For Mr. Ferrand, alas, had not got his wish, that there should be no more politics; from that time the talk in Bradford was increasingly of politics and religion, and this made an increasing discomfort in our visits to Holroyd Hall.
The King’s necessity for money was such, that he was obliged to call a Parliament again. But like all his family he was very unlucky in his public utterances, these being based on his ideas of his own importance, not on what was right. On this occasion he chose to speak very haughtily to Parliament on its opening, in a manner forgiving them for their past conduct, when most men thought it was his conduct which needed to be forgiven. He threatened to use other methods of collecting money if Parliament did not promptly supply his needs, and then bade them not regard this as a threat, since he scorned to threaten any but his equals. The matter and the manner of these remarks being equally repugnant to free Englishmen, Parliament at once became very stiff-necked and contrary, and began a long contest with the King, as to whether they should first grant money or the King first grant redress of grievances. This contest swayed back and forth, first one side gaining an advantage, and then the other; the King continually sending messages to the Parliament to hurry with his subsidies, and the Parliament as regularly replying by long petitions on the just freedoms of Englishmen. When the King saw he would get no money without granting some redress, he at length assented to one of these petitions—but too late, for the Parliament, out of patience, had now begun to attack the Duke of Buckingham, as the great source of all the country’s evils. The King could not endure a word against his favourite, and though he had secured barely sufficient money to carry on his Court, which was very expensive, and his wars, which were very unsuccessful, he dismissed the Parliament for several months, to the great anger of many of his people.
How all this was argued and canvassed between my father and Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Ferrand, I remember sadly, as a continually rising warmth and discomfort in their discussions. Friendship was never so clear between them after the day on which my father called Mr. Ferrand an Arminian. It seemed as if by doing so he had divided Mr. Ferrand from himself by putting a different mark on him, as brands are put on sheep to show that they belong to different flocks. And everything which happened, in Bradford or in great affairs of state, seemed as it were to deepen the brand, to make the difference between the two flocks, the two kinds of men, appear more clearly. In our town, as it chanced, the magistrates about this time ordered that a stop should be put to the cockfighting and gaming in the Turls on Sunday afternoons. This was in truth a good and necessary thing, for the behaviour there had grown scandalously unmannerly and an offence to decent citizens, and in other times it would have passed as such; but many who were ill-disposed to the Puritan persuasion chose to look on the order as a prim puritanical invasion of the customs of merry England. Mr. Ferrand was one of those who thought so, for he loved all games and sports and wagering; my father and Mr. Thorpe took the other side. This, though it was but a small matter in comparison with the great affairs then carrying in Parliament, being local, loomed large in Bradford minds, and made men more decided in their notions of Puritans and Arminians, Parliament and King, respectively. And so with all things, large or small; the cut of a coat, the depth of a band, no less than the conduct of the war or the predestination of the soul, or the cruel sentences of the Starchamber, seemed to be matters to be decided by political argument.
As I look back over the years I see pictures of us in those times, myself sitting a little distance away beside Mrs. Ferrand and Mrs. Thorpe, listening in growing uneasiness to the men as their voices rose, Mr. Ferrand growing loud and overbearing, Mr. Thorpe red in the face and very homely in speech, my father striking his forefinger resolutely on the table to emphasise his points, striving to make his voice heard between them. It became little pleasure for the families to be together, for we could not keep the men off politics, nor turn their discourse when they had once embarked on those topics. I had always looked forward with joyous anticipation to our family meetings, because of Francis; but now I so often returned from them distressed and uneasy that I began really to dread them, and whenever Mr. Ferrand was present I longed for the moment when the gathering should break up and each family withdraw. Too often it did so with an angry man in its midst. Next day the three would be sorry for what they had said, and when they met again would make apologies in their several fashions, my father very clearly and graciously, Mr. Thorpe in a discomfited mutter, Mr. Ferrand in a confused bellow. But as time went on and the division between them grew, they began to think each other less agreeable persons than they had previously judged. Mr. Ferrand, as I could see, began to regard his brother-in-law and my father as tiresome fanatics, sound at heart doubtless and good fellows in the main, but led astray by too much prating; while my father and Mr. Thorpe were drawn close by their joint opinion of Mr. Ferrand as a man warm-hearted doubtless but stupid, with no soul above bowls. There was as yet no open breach between them, but they did not seek each other’s company as frequently as hitherto, and Mr. Ferrand especially began to go elsewhere for his talk, being often seen with the Tempests of Boiling Hall.
