Authors: Phyllis Bentley
Will did not wear a surplice in which to preach, for he abominated such popish frivolities; he was decently clad in a black gown, with a white linen band at his neck. His long harassed face was very sincere in the pulpit, and his speech, if not as well turned as my father's, very earnest; he preached that day on a text I had never much noticed before, from the 1st Peter, chapter two, verse twelve:
Having your conversation honest among the Gentiles: that, whereas they speak against you as evildoers, they may by your good works, which they shall behold, glorify God in the day of visitation.
But if I had taken little notice of it before, I have never forgotten it since; its appositeness to the occasion was such, that Will was surely led by the hand of God when he chose it.
He began to expound the text in a simple honest way, saying that all persons have a day of gracious visitation by God, when they are as it were tried and tested; it is but a day, he said, and may be lost, and once lost, all the angels in heaven and saints upon earth could not help the soul of that person. But, said Willâand was continuing the thread of his discourse upon good works and their meaning when my attention was drawn from him by a slight disturbance at the back of the church. I tried to recall my thoughts, telling myself it was nothing out of the ordinary, for these
exercises were not formal services like the one in the morning, and the congregation could move about as they chose. But the murmur grew steadily louder, and then there was a sudden complete hush and a sound of footsteps, and I saw a frown of perplexity gather on Will's face. He was staring down the church, and stumbled in his discourse; he looked away and then back again, and his words came unevenly. Suddenly the steps sounded beside me, loud and rhythmical and ringing; I looked, and there were six men in buff leather coats and polished helmets, armed with swords and pikes, marching up the church behind a man with a feather in his hat, who I suppose was their captain. They marched right up to the foot of the pulpit steps, and the captain, who had a paper in his hand, looked up at Will and read out from it.
“Are you William Clarkson, under-minister of the church in Bradford?” he shouted in a loud sing-song tone.
“I am,” replied Will firmly, turning to look down at him. “And as the holder of that office, I demand to know why you are making this disturbance.”
Then the captain shouted at Will again, and waved the paper to him, and Will took it and read it. At this my father suddenly exclaimed, and snatched up his churchwarden's wand and made up the church to them in a stumbling hurrying pace. Mr. Thorpe moved out and followed him, and they began to talk to the captain earnestly. While this was going on, the congregation gradually fell into confusion; some hurried to leave, others surged forward; a murmur of talk arose, and grew into a loud angry buzz. Will had now finished reading the paper; he turned his eyes in our direction, seeking Eliza, and gave her a look of such anguish that she, poor thing, cried out and scrambled past me and pushed her way up the church through the throng. I followed, and found John at my side. But before we had reached the group at the foot of the pulpit, Will turned to the congregation and held up his hand for silence so that he might speak.
“Friends,” he began. The people angrily hushed one
another, for they were all anxious to hear. “Friends,” repeated Will: “These men here have come with authority from the Archbishop to take me before the court of Star-chamber.” There was a sharp hiss of indrawn breath from the crowd at this, and Eliza sobbed aloud in horror, for the cruelties of that court, in fines and imprisonments and punishments in the pillory, were greatly dreaded. “The summons is legal and must be obeyed,” went on Will. His voice shook a little as he added: “I am to go to Wakefield immediately.”
At this there was an uproar. Will held up his hand again for silence, but could not obtain it, and the officer seized his arm and pulled him down from the pulpit. The people pushed and jostled and shouted, so that I was tossed about and could neither see nor hear what was going on; indeed I think I should have been trodden underfoot if John had not thrown his arm about my waist and held me firmly upright. After a while I caught a glimpse of my father, his eyes flashing, haranguing the captain, but not a word could be heard in the tumult. Then suddenly there was a great pressing backward in the people around us, so that John and I were left in the foreground, and down came the soldiersâfor they were soldiers; I did not know it then but have seen too many since to doubt itâmarching two by two, their pikes held at the push, with Will walking between them. Will's face was flushed and he was weeping, but he held his head up and stepped out firmly. It was indeed a day of visitation for him, in which he glorified God by his steadiness and courage. My heart turned over within me as I saw him thus already almost a prisoner, for it seemed to me that poor Will, with his warm temper and simple honesty and his lack of worldly influence, was just the kind of man who would receive the full rigour of the court's sentence. He would mar his case by a too vehement stating of the truth of it, and there would be nobody to protect him, nobody to be vexed if he were condemned., My father and Mr. Thorpe followed the soldiers, Mr. Thorpe looking disconcerted and perplexed; Eliza, hanging
heavily on her father's arm, was weeping and throwing herself about, hysterically. I joined the procession behind my father, and John fell in at my side.
