“I could be a tutor, perhaps,” Abraham offered thoughtfully.
“Tutors are half-starved miserable beings with no proper home of their own,” said John.
“I don’t eat much, Father,” said Abraham seriously.
There was something so childish and trusting about this that John’s ill-temper was cured for that time; but soon they were at it again, Abraham wanting to go to Cambridge and John refusing him.
“If you go to the south you will stay there, like Sam and your Uncle David, and Thomas for many years,” said John, “and we shall never see you more.”
“If it was right for Uncle David and Sam and Thomas to go, why should it be wrong for me?” countered Abraham.
“He is right, John,” I ventured to argue, when John and I were alone together. “It is his life—he hath as much right to go as Sam or Thomas.”
“I cannot afford it, Penninah!” shouted John angrily. “I tell you I cannot find the money! You seem to think I am made of gold.”
Although I did not quite believe it, against this plea of poverty there was nothing to be said; so I directed myself to begging John to look for a place where Abraham’s skill in numeration would be serviceable.
“It will be highly serviceable in a mercer’s,” said John. “Yards and half–yards of stuffs at various prices, and discounts and profits and so on—he will be at figures all day long.”
I told this to Abraham, who made a grimace and remarked that it was no pleasure to him to do sums when they were easy. This seemed such a strange thing to say, so opposite to the general notions of humanity, which ever seeks the easiest way, that I was perplexed and troubled.
“You are a strange one,” I said: “You make me fear for your future, son.”
“Why, never mind, Mother,” said Abraham consolingly, for he was a kindly gentle lad: “I shall find a way. But since ’tis from Father I have my gift of figures, it is hard he will not let me cultivate it. He wants me to bury my talent in a napkin, which is very unScriptural—tell him that, Mother.”
But there was no telling anything to John in his then state of mind, and so, though my conscience troubled me, warning me that I was not doing my duty by Abraham, I was obliged to let him go. John found him a place in York, and took him thither himself when he had cloth business there.
“They are very honest godly folk,” he said when he returned: “And I think they will like of Abraham.”
“Aye; but will he like of them?” I thought, but I did not venture to say so, John being so unhappy then over both private and public affairs.
For it seemed he was right, and our cause defeated, every day that passed bringing some disagreeable turn of oppression by the restored Cavaliers. And then, only two years after Charles had made all those fine promises about liberty of conscience, as John had prophesied, the King threw those of our persuasion out of the ministry. An Act was passed through Parliament for enforcing uniformity in the Church. By this act, the Prayer Book was the only form of service allowed to be used, ordination by Bishops was the only ordination recognised; every person in holy orders was required to read the Prayer Book service aloud to his congregation and swear his assent to it, before a certain Lord’s Day in August; moreover, he was required to swear also that it was unlawful under any pretence whatever to take arms against the King. It was indeed a crushing blow to all those of our persuasion.
Unfortunately John had this Act battered upon his ears at all hours of the day and night, for the first few weeks after its passing, and indeed for long enough afterwards. Our Bradford minister, Jonas Waterhouse, a good creature enough but as this proved somewhat weak and uncertain, was greatly distressed by the choice this Act of Uniformity imposed on him, and could not make up his mind whether to conform, as it was called, or not. Now John was steward to the southern lady who owned the tithes and the presentation of the Bradford living; during the Commonwealth and Protectorate her presentation was in abeyance and we chose our own ministers, but now she took it back again, and as that odious former minister of ours, Mr. Corker, was also claiming that he was still Vicar of Bradford Church, the matter was very difficult. All the parties concerned wrote to John; Lady Maynard wrote, and Mr. Corker wrote, and Mr. Waterhouse rode up daily to our house to argue the matter. And whereas Lady Maynard, a very godly honest woman though of the Royalist and Episcopal persuasion, was ready to leave Mr. Waterhouse in possession if he would conform, Mr. Waterhouse would not say either yea or nay, and Mr. Corker was very vehement against him; so John was much harassed, and the painful affliction he suffered from grew very troublesome.