So it came about that I had much greater pleasure in Francis’s visits to my home, than in mine to his.
One evening when Francis was sitting with us as usual, and as usual strumming on his lute, there came a sudden thunderous knocking on the door. David ran to open it, when in rushed the Thorpes’ apprentice, Lister, his red hair flying, his freckles mottling his face very disagreeably, his skin being white with excitement. He cried wildly:
“Buckingham is murdered!”
“What!” cried my father, laying down his pipe.
We all dropped silent at once and sat staring. Rapidly Lister told us the news which had just reached Bradford, that Buckingham had been stabbed at Southampton, as he made ready to take some soldiers overseas. The murderer was a fanatic, who thought he was doing his country a service.
“And so he was indeed,” concluded Lister in a rapture.
“Praise be to God,” cried Sarah, suddenly appearing from the kitchen with her hands uplifted: “A David has slain the Goliath of the Philistines!”
“Amen, Amen!” sang Lister. “The Lord abhorreth the blood-thirsty and deceitful man.”
“Woman!” cried my father, half rising from his chair in anger: “Murder is against the law of God.”
“And a direct contravention of the sixth commandment,” added David.
“It might be the murderer was an instrument of God for the punishment of wickedness, Mr. Clarkson,” protested Lister.
“Good cannot come of evil,” said my father sternly.
“What do you know of the matter, you prating Puritans!” shouted Francis, springing to his feet. “The Duke was a great and noble lord, brave and handsome.”
His voice quite broke on the last words; I glanced at him quickly, there were tears in his eyes. With a shock of alarm I saw that, as boys will with some great personage, he had made the Duke his hero.
“The murderer gave himself up and confessed, and the King will demand death by the rack, they say,” went on Lister with relish.
“It is no more than he deserves,” muttered Francis, turning his face from us.
I said quickly: “No man deserves the rack.” I did not mean to speak thus, the words were out before I knew I had uttered them.
My father looked at me with approval.
“Your heart is too gentle, Mistress Penninah,” simpered Lister.
“The Lord is known to execute judgement,” said Sarah sternly. “Master Francis, do you mean to stay for supper?”
“I must go and tell the news to my father,” muttered Francis sullenly, his eyelids down. (His long golden lashes, sweeping his cheek, were very dear to me.) “By your leave, Mr. Clarkson.” He made for the door; Thunder, who had been lying against Tabby on the hearth, jumped up promptly.
“I can take the news to Holroyd Hall, Master Francis, if you wish not to leave Mistress Penninah,” offered Lister, grinning.
He meant no harm, the simple lad, but Francis did not wish to be prevented from leaving, and he took the reference to me as an impertinence, from an apprentice; moreover, Lister’s manners were ever rough and homely.
“Stand out of my way,” he ordered Lister imperiously, and, as the lad moved but slowly, being awkward in his gait and not very quick in the uptake, as we say in Bradford, Francis gave him a box on the ear which sent him sprawling. Thunder barked and stood over him, and Lister scrambled up looking white and frightened.
“Francis, Francis!” my father reproved him.
And my heart too cried: “Francis, Francis!” At my father’s rebuke he turned back, and made careless apologies to Lister, and a loving one to me, but when he had gone I sat down by my father in silence, sadly. I was sad because Francis had struck Lister, for any violence, or cruelty between persons, ever wounded me intolerably. I was sad that my dear love should think a man like the Duke of Buckingham admirable; I was sad because he was wrong to do so, and also because I knew he was wrong. It was the first time I ever saw a blemish in Francis. The moment that I saw it, and knew that I still loved him, I grew, I think, though I was yet young, from a girl into a woman.