“If it is safe now, I will go home,” I said in a low voice.
John turned and gave me a strange hard look. “Aye, go home, Penninah,” he said. “Go home and keep close. And you, Ralph, go with her. You are my prisoner on parole. See you break this news gently at the Hall, Ralph,” he went on, with a disparaging motion of his hand towards Francis.
“Was the Captain a friend of yours?” said Hodgson at this, lifting the coat from Francis’s face.
“Not a friend,” said John harshly, turning away. “A cousin.”
“He seemed a bold, gallant officer,” said the Halifax man, dropping the coat. “Pity he couldn’t have been better persuaded.”
John made no reply.
4
“OUT OF THE DEPTHS
HAVE I CRIED”
“If i survive these days, I shall wonder how I endured to live through them,” I often thought to myself in the months that followed, and I have, indeed, often wondered whence I drew the strength to endure the sorrows which then heaped themselves upon my head. Perhaps it was from the children’s need of me, perhaps it was from a desire to make reparation to John, perhaps it came from God Himself, who in His infinite mercy did not wish to cast away even so notable a sinner, perhaps it was only from that strong love of life which is implanted so firmly in every human breast. I do not know; but I know that although every hour of every day was one of searing anguish to me, yet I ate and slept and saw to the children’s wants and administered to my household, and kept a face on it all not too revealing of my inner suffering, and so somehow lived.
About noon on the next day following Francis’s death, Ralph came timidly to our door to fetch me to Holroyd Hall.
“You must come, Mrs. Thorpe. There’s nobody but you,” he whined. “Mr. Ferrand said I was to fetch you. Nobody’d do it better nor you.”
“What is it you want of me, Ralph?” I asked. (The very sight of him was torture.)
“To be with Mrs. Ferrand when we bring him home,” whispered Ralph.
In half sentences and obscure phrases, for he could not bring himself to speak clearly, I learned his meaning. It seemed that Mr. Ferrand, having fled to Sir Richard Tempest at Boiling Hall to avoid arrest, was with the Royalist force, and had caused a trumpeter to be sent out to our men in the church to demand his son’s body, which this morning had been delivered to him. He had brought Francis nearly home, but now his courage failed him, and he dared not break the news to his wife alone. It was clear to me that Ralph had reported my mourning over Francis yesterday, that Mr. Ferrand thus knew that I still loved his son and felt he had a right to claim my aid. I shuddered at the task, but I would not refuse any office concerned with Francis, nor was I without a desire to look once more on my love. So I threw on a cloak and followed Ralph.
In the lane I found Mr. Ferrand on horseback beside a cart; he sat very still, but his hands trembled and his sanguine face was pale and drawn. He would not meet my eyes, but glancing aside towards the cart said that Francis lay in it, and that he would give me a few minutes at the Hall to tell his wife before he came.
“I’m much obliged to ye, Penninah,” he concluded huskily.
So I went on and began that fearful task which so often falls to women. The servants at the Hall were all, I found, forewarned, and admitted me quickly and silently, their looks showing their sad understanding. Mrs. Ferrand must have heard the noise of my entry, however, though it was so slight, for she ran out of the parlour. Her face fell when she saw me.
“I thought it was Francis,” she said, pettishly.
It was so long since I had seen her close that I had forgotten her trick of swallowing her r’s till I heard it now again; it made her seem very young and innocent. She was still a pretty woman; her cheek had its former smooth milk and roses, though now it sprang from art rather than nature, and her hair, though not as abundant as of old, was elaborately arranged in many curls about the forehead, and still very golden. The poor woman, knowing that Royalists were in the neighbourhood, hoping for another visit from her son, had dressed herself in her best, a light flowered silk of some kind, so that it was piteous to see her.
“What brings you here, Penninah Thorpe?” she said crossly.
My mind flew back to the day I had come to fetch her to see her dying brother, and she evidently remembered it too, for a shade of fear crossed her face, and she went on: “You brought bad news on your last visit,” with both rebuke and question in her tone.
I took the opportunity thus offered me, and began: “I fear I bring bad news again. There was fighting down by the church yesterday.”
“I know—Giles sent word I was to keep away,” said Mrs. Ferrand.