One day about a fortnight after we heard of the passing of the Act, Mr. Waterhouse being with John in the house-place as usual, the carrier came up to our back door and handed me a package. It was so tied and sealed, and the paper so yellowed, with brown stains here and there, and the writing so faint and blotched, that I could hardly make out what it was and wondered that it had reached me. But when I had paid the man and cut the strings and unfolded it my heart gave a great leap; for it was a letter from Chris. Yes, it was a letter from my dear son Chris, the first word I had had of him since he left us four years ago. It was ill-spelled and not well expressed, but full of life and happiness, and it seemed from what it said as if I should have received earlier letters from him, but perhaps they had gone astray. (Or perhaps he only meant to write them; I know my Chris.) He told of great mountains, wide plains, huge curving rivers; of tobacco plantations, Indians, negroes and other such strange matters, of which I could not even form to myself a picture. He had travelled far, and had many adventures up and down that great country on many fine horrses, it seemed; but now he was settled in a place at the mouth of the James River—but itt is not a rivver as you knwo rivvers, Mother, he wrote: things in Bradford are multiplyed here by ten, nay by ten thoussand rather. Abraham will doe the numeration for you, Mother, wrote my Chris, joking. The peopell here are very kind to me, wrote Chris, and I am resouled to settle here if poscibell for I am content to be here it is poscibell I may make a moredge. Remember me lovingly to my Father and Brothers, went on Chris, and signed himself: Tour dear Sonne, Christopher Thorpe.
I laughed and cried over this letter, and made to run to John to show it him, but was deterred by the sound of Mr. Waterhouse’s voice, excited and booming, so I went up to my chamber, and took to my knees and thanked Almighty God for His great mercies; and when I heard Mr. Water-house leave at last, I went downstairs smiling.
But John was sitting by the hearth looking so hunched and bowed and wretched that I had not the courage to be cheerful with him.
“There is a letter from Christopher, John,” I said timidly, laying it beside him.
John took it up and turned it over indifferently. “He was ever a poor speller,” he said when he had read it to the close. “What is a moredge, think you?”
“Nay, I do not know,” I said, pleased to hear him make even this comment, though it was not much to say to a letter which had come after four years’ silence out of Virginia. I enlarged upon Chris a little, saying that his good home training would stand him in good stead in the new land, and so on, but John made no reply, sitting gazing silently into the fire. So at last I fell silent, too, and sighed, and looked at him sadly.
After a while I said: “What troubles you, John?”
“This Act—this Act,” he muttered.
“Why do you fret over it so, lad?” I asked him.
He was silent, but seemed to want to speak, and at last he got out: “We do not hear from Thomas.”
So then I pressed him no further, for I knew his trouble, and it was my trouble too. From David we had heard, but not from Thomas.
But it was wrong of us not to trust our son, for that very afternoon he came riding up to The Breck. We greeted him joyfully—at least, I greeted him joyfully; John seemed sunk in himself and found few words for his eldest son—and I showed him Chris’s letter. He rejoiced greatly over it, smiling and exclaiming.
“What is a moredg
e, think you?” said I to him.
“Why, it is a marriage, for sure,” cried Thomas laughing. “Fancy our Chris married!”
“He will want the money for his land, then,” said John crossly. “He is over-young for marriage.”
“Why, Father,” said Thomas, “he will be nineteen in September. Some woman will have great joy of him,” mused Thomas kindly.
At this my poor John’s face quivered, and he raised himself in his chair, and said in a hoarse voice:
“What of this new Act?”
Thomas lost his smile at once. “The Act of Uniformity?” he said gravely.
“Aye—aye,” said John. He bent forward and stared eagerly at Thomas, craving speech from him, but he was not able to wait for it, and went on: “What shalt do?”
“I shall not conform,” said Thomas quietly.
At this John’s face was illuminated with joy; and he seemed to draw himself together and become a strong steady man again—and indeed, what was very strange, his painful affliction began to recover from that moment and never returned though his rheumatism stayed by him; and he grew kindly again, and even-tempered, so that the house was pleasant.