It seemed a dream as we moved down the church, the people falling back in silence from the pikemen but murmuring angrily when they had passed. I saw Lister's freckled face amongst the crowd, and David's, white as linen, beside; Lister, I was glad to see, had David firmly by the arm and was holding him back from the soldiers. We came out of the church door and began to move down the bank, and Mr. Okell, his white head uncovered, came hurrying to meet us, and stopped and parleyed with the officer and read his paper. My spirit eased a little; perhaps, after all, this dreadful occurrence would prove a mistake, perhaps Mr. Okell and the officer would laugh together in a moment, and Will be dismissed and we all have supper together safely at home. But no; Mr. Okell threw up his hands in a gesture of despair and stood aside, and we all moved on again slowly.
While this parley was in progress some of the people dancing in the Turls began to notice the unusual happening at the church, and came running up to us, and now more and more gathered round and swelled the procession. These people were all vexed with the Puritans, who had so long kept them as they thought from their Sunday afternoon recreations, and when they heard what the matter was they began to laugh and triumph, and called out to their companions with coarse gibes to come and see the Puritan being taken to the Starchamber. The soldiers grinned and did not discourage them. So we passed through the Turls amidst a hostile crowd, laughing and shouting and jeering; and then someone threw a piece of turf at Will, and many began to pelt us. And suddenly, through a parting in the crowd, I saw Francis flushed and laughing drunkenly, his arm bent back in the act of throwing.
In that moment I hated him.
It seemed as if scales fell from my eyes and I saw him for what he was: light and loose and lecherous and on the
side of the oppressor. I could forgive him for being light and loose and lecherous, my heart cried in anguish, I could forgive his wounding of my pride, his little valuing of my love, his neglect and his disrespect and his carelessness; all that, I could accept, and still love him dearly. I acquitted him, too, of ill-treating my brother, for I guessed he had not seen Will's face or known him, but simply joined in light-heartedly at any sport that was going. But that he should thus light-heartedly and without thinking choose the side of authority just because it was authority, that he should not see that these Puritans, though in some things perhaps mistaken, were decent honest religious folk, doing what they did because they feared God more than man and did not shrink to defy the oppressor, that was intolerable to me. My soul revolted from it. Our natures are other, Francis, I told him silently; you are with the strong and the rich, I am with the humble and needy. There is a gulf between our spirits holding all the wrongs done by all the tyrants to all the poor and those who have no helper; and we can never cross that gulf, it is too wide.
As I thought thus, and the crowd closed about us and hid Francis, my father suddenly threw up his arms and staggered backwards. I almost fell beneath his weight, but John just in time caught him by the shoulders and lowered him to the ground. His eyes were closed and he was breathing very strangely. I fell on my knees beside him and took his hand. The crowd fell back, and their shouting faded to a kindly murmur, for my father was loved for his gentleness of spirit, even by those who opposed his beliefs, and besides, they were frightened, feeling in some sense responsible for his illness. I do not know what happened then around me, for my whole being was engaged in listening to my father's gasping breath, which I dreaded to hear cease; but after a long long while, as it seemed, John touched me on the shoulder and I looked up, and there was Lister and the landlord of the Pack Horse Inn with a horse and a rough farm cart. The men opened the back of the cart and lifted in my father; it was difficult to move him, since he was
so tall, and after some hanging back the bystanders helped them. The soldiers and Will and Mr. Okell and Mr. Thorpe had gone away. I climbed into the cart and pillowed my father's head in my lap, and John and Lister walked beside the cart and the innkeeper led the horse, and so we came to our house in Fairgap.