“Men on both sides were wounded,” I went on hoarsely.
“Well?” said Mrs. Ferrand, frowning.
I paused, moistening my dry lips; and before I could bring out the fatal word, Francis, which would tell her everything, there came the sound of rolling wheels and horses’ hoofs, and the sad little procession appeared in the gateway.
“What’s that?” cried Mrs. Ferrand, her face changing.
“Mrs. Ferrand, Francis is wounded,” I said hurriedly, trying to take her hand.
“My boy, my boy! What have they done to thee?” cried Mrs. Ferrand. She broke from me and ran towards the lane, stumbling over her flowery skirts. With a mother’s fatal prescience she made straight for the cart, and before her husband could stop her, climbed on the hub of the wheel, drew back the scarlet coat and gazed on the dead face of her son. She gave a strange loud cry, threw up her hands and fell senseless to the ground.
Mr. Ferrand and I carried her into the house, and when we could not revive her by water or air or cordial, sent Ralph hurrying for the physician. But neither could he restore her with his medicaments; it was a stroke of God, he said, against which he was powerless. Even as we watched, her face was suddenly distorted by a spasm, a breath puffed between her lips and she was gone.
Scarcely had he made sure that life was out of her before the physician left us hurriedly, for he had the dozen or so men wounded yesterday on his hands, Mr. Atkinson among them being like to die of a bullet in the stomach, he said.
When he had gone Mr. Ferrand and I stared at each other in a daze; the event was so swift we could not truly seem to catch up with it in our minds. Not a couple of hours had passed since Ralph had come to fetch me, and Mrs. Ferrand was then quick with life, smoothing her dress with her pretty hands and swallowing her r’s. I made to leave Mr. Ferrand alone with her to grieve, but he stretched out his hand to me and said my name so piteously that I stayed with him. After his first burst of grief, when he knelt beside her with his hand over his eyes and sobbed very pitifully, he rose and drew my arm within his and clasped his hand in mine, and we paced up and down the room together; and when the woman came from the village to lay out the two bodies, we passed into the parlour and paced up and down again there. Mr. Ferrand, in a weak high voice unlike his own, babbled many loving histories about the wife and son he had lost so suddenly and tragically—how he had first met Sybil, how he had loved and courted her, how Francis was born, a big lusty baby, and what a gradely, daring, handsome lad he had always been.
“And now those damned Roundheads have taken them both from me,” he said, weeping: “My curse on them! My curse!”
To this I made no reply; but to myself I thought it was the King and Laud and Strafford who had killed Mrs. Ferrand and Francis.
“My heart is broken, Penninah,” said Mr. Ferrand between every story. “My heart is broken!”
I thought: “And so is mine,” but I said no word, only clasping his hand more strongly in my own.
The short winter’s day began to fade, dusk crept up to the windows, the panelled walls sank into shadow, yet still we paced and still Mr. Ferrand eased his sore heart by lamentation. When I could no longer see the painted arms above the mantelshelf—a cruel mockery now to Mr. Ferrand, with no son left to bear them—I felt that I must return to the c
are of my own household. I took a sad farewell of Mr. Ferrand, and left him in spite of his pleadings.
Not that I was eager to return to The Breck. It was not a comfortable place for me at that time. I did not find it easy that day to look at Sam’s shrewd little face and hear his eager story of how he had sent “reinforcements” from Little Holroyd to his father yesterday, for those reinforcements had included Lister, and Lister had killed Francis. Nor did I wish to meet my husband whom I had wronged, while at the thought of Lister such a rage shook me that I feared I should not be able to control my tongue, perhaps even my nails, if I set eyes on him. John was still absent about the defence in Bradford when I reached The Breck, and Lister mercifully did not present himself at all that day, but the shadow of their return hung over me. Moreover, the maids, in hourly expectation of a second Royalist attack and slaughter, shrieked at every movement in the house, and at the mildest rebuke became hysterical.
