Take Courage (4 page)

“What will that lad do next?” muttered Mr. Ferrand, making his way along the passages and out of the back door. He did not sound vexed, however, but rather pleased, as if at bottom he was proud of his son's escapades. “A horse? What horse?” he said in a loud tone when we were free of the house. “Ralph, come down with me, I may need you. A horse? What horse? By God, it's Snowball!” he roared suddenly, as Snowball came into view, galloping in nervous fright about the field below, scattering the sheep in all directions. At this Mr. Ferrand bounded forward, and shouted angrily: “Who took him out of the stable? I'll wring the varmint's neck! Well, don't stand there, you fool!” he bellowed, turning on the serving-man who was hurrying beside him: “Go and catch that horse!”

At this moment he reached the edge of the bank, and saw Francis lying on the stones, his head pillowed on his cousin's arm. Mr. Thorpe, bending over him, was throwing water on his face out of his high-crowned hat. The mastiff, Thunder, who was couched beside, at sight of his master thumped his tail once and raised his voice in a prolonged whine of misery and fear.

“Oh, Francis!” cried his father piteously, quite changing his tone. “Frank! My boy!” He charged down the bank and threw himself on his knees at his son's side. “Son! Will you hold your tongue, Thunder!” he shouted at the dog. “You'll bring your mistress down on us. Is he dead? Ralph, take that dog to the house.”

“He's not dead,” said Mr. Thorpe. And indeed Francis's eyes were opening, and it was plain he knew us, though there was a sick misery on his face. “Have you any pain, nephew?” said his uncle in a somewhat dry tone.

“Where is your hurt, Frank?” asked John.

“I'm not hurt,” muttered Francis. He stirred in John's arms, and pulled himself up to sit erect. “I'm not hurt,” he repeated staunchly, leaning his head on his hand and looking deathly white. “There's no call for all this pother. You might think nobody had ever been thrown from a horse before.”

“What made you take Snowball from the stable?” demanded Mr. Ferrand, remembering this other grievance now that his son seemed safe.

“I wanted to ride him,” returned Francis coolly. “John, help me to stand.”

John put his arm round his cousin's waist and heaved him up. Francis swayed a little but managed to keep his feet, and began to stumble up the bank.

A shrill sound of voices now swept down on us, with the whining bark of the mastiff, who had drawn Mrs. Ferrand and her guests to the scene of Francis's misfortune.

“Here comes my sister,” said Mr. Thorpe, pulling down his mouth in a rueful grimace.

And indeed I now understood the good sense of John's command to keep the matter from his aunt. Such cries, such throwing up of hands, such flutterings, such threatenings to faint, as Mrs. Ferrand now treated us to, I never could have believed possible. The poor woman was almost distraught, for Francis was the thing she loved best in all the world, but she had no means of expressing any emotion save silly words and trivial actions.

“Look at the blood on his new doublet!” she screamed, feverishly fingering her son's collar and smoothing out his hair.

“Oh, be quiet, Mother,” said Francis wearily.

“Aye, let the lad be, Sybil,” urged Mr. Thorpe. “He needs to rest.”

But this admonition did not please her husband, who told his wife's brother hotly that he was well able to care for his own son without anyone else's counsel. One of his guests—the man in red, whose name was Tempest, it seemed he came from Boiling Hall—offered to go for his physician, and this offer was accepted. Meanwhile Mr. Ferrand pushed John aside and himself supported Francis up the bank. Poor Mrs. Ferrand took the boy's other arm, looking into his face fondly, though indeed she was more of a drag than a support to him.

I stood and watched them go.

“Farewell, Pen. I'm sorry I frightened you,” said Francis, stretching out his hand to me across his mother.

I took his fingers—warm, strong and slender—within my own. “I am sorry you are hurt, Francis,” I told him quietly.

Francis laughed suddenly, and his grey eyes sparkled.

“Well, I rode Snowball,” he said.

As we went back to The Breck we met my father and Mrs. Thorpe, coming to see whether Francis's hurt were serious. At sight of them I halted suddenly.

“Where is David?” I cried.

Mrs. Thorpe reassured me. It seemed David had followed Lister to the house on his errand; he was frightened by Francis's fall and inclined for weeping, so she had left him there with the apprentice. I hurried to The Breck, reproaching myself for having so long forgotten him. But I need not have troubled, for he was sitting on the step with Lister, weaving a daisy chain. As soon as David saw me he ran to me, and as I stooped to him he tried to throw the chain round my neck. Mr. Thorpe made some remark I did not hear, and my father replied:

“He has been her charge since I lost Faith.”

