his face and he did not speak to me. The moment before the coach moved was very painful; at last it stirred and rolled away, turning; I looked out and saw Lord Fairfax still standing, waving to us in farewell.

  I did not speak to John till several miles had passed. Then I laid my hand on his and said:

  “It is a very fair and pleasant place for him to finish his days in.”

  “Aye—but he is lonely,” said John gruffly. “In three days we saw none there but servants and his chaplain. When I think of the crowds that used to throng him, making requests——” He broke off and concluded: “But I think he will not have much longer of it now.”

  We had passed through Tadcaster, and it was raining, when the coach jolted aside sharply to avoid another coach, a very fine grand affair with arms on the panel, drawn by six horses, with many men about it, which came galloping towards us furiously, with much mud splashing.

  “It is Moll, perhaps,” I exclaimed, and I leaned out of the window to see.

  I was right; except that it was not so much Moll Fairfax as the Duchess of Buckingham. I caught just a glimpse of her as the coaches passed; she was dressed very fine in dark slate-coloured satin, with pearls round her throat and a crimson scarf; her sallow little face above it was crumpled in torment. I wondered to myself what her look reminded me of, and I remembered—it was my own face at Fairgap, when I used to wait for Francis and he came not. The ways of life are very wonderful, and it is strange to reflect how Lord Fairfax, who so despised his wife’s love—it was the only fault I saw in him—should live to see his beloved daughter’s love so despised.

  The excitement, and the journey, and the eating of rich unaccustomed foods, gave John a severe attack of rheumatism, the pain spreading all about his body. However, the warm summer weather was favourable to his complaint, and the physician and I between us cured him for that time.

  John was right when he said that Lord Fairfax would not have much longer of his solitude to endure, for in the fall of that year that great and good man died.

  We had a very kind letter from Moll about it. She had not been with her father at his death, she said—whereat John sighed heavily—but would tell us all she had heard from her cousin and the chaplain who attended his last hours, knowing our love to him. It seemed that his last illness, a fever, was but a short one, and his mind was not distraught by it; on the last morning of his life he called for his Bible and read the forty-second psalm. John, whos e memory was slipping a little, bade me read this psalm to him. It begins very suitably and cheerfully for a dying man—as the hart panteth after the water-brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God? For this seems to indicate a becoming readiness to lay down this life. But there are other passages in that psalm which have a somewhat sad aptness to Lord Fairfax’s later days, as: mine enemies reproach me; they say daily unto me, Where is thy God?—and, most sad of all: all Thy waves and billows are gone over me. However, the Duchess seemed not to see this, and indeed it is true that the psalm ends on a note of faith which rings out like a trumpet. Moll told us with a touching pride of a poem which her husband had written on his father-in-law, a kind of epitaph; she enclosed a copy of the verses. At one time I knew all these verses by heart, for John would often ask me to repeat them, but my memory doth not retain the happenings of my later days as distinctly as those of earlier times, and I cannot now clearly recall them. Parts of some verses I remember, however. One ran thus:

  He never knew what envy was nor hate;

  His soul was filled with worth and honesty,

  And with another thing besides, quite out of date,

  Call’d modesty.

  And another thus:

  …he understood

  How much it is a meaner thing

  To be unjustly great than honourably good.

  Both these hit off the noble nature of Lord Fairfax with such singular aptness that I marvel how a wicked dissolute rake like the Duke of Buckingham could have written them. But perhaps it is the highest kind of tribute to Lord Fairfax, that his goodness showed clear even to such a man as the Duke of Buckingham.

  The Duchess told us, too, of the great funeral which was given her father, his tenants, and the people of the countryside, walking many miles to show their respect to him. John was grieved, I could see, not to be present at this funeral, but indeed he was not fit for it. Lord Fairfax was buried by the side of his wife, said Moll, in the choir on the south side of Bilbrough Church, Bilbrough being a small place about halfway between Nun Appleton and Marston Moor. He was to have a very handsome tomb, wrote Moll, but with only a plain inscription concerning himself, such as he would have wished.