When I had coaxed the children to bed, and put the maids to work sorting some goose-feathers, I wrapped myself in my cloak and set the house-door open and stood there looking down towards Bradford. It was very cold; the wind soughed and wailed about the house; I felt so desolate and wretched that I longed for any kind of support and comfort, and since for so many years my great stay and strength had been my husband, I longed for John, his staunch steady mind, his strong arm. I thought of confessing all my sin to him and asking his pardon, and had he come to me then perhaps I should have done so, and saved us both much wretchedness. But it was not to be. Even as I stood there gazing, a confused noise was borne up to me on the wind from Bradford, as of men shouting; my heart quickened its beat, for I feared it was a return of the Royalists. But it seemed a strange hour to begin an attack, and the noise had a cheerful sound, not bloodthirsty, so I calmed myself and tried to think it had another cause; and sure enough not long after there was the sound of a single horse’s hoofs hurrying up the lane, and a horseman turned in to The Breck, and when he drew near it was Isaac Baume, and he waved his hand above his head and shouted breathlessly:
“Black Tom!”
“What, Sir Thomas Fairfax!” I exclaimed. “Has he reached Bradford?”
“Aye!” shouted Baume joyfully. “Black Tom on his white horse! He hasn’t failed us! He’s passed through the Royalist lines with three hundred men! They won’t take Bradford now! Your husband bade me tell you,” he went on more soberly, “to expect himself and Sir Thomas here for supper.”
So I perforce bestirred myself and made the necessary preparations, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that I should thus lack opportunity at present for any deep talk with John.
It was late before Sir Thomas reached The Breck. He looked tired but eager, and I guessed by the brightness of his eyes and the smile on his lips that he had performed a considerable feat of arms in reaching Bradford. This animation made him more handsome than before, or perhaps I had forgotten a little his noble carriage and dark distinguished face.
“I was in too great haste to bring M-M-Moll with me this time, Mrs. Thorpe,” he jested pleasantly.
I smiled in reply but said nothing, for I could not bring my mind to thoughts of any troubles but my own, and it was indifferent to me whether little Moll came to The Breck or no. In truth I was so numbed and dazed with tribulation I could not feel anything as I should. John’s eyes did not meet mine, when I told him, as decency obliged, of Mrs. Ferrand’s death; he made no chance for private talk with me, he sat up late writing letters for Sir Thomas, and when I woke in the night he was not beside me. I should have wept and trembled at what this might mean, but I could not; I just went dully on about my household duties.
Next morning while we sat at table, Sam as usual forgetting to eat in order to look at Sir Thomas, Ralph appeared, and holding his hat to his breast and his head down in a humble penitent manner, craved of Sir Thomas a safe-conduct for his master to bury his wife and son in Bradford.
“Surely, surely,” conceded Sir Thomas impatiently, as if vexed that his humanity should be so much doubted.
While the safe-conduct was being prepared John asked Ralph the day and hour of the burial, and was told that, on account of the likelihood of further fighting, it was to take place that very day, at noon.
“Tell your master that I will go to the burial with him,” said John shortly, and turning to Sir Thomas, he explained, in a cold hard tone: “The dead are my aunt and cousin; I must see them decently buried.”
“Well, I must be in Bradford myself all day,” observed Sir Thomas thoughtfully. “We must get siege works instantly started.”
“But you will return to The Breck to sleep?” said John.
Sir Thomas smiled. “I will return, Jack,” he said, his voice very friendly.
So again The Breck was filled with buff coats and helmets and horses, and breast plates and muskets and pikes, and soldiers and messengers going and coming. John was never a minute unoccupied, either writing letters or riding about Bradford and learning siege-craft with Sir Thomas. It came Christmas, and Sir Thomas was still with us; and some days the Royalists would approach within a mile or two and there was a skirmish between the forces, and some days Sir Thomas sat at home in The Breck, conferring with the gentlemen who were his captains and colonels. I could not but admire John’s carriage during all this business, which after all was strange to him. In privacy, when the company was gone, it was Jack and Tom with the two men, and there was a very close friendship between them; but when others were there John never presumed on this private understanding, he called his friend “Sir,” and carried himself very quietly and discreetly, never pushing himself forward. John had by this time returned to all his customary ways about the house, except that he treated me as if I were not his wife, but some not-much-liked housekeeper. Lister too had returned to the house; I knew this by hearing his voice, which made me shudder, in the loom-chamber, but I did not see him. Whether he refrained deliberately from my presence, or was kept thence by the much business of figuring and writing for Sir Thomas which John heaped on him, I do not know, but I was glad of it.
