Take Courage (3 page)

“I must find David,” and began to move towards the door.

“Lister will take good care of him,” said John. But he did not try to detain me; with true kindness he roused up and led the way into the open without more ado.

It was now for the first time that I saw how well The Breck was situated, and what a fine prospect it had of Bradford. The house stood on a green slope, the fields,
divided here and there by low stone walls, rolling away down in front of it towards the town; away down to the right rose the square church tower, and the lines of the streets, Kirkgate and Ivegate and Westgate, were plain to be seen, though both Bradford Beck and Bowling Beck seemed hidden by the curve of the hills. I tried to distinguish our own house, but could not quite pick it out, though John, standing behind and pointing over my shoulder, guided my eyes towards the Packhorse Inn, which stood, then as now, at the corner of Westgate and Fairgap. The grey stone houses so neatly and cosily clustered in the dale, the many hills rising in courses behind the town, green on their lower slopes, darker towards the summits as the grass gave way to rock and heather, the nearby fields, patterned with buttercups and daisies or silvery green with oats, all made a pleasant picture beneath the blue sky and bright June sun; and as I could hear David's voice raised in laughter though he was out of sight, and judged he did not need me, I shaded my eyes with my hand and stood looking at the prospect for a while, John close at my side.

Then David laughed again and I turned and made towards the sound, John leading me. We climbed a flagged stile through a wall to the right of the house, and saw David with Joseph Lister. The field, which here led down to the small beck running close by the house, was dotted with sheep and this year's lambs; Lister had caught a lamb in his arms, and was holding it so that David could stroke its wool. A sheep's fleece, though very curly, is not as soft as it looks, but rather harsh and oily to the touch; David's face betrayed a surprise, and a kind of disappointment, mingled with delight, which was very comical, and we all stood and laughed together.

Then Suddenly There was a great splashing and trampling down by the beck, and a huge white horse came scrambling through the water over the stones and made straight as a dart up the field towards us, so it seemed it would surely trample us underfoot. A big brindled mastiff puppy, its tongue hanging, galloped fiercely at its side. We were all frightened and cried out, and scattered, running; at this the lad on the horse laughed down at us and struck its haunch with his whip, so that it flew up the field.

He was the handsomest lad I had ever seen; very slender and exactly well-proportioned, his complexion brilliantly fair, his hair a golden colour, very thick, softer than silk, and curling into loose great rings at the ends; his eyes a lively grey and full of vigour, his mouth very ruddy and graceful; his nose very straight, and a deep cleft in his chin. At the top of the field he set his horse at the wall; I screamed, for I thought he would not clear it, but he went over like a bird, and the mastiff with him, and before I had caught my breath he had leaped back again, the dog in scrambling over bringing a stone down from the top course. The lad eased his pace at the sound of this, looking back over his shoulder to see if the dog were injured, no doubt; then walking his horse back to the wall dismounted, and tucking his whip beneath his arm tried to raise the stone. It was too heavy for him; he beckoned imperiously to John to help him, and we all drew near, though for my part I kept David at a distance from the horse, for it was a huge heavy beast, and I feared its great hoofs.

“You fool, Francis!” cried John in angry tone: “What do you mean by frightening the children so?”

“He that calleth his brother a fool shall perish in hell fire,” chanted Francis, mocking.

“You're not my brother, God be praised,” muttered John.

“Cousin, then,” said the lad. “The fire would be just as hot for a cousin.” His speech was light and quick, and he laughed easily.

The cousins heaved up the stone together and wedged it on the wall, then Francis struck his hands fastidiously together to rid them of dust. He was very finely clad in a slashed doublet of bright blue silk, thickly trimmed with gold braid, with breeches and a short cloak all to match. John in his plain suit of black cloth looked a crow to a flower, beside him.

“I'm sorry if I alarmed you, mistress,” said Francis, and he made me a wonderfully graceful bow, half in mockery and half in earnest. “Who is this young lady and what is her name?” he asked.

“She is sister to Will Clarkson and her name is Penninah,” John told him, looking at me kindly.

“What an outlandish name!” laughed Francis, rolling his eyes at me. “It sounds like a mountain.”