  John snorted at this. “Doubtless the King would not be pleased if the inscription told of the General’s prowess with the Parliament’s forces,” said he sardonically.

  At the foot of the grave, however, went on Moll, there was to be engraved that beautiful text from Proverbs: The memory of the just is blessed.

  “It is true of him,” said John soberly when I read this to him: “It is utterly true. The memory of the just is blessed. Aye. It is a very proper text for the grave of Thomas Fairfax.”

  He mused on it often, and always with great content, in his remaining days of life.

  2

  OUR HOUSE HAS A NEW NAME

  After lord fairfax’s death my John began to fail.

  By the turn of the year he seemed so ill and worn that I sent word to Thomas it was his duty to give up his ministry for a while, and come home to stay with his father. The Conventicle Acts were still enforced, but the Five-Mile Act, I thought, had fallen a little in abeyance; in any case the risk must be taken; I did not want John to die feeling lonely, for it was plain he had grieved over this very much in the case of Lord Fairfax. Joseph Lister was most good and kind in sitting by his old master and keeping him company, but he talked too much of his own two sons, David and his newborn babe—not yet baptised, there being some debate between Lister and Sarah over the name—and confused John with his many stories of them, and how they were both to be ministers if the Lord would accept them. John was apt to confuse them with his own children, and be perplexed over them; and I wished him to have his own kin about him.

  Thomas, then as always firm in the execution of his duty, came home directly and stayed with us without any grumbling, attending very cheerfully and assiduously upon his father. I was truly thankful for his coming, and that for more than one reason; I was somewhat over-toiled with night-watching, and with lifting John, who was always a heavy man, and with grief too, and in all these matters Thomas was a great stay and support to me. Thomas was indeed always a good son, very thoughtful and understanding. He was very urgent with me then to have a woman in from Little Holroyd to share my labours. Naturally I would not do so, but it was very sweet to be urged thus anxiously. Thomas pressed me:

  “You must care for your own health, Mother,” he said.

  “Why, son,” said I: “What is health for except to use it? Your father needs me—it is me he needs; we have lived all our life together; no-one else will do.”

  And indeed it was so; during the long weary nights, when John’s strength left him and his mind wandered, he would speak of one thing and another from the past, which no-one living could have understood except myself, unless perhaps it were Joseph Lister. He would speak of his father and mother, of the looms they had in those days, of his Uncle Giles and of Francis; he would speak of me—not as I was then, his wife of many years at his bedside, but as a girl and even a child; once he murmured, which indeed almost forced from me the tears I was firm not to shed since they distressed him: “Thou hast a very gentle heart, Pe
nninah.” All the passages of his life he lived through; our marriage, and the birth of our children, and his meeting with Sir Thomas Fairfax, and his battles. Sometimes he would almost spring from his bed in his fever, waving his arm which he thought had a sword at the end of it; once a look of such fearful horror crossed his face that I trembled, wondering what memory it could be that so oppressed him. Then he would stir and wake, and be himself again, and know me; and then he would talk wearily, over and over, of the ruin of the good old cause, and all his life’s effort wasted in it.

  “But it is not ruined, John,” I protested, over and over again. “Didst thou not say so thyself to Lord Fairfax, at Nun Appleton?”

  “I said it to cheer him,” said John wearily.

  “But it is true,” said I. “See how the King rules steadily with a Parliament.”

  “Aye,” said John in a hopeless tone: “But he does what he likes with it. And consider our Thomas. Wasted, wasted,” he repeated, rolling his head from side to side. “I have done nothing, nothing.”

  I took much thought how I might combat this dejection in him, and asked Thomas whether there were not some hopeful happening in politics or religion I could tell his father.

  “Why, yes,” said Thomas. “I think there soon may be.”