“Why, lad, I am proud of thee,” cried John. “I am proud of thee!”
He stood up and went to Thomas and put his hand on his shoulder, caressing it.
“Why, Father,” said Thomas, looking up at him: “Surely you and my mother did not doubt me?”
“Nay, nay,” said John hastily; and I added:
“But we are glad to hear it from your own lips, Thomas.”
“If you had chosen to conform, I should not have blamed you, Thomas,” explained John carefully. “This is our cause, not yours; we had no right to expect that you should take it up.”
“Not so, Father,” said Thomas steadily. “The cause of justice and freedom is not the possession of a single generation; it is an endless patrimony.”
“You should have told us this sooner, Thomas,” I mildly reproached him.
“Why,” said Thomas: “As to conforming or not conforming, I never had any hesitation; but as to my duty after I am ejected from my parish, I have had much heart-searching.”
“The Breck is not so poor it cannot sustain my son, Thomas,” his father told him. “You can continue your studies, or perhaps become a tutor.”
“No,” said Thomas. “After much prayer, I have made my decision. I shall continue my ministry, so long as it is wished for.”
“That is against the law, son,” said John doubtfully.
“I know, I know,” said Thomas. “But it is a matter of conscience with me, Father.”
This is John and the ulnage over again, I thought; and I understood now how old Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe had felt on that matter. For Thomas’s words began for me ten long years of continual anxiety—ten years during which my son was never safe.
“If you approve,” went on Thomas, “I will minister from The Breck; if you do not, I will house myself elsewhere.”
“The Breck is your home, Thomas,” said John and I together.
“There will be heavy penalties, perhaps,” said Thomas.
“I know, I know,” said John impatiently. After a moment he went on: “What think you of that clause of the Act declaring it unlawful to take arms against the King?”
“Armed rebellion against a lawfully constituted authority,” said Thomas in his clear tones very precisely, for he had plainly thought much on all these questions, “is a terrible thing, almost never to be undertaken; but to exact an oath that it shall never be undertaken is to make the mildest rule a tyranny.”
“Thou art right, lad,” said John with great satisfaction: “Thou hast hit the nail fair and square. It is our political freedom they are cutting at, as well as the religious, just as of old. The welfare of the people is the supreme law of nations, to which all other man-made laws must bow. Well! When wilt come to The Breck, eh? The day after Black Bartholomew?”
This he said because, the day by which the conforming oath had to be sworn chancing to coincide with that Bartholomew’s Day in France when so many Protestants had been massacred in the last century, those of our persuasion called this the new Bartholomew.
John and I went over to Adel to hear Thomas’s last sermon as rector of his parish. He preached on a text from the Psalms: He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him; a very apt text which he expounded in a clear ringing voice, very beautifully and nobly. The congregation was much moved, and crowded about him at the close of the service, lamenting his departure, so that John and I felt a great if mournful pride in him.
Next Lord’s Day was Bartholomew, and nigh on two thousand ministers were ejected from their parishes. Of these two thousand, David Clarkson and Thomas Thorpe were two.
It was a terrible stroke to me, to think of David and Thomas, our noblest and our best, being thus driven out of usefulness and silenced; while on the other side too our brightest and most joyous, Chris, was lost to England. There is ever a great waste in strife and war, I thought, on both sides; my father and Will distraught, Francis dead, John crippled, David and Thomas persecuted, Chris as it were banished—our family hath suffered very bitterly because men could not compose their differences peaceably. But it is not possible to compose a difference between right and wrong, I thought; one can only fight evil, by one method or another: and a civil persecution can wound the spirit as much as war does the body.
David wrote that he should sustain himself chiefly by tutoring, and should study and write works of theological scholarship, ministering when it was required of him; Sam and Constance had offered him a home, which he accepted gladly. Thomas came to The Breck and prepared to begin his ministry.