His voice trembled, as it always did when he spoke of my mother, and Mr. Thorpe seemed sorry. The shadows were lengthening and it was time for us to be gone, but out of kindness he would have us stay to supper, and Mrs. Thorpe pressed our acceptance of the invitation, though I think she had not meant it to be so when we first came, for there was a great bustle in the house to make things ready. By that time, however, I was no longer timid with the Thorpes. They seemed old friends, for we had been through much together, and the Ferrands being so grand had somehow brought the Thorpes down nearer our level. So I asked plainly whether David might be put to sleep on one of the beds upstairs, and Mrs. Thorpe was very kind with him, wrapping him in an old house-coat of her own and putting an embroidered coverlet over him. Then I
asked if I might help with the supper, and she gave me trenchers and tankards to carry. John and Lister were out watering the horses, but my father and Mr. Thorpe were sitting very friendly together in the dusk when I brought them a candle.

“Never fear, Robert,” Mr. Thorpe was saying, “we will bring the business to a fair end. Thank you, child,” he said, taking the stick from my hand: “You are a very sober and virtuous little maid, Penninah.”

At this my father drew me to him, and I leaned against his knee, content.

Presently supper was ready. Will and Eliza came in from church and a dallying walk home, half-dazed with happiness; when they heard of Francis's fall from Snowball they plied John eagerly with questions. He was very loth, I could see, to answer, he looked tired and sad; so I answered instead, telling the story as truthfully as I could. I could see my father and the Thorpes all thought John a hero, for preventing Francis jumping with David and me on his horse's back. I thought so too, and was truly grateful to him for David's sake; but I could not help a slight grudge against him also, for I thought if Snowball had been allowed to take his own course unhindered, he might easily have cleared the beck, and that would have been a joy to see.

Then suddenly Mr. Ferrand came in, very large and bright and jovial, and told us that the physician had been and pronounced Francis not hurt but only severely shaken; the lad begged his uncle's pardon, he said, for behaving unmannerly on his land, and he himself was sorry that he had spoken sharply down by the beck.

“I meant no harm, Tom,” he shouted in his loud cheerful voice. “I was distressed about the lad—that lad'll be the death of me one of these days. Sybil dotes on him. I offer my apologies.”

Mr. Thorpe in a gruff but ungrudging tone bade him think no more of it. Then he made my father and Mr. Ferrand known to each other, and they were all very
friendly together. But soon somehow they fell into an argument I did not quite understand, about sheep and wool. Mr. Ferrand, it seemed, was not a clothier, but a gentleman; he owned land and kept sheep, and he thought it right to sell their wool abroad. But Mr. Thorpe grew very warm and angry, and said that to sell English wool to foreign countries was to ruin the English cloth trade.

“If they take to making cloth abroad, what are we clothiers here to live on?” he said.

“Aye, and many poor men here who only subsist by spinning and carding of wools,” added Mrs. Thorpe.

“It is a deep question,” said my father thoughtfully.

“There's nowt deep about it. Exporting wools from England,” said Mr. Thorpe, “ought to be forbidden by law.”

“You want to ruin me, do you?” snorted Mr. Ferrand. “Who'll grow your wool for you then, eh? Forbidden by law! As far as I know, it's lawful for an Englishman to do what he likes with his own.”

“It's to be hoped the new King will think so,” grumbled Mr. Thorpe, “and not start levying taxes before Parliament grants them, like his father.”

“He'll think so right enough, God bless him,” cried Mr. Ferrand heartily, “if the Parliament give him proper supplies without too much talk and dallying. He's a gradely lad is Charles. Give him a chance now, Thomas; don't curb him before he starts.”

“There are certain grievances which he ought to remedy,” put in my father mildly.

“I don't deny it, Mr. Clarkson, I don't deny it for a moment,” conceded Mr. Ferrand. “But the Government has to be carried on, you know. England's good name is at stake, abroad. We're fighting for the King's sister against the Spaniard, after all. Supplies must come first, for England's sake.”

“Grievances must come first,” objected Mr. Thorpe. “If they don't come first, they don't come at all.”

“Religion comes first,” said my father quietly.

