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.