Take Courage (62 page)

“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.”

I cast my mind back, striving to remember the time he meant, and I recalled how, a day or so after I had yielded to Francis, John had come home and gone again swiftly down to Bradford. I recalled, too, that he had seemed to be long between leaving the house and riding down the lane. Nor was I in any doubt as to what Lister had told him.

“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,” wailed Lister. “I should have left it in the Lord's hands; I should not have told him.”

“Tell me, Lister,” said I suddenly: “When you killed Francis Ferrand, did you know him?”

“I do not know!” wailed Lister, wringing his hands. “I do not know whether I knew him or not! I believe I knew him not, save as an enemy of the Lord; but I always hated him, so perhaps I took that chance to kill him. I do not know! Can you not see that I do not know? It is a continual torment to me. I have never borne arms or lifted my hand against any man since that day, Mistress, lest I should diminish the cause of God by an unworthy instrument.”

He looked at me with so much anguish contorting his plain freckled face that I perceived he spoke the truth, and that the doubt of his own intention in killing Francis had indeed been a lifelong torment to him. So, having fetched a deep breath and sighed, I said:

“Lister, I forgive thee freely, as my husband hath forgiven me. But do not speak of this openly to him,” I added hastily, “for he could not bear it; or to any other person. Let it be a bond between me and thee.”

“It shall be so,” said Lister firmly. “God do so to me, and more also, if ever I break this bond and bring suffering on the innocent. I will name my young son Accepted, to signify my hope that my repentance is accepted of God.”

At this I could not but smile a little, but I said nothing; I took him by the hand and we went back to the house and into John's room, together.

When Lister saw John lying so deep in his pillows, so pale and panting, he was very greatly moved, and said in a low sobbing tone:

“If there has been aught wrong between us, Mester, forgive me.”

“There is naught to forgive,” whispered John, looking steadily at him. “Thou hast been a good and faithful servant.”

Then Lister broke into tears and ran from us.

I sat down beside John, and said to him sadly:

“I am truly sorry, John, that thou canst not say the same to me.”

“Nay, but I do say it, Penninah!” said John, raising himself and speaking strongly. “I do say it. Thou hast been a good and faithful wife to me, the wife of my heart.”

Then I bent down to him, and speaking very softly in his ear words for him alone, I told him what like of a husband he had been to me. And so we kissed, and for this life parted; for he fell into a drowse shortly after, and was never truly himself again in this world.

On the following day, it being Whitsunday, very early in the morning he died. He had a good passing, sober, honest and godly, as he would have wished; for he died a man who had always been true to himself; with his work done; in his own house, which had been honoured by acceptance in the service of his cause; with his wife at his side, and his eldest son at the foot of his bed to pray for him.
Meruisti;
thou hast deserved well, my husband. It is such as thee who bear the burdens.

And so I sit here, in the latter part of my age, at the door of my son's house—which he has built new, very fine and fair—and think on all these things, while my grandchildren play about my knee. And this I say: Take courage. I have known trials so bitter that my whole course seemed darkened. But I have known joys too; putting one with another, I have found life too good to miss; I am glad to have been born. Again: I have lived in times so troubled that I cannot think this nation has ever seen the like, or will ever see the like again. But the land has not perished; the sun shines, the rain falls, the sheep still feed on the Pennine hills; women still conceive and bring forth and give their children suck; and while man lives, the hope of righteousness will not die. The strife is sore while it lasts; yes, it is very sharp and bitter, and wearying to the spirit, for it seems as if it will never come to any end; but if we keep a good heart and cease not to care for justice and truth, some say the storm will pass, and the nations rejoice in the sweet air of peace.