At this I hung my head, for I knew my father had chosen my name because it sounded like our Pennine Hills, which he loved dearly.

“It's a good Bible name,” said John in his staunch way. “And if you can't be civil to our guests, Francis Ferrand, I'll thank you to keep off our land.”

“I wish I had never come near your beggarly land!” shouted Francis.

“So do I,” said John, looking squarely at him.

Francis exclaimed, and taking the bridle of the horse in his hand, began to lead it down towards the beck. “Hi! Thunder!” he called to the mastiff.

We all turned and watched him, sorry in a way to see so much brightness leave us, and without quite meaning to follow trailed slowly after him down the slope.

“Whose horse is that, anyhow?” said John at last in a
still reluctant tone, as his cousin halted the animal to mount him.

“Father bought him yesterday at Adwalton Fair,” replied Francis. “He's from the Fairfax stables, his name is Snowball.”

“Won't Uncle Giles ride Betty any more?” mumbled John.

“He's grown too heavy for her,” said Francis shortly. With a sudden quick spring he vaulted nimbly into the saddle, and this feat seemed to restore his good humour, for he gave us his brilliant flashing smile and cried out cheerfully: “Penninah, would you like a ride?”

God Almighty, who made the human heart and understands all its strange workings, doubtless knows why I had of a sudden such a strong desire to ride. I had never mounted a horse, I had no trust in Francis, yet I wished with all my heart to sit with him on that great white beast. I knew it would not become me to do so, however, so I merely shook my head and looked away. But David cried out suddenly:

“I want to ride! I want to ride!”

And he held out his arms to Francis, who laughed and swung him up to the saddle.

Then I took a quick step forward, for indeed—though that was not the whole of it—I could not let David ride alone; and Joseph Lister, grinning, bade me put my foot in his hand, and Francis reached down and swung me up, and before I knew what I meant I was perched astride of Snowball between David and Francis, looking down into Lister's grinning face and John's sombre one, below. I was suddenly grieved for John, and thought to say something kindly to him, but before I could do so Francis set the horse in motion, and we paced slowly round the field, John walking beside us all the way. Francis held me strongly, and his other hand, so fair and slender, was yet firm on the rein, so that I was not afraid. As we climbed up the field a little, a fine large house, with a courtyard and mounting-block and many mullioned windows, came into view on our right hand.

“That is Holroyd Hall, my father's house,” said Francis, pointing to it proudly.

“Does Uncle Giles know you are riding his horse?” said John.

“No. But there's no harm in it,” said Francis impatiently. “Don't be a spoil-sport, John. Why are you so cross today?”

John looked glum but said nothing, and Francis, lightly shaking the rein, caused Snowball to trot and then to canter. We soon left John and Lister far behind, and they ceased following us and took a course across the field to intercept us later.

“We'll jump the beck,” said Francis in my ear, and he put Snowball to the gallop in that direction.

The horse flew over the uneven field, my heart beat fast, my hair streamed back in the wind of our passage, David laughed on a high shrill note, Thunder raced beside. We had topped the bank when suddenly John's face, crimson with anger, loomed up before me, there was a strong jerk at the bridle, and Snowball swerved aside and reared. David screamed in fear, and I threw my arms round the horse's neck, but John clung hardily to the bridle, and soon Snowball was standing on all four hoofs, trembling but obedient. Lister ran up and lifted the weeping David to the ground. John pulled me, somewhat roughly as I thought, down too.

“You fool, John!” shouted Francis, white with passion. “You nearly had us thrown.”

“You meant to jump the beck,” John panted.

“What's that to you? Do you think I can't ride a horse?” cried Francis.

“You can break your own neck if you like,” said John, glaring up at him. “Indeed I'd be glad of it. But you shan't break Penninah's.”

Francis laughed, and turning Snowball away from us down the bank, suddenly lashed at the horse's haunch with his whip. Snowball gathered himself for the jump and sprang. One moment horse and rider were in the
air, a gallant spectacle, the next they were rolling amongst the stones on the other side.