I own, though I am ashamed to own it, that I was troubled at the notion of Eliza’s coming to live with. us. The Breck had been her home before it had been mine—I knew this and admitted it, but found it difficult to believe it in my heart, and still more difficult to relish it. But there was naught else to be done; Thomas and Eliza both came to us, and I did my best to be a true sister to her. And, as sometimes happens, what I had dreaded proved no discomfort at all, but rather a blessing; for as it turned out, Thomas’s ministry kept the house so full and busy, I was truly glad of Eliza’s help in managing it. For we held worship in our house every Lord’s Day, though at different hours from the Church so that believers could attend both services if they had a stomach for Mr. Corker, and on the appointed Fasting Days, and sometimes on other days as well, for godly folk flocked as doves to the window to hear the instruction of the ejected ministers. Then, too, other ministers constantly passed through our house on the way to holding services, while Thomas constantly rode about the country on religious duty. It grew very familiar to me to hear a quiet knock at our door, Thomas’s clear steady voice asking what was wanted, a low-toned answer; then Thomas coming in to say he had been asked to go to Penistone, or Guiseley, or Leeds (this was a very Royalist dangerous place), or to Halifax, or Wakefield, and preparing to ride off these considerable distances no matter what the weather; sometimes he rode even into Lancashire and Cheshire and was some days absent from his home. Joseph Lister was very forward in all this business; he attended our meetings very regularly, and also when he was in other towns on his merchant trade, he told the godly folk there of our Thomas as a very helpful serviceable preacher.
“He was born the day my indentures terminated,” Lister was wont to say of Thomas, proudly.
With these frequent ridings back and forth, and with instructing Lister’s boy David, and writing letters, and constant studying and preaching and composing sermons, our Thomas grew very thin and worn in looks, being so continuously overtoiled; but he would not spare himself, and it was my part and Eliza’s to keep him well clothed and fed despite his preoccupations.
When the government saw that this Act did not serve to keep us down, on the pretext of a plot against the King supposed to be wrou
ght up by some foolish persons in Yorkshire—though we heard nothing of it—it passed another Act, forbidding more than five persons from outside a household to assemble therein for prayer. The penalties for anyone caught attending a conventicle, as any religious meeting was now called if attended by more than five strangers, were truly terrible, not only heavy fines and long imprisonment, but even transportation; Thomas, however, made no difference in his ministry. When I ventured, not without tears, to point out to him the danger he was running, he merely set his jaw as John did, and said:
“I shall minister wherever I am called, Mother.”
I remember one night especially when he was to preach at Captain Hodgson’s, and we rode over with him and dined there. After we had dined, many neighbours came in to hear him, so that the house was full, and Thomas was very fervent in prayer and exhortation. But while we were on our knees, suddenly a child came in, so that we all started; a kind and godly woman, wife to one of Captain Hodgson’s Royalist neighbours, had sent him to warn us that one of the magistrates was coming upon us with a troop of horse. The congregation all rose up in confusion, but Thomas set his jaw in his father’s way and stood there motionless, and I believe he would have continued to conduct the service, only Captain Hodgson desired him somewhat peremptorily to put an end to it. The Captain hustled us all out of doors by the back way, and he drew out Thomas’s horse and saddled it very expeditiously and bade him ride hard if he valued his own liberty and his congregation’s.
“Those who preach and run away, will live to preach another day,” said Captain Hodgson, laughing.
At this Thomas smiled faintly and galloped off in the direction of Halifax. The Hodgsons’ neighbours had already dispersed, walking away very rapidly, and John and I were left looking at each other.
“I am sorry to turn you out thus, old friends,” said Captain Hodgson, bringing out our horse and wheeling him to the mounting-block: “But indeed it will be best.”
So we mounted and rode off through the moonlight; and sure enough, we had hardly reached the main road before we heard the horses’ hoofs, and jingling of bits and spurs, as the troop rode up from the other direction and surrounded Coley Hall. I trembled so I could hardly sit the horse, and clung to John in a very timid manner, for which I despised myself. However, we got off safe and reached The Breck without being molested.
Take Courage Page 45