One of Sir Thomas’s officers gave me money to provide his entertainment, but I was so hard put to it to feed the guests who were always coming and going that often the children and I went very short, and in my heart I blamed John for not seeming to notice it. The Royalists, being spread over the middle part of the county, quite prevented any corn or wool coming to the West Riding—though in truth wool would have been of little use, for there was no one to buy cloth and we did not make any. The meal in the ark lessened so rapidly that I grew afraid, and one evening took occasion to show it to John, speaking with eyes averted and in a dry tone of business, such as we nowadays habitually practised to each other. To my surprise John’s eye brightened, and bidding me hold the lid of the ark open, he went aside and urgently called Sir Thomas. With that quiet smile which so often visited his finely moulded lips, half melancholy, half gracious, wholly loving, Sir Thomas stepped into the kitchen and looked into our meal ark, so seriously and so long that I could not help smiling. John said nothing, but gazed earnestly into his face.
“Well, I take your meaning, Jack,” said Sir Thomas after a time. “It is a strong reinforcement of your daily argument.” He paused and seemed to consider, frowning heavily; and there was a long silence. Then suddenly Sir Thomas added with decision: “I will write to my father.”
John’s face cleared wonderfully, and with no further word to me made haste to take pen and ink, and he put a fair sheet of paper on the table and sat himself down before it, and then looked expectantly at Sir Thomas, who laid one of his fine slender hands on John’s shoulder for a moment, and then began to move soberly about the room, his hands behind his back, dictating.
“For the Right Honourable My Honoured Father, the Lord Fairfax, General of the Forces in the North,” he began. “These. May it p-p-please your lordship.”
He looked at John to see if he was ready for the next sentence, and John, after a hurri
ed scratching, nodded, and Sir Thomas went on: “These parts grow very imp-p-patient of our delay in beating the enemy out of Leeds and Wakefield, for by them all trade and provisions are stopped, so that the p-p-people in these clothing towns are not able to subsist, and, indeed, so p-p——”
Here his stammer got the better of him; John, with a scrupulous delicacy I would not have guessed of him, fore-bore to nod, though I could see his pen had kept pace with the slow considering speech, till the word exploded from Sir Thomas’s lips.
“—pressing are their wants,” got out Sir Thomas at last, “that some have told me—that’s you, Jack,” he said, breaking off with a smile—”some have told me, if I would not stir with them, they must rise of necessity themselves.”
“It is true,” muttered John gruffly, as he wrote.
“Being only commanded by you to defend these p-parts, I would not raise the country to assault the enemy without your lordship’s consent,” went on Sir Thomas with emphasis: “But if your lordship please to give me p-p-power to join with the readiness of the p-p-people, I doubt not b-but, by God’s assistance, to give your lordship a good account of what we do.”
“Amen,” said John.
“Humbly desiring your blessing, your lordship’s most obedient son,” concluded Sir Thomas rapidly. “Best take a copy, Jack, and I will write now to Bingley and Mirfield, to summon them to come in.”
I slipped away unnoticed. I could not forbear a slight pride in John, that he should be engaged in such high affairs of state, and offering advice which Sir Thomas Fairfax accepted; and I quitted him of carelessness about our supplies. I felt too a gladness that some headway should be made against those tyrannical Royalists; yet I grieved that there should be further fighting.
Lord Fairfax was not long in sending his permission, and a sufficient force was soon collected, for the West Riding was in truth in pressing need, as John had said, and ready to dare anything to drive the oppressors away from their doorstep. So men poured into Bradford on Sir Thomas’s summons: gentry and yeomen and simple weavers. Moreover, the West Riding loved Sir Thomas, for his loyalty to the clothing towns and for his own person, and they gave him readily much love and loyalty. “The Rider of the White Horse,” they called him affectionately at this time in Bradford. I hated to hear it, for this title meant to me Francis on Snowball, the first Sunday I ever met him; and I doubt not my face grew sullen whenever I heard it, and vexed my husband.
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