Snowball, thrashing wildly, jerked himself upright, tossed his mane and scrambled up the bank. But Francis lay still, with blood pouring from his nose and his arms outflung. The mastiff paused at a little distance, then came up and sniffed round him uneasily.

“O God, he's hurt!” cried John, splashing through the stream. “Frank! Frank!”

He knelt beside his cousin and wiped the blood away with a gentle care; it was borne on me then that as well as hating Francis he loved him dearly.

“Lister, run for my father,” John ordered, looking up. “Penninah, go to the Hall and fetch Uncle Giles. Be sure to keep it from Aunt Sybil. There are stepping-stones across the beck further upstream.” He pointed; I gathered my skirts and ran, little David wailing: “Pen! Pen!” after me as I went.

Sounds of music and talk met me as I neared the Hall, so that I feared to go in by the big door and ran instead to the back. The serving-men and maids I found in the kitchen were all dressed in bright colours, very lively and loud-mouthed, not at all like our Sarah or Mrs. Thorpe's sober elderly woman. However, when I said I came with a pressing message from Mr. Thorpe to Mr. Ferrand they treated me kindly enough; one of the men took down his livery coat from a hook behind the kitchen door, and led me along passages, till the music sounded close. I was much perplexed how to obey John's command and tell Francis's plight to his father while concealing it from his mother, and I suppose my face showed my trouble, for the serving-man, pausing to fasten his last button, stooped down to me, saying:

“What's to do, lovey?” in a very kind tone.

I ventured to tell him my message was not for Mrs. Ferrand; at this he nodded his head with a great air of understanding. “Master Francis is in a scrape again, I suppose,” he said. He straightened himself up,
pulled down his doublet and threw open the parlour door.

“A pressing private message from Mr. Thorpe, sir,” he said.

Such a chamber as now met my eyes I had never seen before; so high and large, with so many windows through which the afternoon sun richly poured, the walls so nobly panelled, the coat of arms painted in such glowing colours above the mantelshelf, the furniture so abundant and handsomely decorated. Then, such a profusion of pewter plates and tankards, jugs of wine and rich meats stood on the table as I had hardly believed to exist in the whole world; while the bright silks, the pearls and curls and ribbons, worn by the assembled company quite dazzled my childish eyes. A very fine-looking gentleman in red was playing on the viol. I hung back, blinking and, I doubt not, looking stupid enough. A lady on a settle by the hearth, whom I judged to be Francis's mother by reason of her hair, very golden like his, and a look both of him and Mr. Thorpe in her pretty silly face, called out pettishly to me to come in and close the door.

“Aye, come in, love,” urged Mr. Ferrand cheerfully, taking a long pipe out of his mouth and blowing forth a cloud of smoke. “And who are you, my pretty little maid? 'Tis a pretty little maid, is it not, Sybil?”

“Very pretty, Giles,” agreed Mrs. Ferrand distastefully. She could not speak her r's properly, but seemed somehow to swallow them, which made her speech seem pretty and silly and sweet all at once, just like herself. Children are not easily deceived about their elders, and I knew at once that Mrs. Ferrand could not bear to hear any female praised for beauty in her presence, even if it were but a child of eleven.

“But of a black complexion,” added her husband to please her, for he knew it too. (This vexed me, for though my hair was dark, my skin had ever been pale and clear.) “Come, tell your errand, child,” he urged impatiently.

Perplexed what to do, I looked up at the serving-man,
who with nods and mouthed words and rolling glances managed to draw his master from the room.

“Well, what is this great secret, eh?” said Mr. Ferrand, laughing, when we stood in the passage together; he stooped down close to me and stroked my hair.

He was a large fleshy man, with a profusion of light brown hair and a twirled light moustache, very neatly trimmed. His complexion was very sanguine and his eyes prominent; his breath smelt of wine; I judged him to be of a warm uncertain temper, indulgent to the point of foolishness except when he was crossed, when he would be very choleric and masterful. He was in truth a fine handsome figure of a man, and kindly; but I had not seen any person like him before, and I felt some fear of him.

“Francis has been thrown from his horse, he's hurt,” I whispered. “Down by the beck.”