They all looked at him with respect, and were silent.

“That is very true, Robert Clarkson,” said Mrs. Thorpe at length, and her husband muttered agreement, while Mr. Ferrand gave an embarrassed cough of an approving kind. “After all this worldly talk,” she went on: “we shall do well to refresh our souls with holy words. Robert Clarkson, will you read to us? Son, get the Bible.”

“It is Will who means to be a minister,” said my father, smiling.

“Let it be Will, then,” agreed Mrs. Thorpe. “Will you stay and hear a chapter, Giles?”

“Nay, nay!” said Mr. Ferrand hurriedly, rising. “Chapters are nowt in my line. I heard enough to last me my life when I was courting your Sybil here. Church once a week is enough for me. I'd best be off. No offence meant, Tom.”

“None taken, Giles,” murmured Mr. Thorpe.

“Glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Clarkson,” went on Mr. Ferrand affably. “And that of the little maid here. So your lad's to be a minister, eh? Very right and proper. Well, good-night all.”

He gave us a bow, and went off, humming and twirling his moustache.

I loved to hear my father read, as his voice was always very clear and beautiful, but I did not grudge his refusal, since the honour of reading gave Will such pleasure. He flushed with pride when John took the great Bible from its carved box and laid it on the table before him and set the candlesticks beside. Will turned the pages reverently, but seeming a little uncertain where to choose; at last he read, stumbling now and then but with great earnestness, that beautiful psalm seventy-two, where King David prays for righteousness with which to judge his people. He was thinking of our new King Charles, no doubt, put in mind of him by the three men's talk. Just as he began, our little David appeared and stood shyly at the door, trailing Mrs. Thorpe's gown behind him, his cheek warm with sleep, his fair hair rumpled. I took him on my lap and he listened gravely.

“He shall deliver the needy when he crieth; the poor also, and him that hath no helper. ... He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence: and precious shall their blood be in His sight,”

read Will.

I shall never forget our people as we sat that night; my father with his silver head bowed, gleaming in the candle-light, his eyes closed in prayerful meditation; Mr. Thorpe with his arms folded and his head thrown up a little sideways, a good staunch look on his cheerful red face; Mrs. Thorpe very stern and upright in her chair; David quiet in my arms, Elizabeth smiling and plucking nervously at her gown in love of Will. John sat in the deep shadow behind me; I should hardly have known he was there save that once, when David twitched and the cushion behind my shoulder slipped, a hand came out of the darkness and put it in place.

When Will had finished the psalm, we made our farewells quietly and went away home. Will carried David, my father took my hand. John attended us silently down the lane with a lantern.

So ended the day I first met John Thorpe and Francis Ferrand. I remembered them both in prayer before God, that night.

The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, there came a loud rhythmical knocking on our house door, as though someone were playing a tune on it, and when Sarah ran in affright to open, there stood Francis, somewhat pale but gay and lively, with Thunder at his heels.

The moment the door stood wide and Thunder espied our cat Tabby, who was sitting peacefully on the hearth gazing into the fire, he gave a loud excited bark and rushed for her, tossing Sarah's skirts and almost knocking her down. Sarah, who was gaunt and sallow, and apt, like many people of that complexion, to be cross, threw up her hands and scolded shrilly, Tabby flew up the cupboard and clung there spitting and clawing, Thunder leaped up and down barking below, and Francis shouted: “Down, sir!” Such a clamour had never been heard in our quiet house before, and my father came down from the loom-chamber, in astonishment.

Francis, dragging Thunder back from Tabby by the collar, explained somewhat breathlessly that his father had sent him to show himself to us so that we might be reassured as to his health after yesterday's mishap. My father smiled kindly, and said, not without a playful malice, that he was perfectly reassured, then he went away back to his work again. David now began to weep and cling to my hand, for he was terrified of Thunder, whereupon Francis, kneeling down between dog and child, and holding each in one arm, tried to make them like each other. He did not use the best persuasions, I thought, for he told David he was too big a boy to be frightened of a dog, and this sounded to me too scornful; however, to please Francis
I stroked Thunder's ears myself, though fearfully, and so coaxed David to lay his little hand on the dog's great fawn and black head. Thunder thumped his great tail, and a watery smile stole over David's face. Francis then pulled down Tabby, and began to try and make dog and cat friendly, rubbing their noses together and the like, and David laughed a little at this, though timidly.