Sarah and her Denton were waiting for us there with sober faces, and David, they said, had gone to fetch the physician. The men carried my father upstairs and laid him on his bed, and Sarah and I undressed him and put warming-pans to his feet. The physician came, and seemed to understand little of my father's illness but to take a grave view of it; he shook his head very soberly, and said he must warn me that so much distress and excitement as that afternoon had brought, to one in my father's condition might well prove fatal. He had brought some physic, and we tried to give it to my father, but he could not drink, and the physic ran out of the corners of his mouth, which to me was somehow extremely affecting. When all was done that could be done and the house was quiet, I prepared to watch by my father's bed, but bethinking myself of David, I went down to see how the poor lad fared. He was sitting with our Bible open before him, not reading it but staring ahead, his face pale, his blue eyes very wide in his wretchedness, for he loved my father very dearly. To my surprise Lister sat beside him, coaxing him in a low voice to read with him. The apprentice told me that John had gone to see if aught could be done for Will, and had bidden him stay with us, to be at hand to run messages.
I went upstairs and sat beside my father. From time to time he moaned a little and moved his head restlessly, and once or twice threw out a few muddled words, when I laid my hand on his forehead to soothe him; but on the whole he lay quiet except for his breath, which came harsh and noisy and uneven. The light died, and Sarah came in with a candle and offered to relieve my watch, but I would not leave my father.
After long long hours, there was a stir below, footsteps
very quiet on the stairs, and then John's voice whispering: “Penninah.” I went to the doorway to him. In the flickering candlelight he looked hot and dirty and very tired, there were beads of sweat on his forehead and his dress was disordered.
“I came to tell you, Penninah,” he said in a low voice: “I am going to Guiseley with a message from Mr. Okell to ask the vicar there to write a letter about Will to Lord Fairfaxâhis benefice is in Lord Fairfax's gift and he is a friend of his son Ferdinando. Lord Fairfax may be able by influence to moderate the court's judgment.”
“What is Will accused of?” I whispered.
“Preaching at the afternoon exercises instead of catechising, discussing doctrine not contained in the teaching of the Church of England, not reading the Book of Sportsâoh, and not wearing his whites,” said John. “But he has done no more than other preachers in the West Riding; plenty round Leeds and Halifax have done the same. If Lord Fairfax intervenes, Mr. Okell thinks Will may be reprimanded without a trial. But I fear he must lose his place. I am to ride to Guiseley now, and then on with the letter to Lord Fairfax.”
“John,” I said very quietly: “If you still wish me to be your wife, I will wed you as soon as it is right for me to leave my father.”
John gave me a strange burning look. “But you love Frank,” he said.
“I can never marry Francis,” I told him, looking beyond him into the darkness. “Our spirits are utterly apart.”
John took my hands and held them very strongly. “We shall be man and wife, then?” he said.
“God willing, it shall be so,” I answered.
He had barely gone when there came the loud rhythmical knocking on the house-door which always betokened Francis. I hurried down the stairs to him, for I did not want him to rush to me with his usual heedlessness and make a disturbance in my father's chamber. Thunder came in first, crossed to the hearth and lay down heavily. Francis
looked shamefaced and less sure of himself than usual, but handsome and vivid, as always.
“Pen,” he began hurriedly: “I have only this moment heard the news; I am truly sorry about Will and your father.”
“But you were in the Turls this afternoon, were you not,” I said with a steady look at him.
He coloured, and swung his hat uneasily. “Pen, I did not know it was Will,” he said. “I have only just heard the news, believe me.”
“I have some other news for you, Francis,” I said, striving to keep my voice steady. “I am betrothed to John Thorpe, and shall shortly wed him.”
Francis stared at me, incredulous. Slowly his face fell; his cheek paled, his mouth gaped, till his good looks were all quite vanished.