Take Courage by Phyllis Bentley Page A

father and Will in the doorway, entering from the orchard. I was so young and simple that, though I blushed as I turned to look at them, it never struck me to spring away from Francis, nor did he drop his arm from about my waist. At this Will cried out vehemently: “Penninah! What are you thinking of?” in warm reproach; but Mr Ferrand twirled his moustache and laughed, and said:“Come, come! A little boy and girl sweethearting will do them no harm.” My father, smiling very kindly, put his hand on Francis’s shoulder and said:
    â€œIndeed I think it may not.”
    â€œThank you, sir!” cried Francis, laughing gaily up at him.
    So after that Francis and I were always sweethearts.

1
“YOU ARE AN ARMINIAN, SIR!”
    The first time i understood that the things I read in the diurnals could concern ordinary people like ourselves was over the matter of Will’s getting a place.
    I had read about the course of affairs in the King’s first Parliament, how the members granted the King the right to levy taxes for one year only, and then before promising him any more supplies began to make petitions about religion and bring accusations against the Duke of Buckingham, which angered the King so much that he dissolved that Parliament, so that it sat no more. My father shook his head over this and said it was a bad augury for a new reign, and I in my childish way agreed gravely, and was angry about the Duke and grieved that the young King should be so misled; but to me it was like an old historical tale or a piece out of the Bible, something that roused one’s feelings strongly and gave one moral instruction, but was all over long ago and a long way off. I was glad when the King was obliged to call another Parliament because he needed money for wars abroad and the Court at home, and could not get what he needed without a Parliament’s consent; but I had no notion that it would ever concern us in Bradford. But then, to put the members in a proper humour for granting subsidies, the King had sermons preached to both Houses of this new Parliament by a man whose name I heard for the first time, namely Bishop Laud. This Laud told the Parliament flatly that the King was God’s lieutenant on earth, and the King’s power was God’s power—the blood came into my father’s face when he heard this, and Will struck the table sharply, crying: “Divine Right! What did I tell you? Divine Right!” Will’s temperhad been very uneven of late, so that David and I were quite uncomfortable with him; but I had no notion that this bad Bishop, with his Arminian views, as they were called, could have anything to do with Will’s crossness. But not long after, this same Bishop had it proclaimed that nobody might discuss, either in writing or preaching, opinions contrary to the doctrine and discipline of the Church. It was our Vicar, Mr. Okell, who told us this one evening when he called to see my father on some churchwarden business. It was a cold night and we were all sitting round the fire.
    â€œDiscipline!” said my father, making a wry face. “I hate the word. True religion cannot be imposed by order, from above, as the Arminians seem to think.”
    â€œAye,” began Will, “and besides——”
    Then suddenly he coloured up and his mouth shook, and with a strange cry he sprang from his chair and rushed away from us. Mr. Okell looked after him kindly, then turned towards my father with a question in his eyes. My father shook his head, and Mr. Okell shook his own white head in sympathy. I stole away after Will, and found him upstairs in the cold loom-chamber, his head buried in his hands, groaning. I asked if he were sick, but he told me “No,” and bade me leave him, somewhat roughly. I was perplexed, but since neither he nor my father, even when Mr. Okell had left us, offered to tell me what was wrong, I did not like to ask. Some while later