  He began to tell me of some religious indulgence toward, which men were talking of, some Declaration or something of that kind. But it was not clear enough to pierce into John’s tired mind, so I had to think of something for myself to cheer him. After long thought, and much prayer before God, I could yet put nothing in readiness; but suddenly one midnight, when we lay awake together looking at the flickering candle—for John could not bear the darkness—and he was lamenting, as usual, his lost cause and his wasted effort, words were given to me.

  “Why, love,” said I in a sudden cheerful tone: “Thou hast writ on the page of history that Yorkshire is staunch in defence of freedom. Is that nothing? I do not think it is nothing!”

  At this John smiled a little, and told me I had a woman’s mind and a woman’s notions; men did not think like that, he said. But he seemed more content all the same, and even slept for a while quietly, with no delusions; and after that I always said this to him when he mourned, and I trust and hope he came to accept the truth of it.

  And then by God’s great mercy there came that event which enabled him to die happy. I was so busy in nursing him at the time that I did not give much attention to what Thomas said of it, and Thomas on his side wished not to awake expectations which might be disappointed; and so the thing came as an overwhelming surprise and delight to me.

  One afternoon Thomas came to the door of John’s sickroom, and beckoned me. John was drowsing, so I left him, but when Thomas made to take me away downstairs, I resisted him.

  “I cannot leave your father long, Thomas,” said I, whispering.

  “Then come in here,” whispered Thomas, drawing me into the loom-chamber. He shut the doors carefully, so that the sound of the shuttle should not come to John’s ears—though indeed that was a sound soothing to him—and put into my hand a paper. His hand trembled, and he was pale.

  “I did not tell you before, Mother,” he said, “lest it might not be granted. And you must not count too much on it; the struggle is not over, this is only a lull in the storm. But yet it is a great step forward too,” he added, smiling joyously. “A great step forward. Read the paper.”

  So I held it away from me, my eyes being grown to need distances of late, and read it.

  CHARLES R it was headed in very large letters, with a great deal about the King’s titles, and being addressed to mayors and constables and ministers and so on, as is customary in public documents.

  “It is some proclamation, then,” I said, disappointed.

  “Read it, Mother, read it,” said Thomas feverishly. “Begin here.”

  I followed his pointing finger, and read aloud:

  “We do hereby permit and license THOMAS THORPE, of the PRESBYTERIAN persuasion, to be a teacher of the congregation allowed by us in a room or rooms in his own house HOLROYD HALL, in the parish of BRADFORD in the county of YORK, for the use of such as do not conform to the Church of England, who are of the persuasion called PRESBYTERIAN, with further license and permission to him, the said THOMAS THORPE, to teach in any place licensed and allowed by us, according to our Declaration.

  Given at our Court at Whitehall, the 20th Day of April, in the twenty-fourth year of Our reign, 1672. THORPE, a teacher.”

  “It means that I am allowed to preach in any licensed meeting-place not a church, and to hold services here,” explained Thomas eagerly, reading over my shoulder. “Uncle David will be licensed too, Mother.”

  “Oh, Thomas, Thomas!” I cried from a full heart, throwing my arms about him. “What this will mean to your father! But why do you plan to hold the meetings at Holroyd Hall?” I asked, when our first transports of joy were over.

  Thomas frowned a little, as if not understanding. Then his brow cleared.

  “Why, Mother,” he said, speaking very carefully and gently, as one does to children and old people: “This is Holroyd Hall nowadays, you know. Nobody has called the old house Holroyd Hall, for many a long year now. The ministers all speak of this as the hall at Little Holroyd; Holroyd Hall.”

  “Well,” I said doubtfully: “How your father will like of that, Thomas, I do not know. You must be careful how you explain it to him.”

  But John seemed to take the matter very simply, and even be glad of it. He was deeply happy when the licence was shown to him; he lay quite still for a long time in silence, holding it.

  “It puts you out of the Church, Thomas,” he said at length.

  “Why, yes, Father,” agreed Thomas in his clear firm tones. “But it giveth us leave to practise our own religion, lawfully and honourably, and the Church of England to practise theirs. It will not last, I fear,” he added hastily. “As I said now to my Mother, it is but a lull in the storm. But to have the concession once is a great step forward.”

  “Aye—it is a precedent,” said John, quite in his old strong way, nodding. “Well, son. And so you propose to hold a meeting at The Breck?”

  “With your permission, Father, yes,” said Thomas. “I could wish to marry and settle here, and perhaps build on a little to the house.”

  I was greatly afraid that all these plans would confuse and perplex John, but on the contrary he seemed to understand them clearly and enjoy them.

  “Marry? I wish you would marry before I go, Thomas,” said John.

  “Why, Father, there is plenty of time,” began Thomas.

  “I wish you would marry now, Thomas,” urged his father wistfully. “It would be a great comfort to me, it would indeed. If you have thought seriously of any young woman, I wish you would marry before I go.”

  “To speak truth, Father,” said Thomas, colouring: “I have loved a woman these several years, but thought it not right to marry while I was necessitated to wander.”

  “You loved her when the Act of Uniformity was first published,” said I, laughing. “Confess now, Thomas.”

  “It is true,” said Thomas, colouring deeper. “But how did you guess it, Mother?”

  “When Chris wrote of his moredge,” said I: “I knew you were in love by the way you spoke of that.”

  “I have not spoken of it to her or to her father,” said Thomas hurriedly. “Her name is Faith, Mother, as it chances; that should please you.”

  It seemed she was the daughter of a very godly ejected minister whom we knew well, from Pudsey, and, John improving wonderfully on all this good news and continually begging Thomas to marry, and Faith being willing, the matter was arranged.

  Faith is a somewhat small, fair, fragile-looking woman, “nesh” as we say in Yorkshire, not very skilled in housekeeping and not very young either, but very strong spiritually and of a most delicate and scrupulous and gentle kindness. If I know anything of women, she loved Thomas most devotedly during all those years when
he, foolish as men are in these matters, thought himself bound in honour not to ask for her, since he was committed to a dangerous and in some sense unlawful task; I believe their marriage will be greatly blessed, especially now that the Lord hath granted them the joy of children.

  After the marriage, when Faith had come to live here, a service was held in our house at which John was present. He sat by the hearth wrapped in coverlets, drowsing a little from time to time, but understanding well what was happening and its significance in the long struggle for English freedom. Thomas preached on the text: They that sow in tears shall reap in joy, giving us a most fine, apt and moving sermon.

  That very night John fell ill again. He was perhaps overexcited by the occasion; or perhaps, with the great number of people coming and going—for the house was packed to overflowing with the congregation, some standing even in the porch and outside the windows—some breeze from without chilled him; I know not. But the night was terrible; he wandered and wandered, seeming lost and seeking me, and knowing me not. The physician, whom we called early in the morning, said he had a high fever, and could not live for long.

  I bethought me, and bade Thomas send for Captain Hodgson, and Isaac Baume, and Lister, for I thought John would like to bid farewell to them. They came quickly, and John saw Hodgson and Baume very gladly, for with the morning light he was himself again; and they left, much moved, taking my hand and looking into my eyes and shaking their heads, but not able to say much. But Lister seemed very uneasy, and would not go in with them, and hung about till they had gone. Then as I was returning to John’s chamber Lister drew me aside, and would have me go downstairs with him, and then still seemed dissatisfied, looking about over his shoulder; finally he drew me outdoors with him till we were out of earshot of the house.

  “Mistress,” he said: “I have a word to say to thee. I feel I cannot see my master die without asking his and thy forgiveness.”

  I looked at him, astonished.

  “It was I who told Mester John,” wailed Lister suddenly. “I told him—I told him. That night in the war when he came home, and went out again swiftly down to Bradford. The night before the first siege. In the laithe. I told him.”