Take Courage (10 page)

“To-morrow he may take great delight in it,” I said to John as I bade him farewell at the door, speaking softly so as not to disturb my father.

John looked at me a moment, smiling strangely; then he took my face between his hands and kissed my forehead. He said:

“Thou hast a very gentle heart, Penninah.”

Then he clapped on his hat and strode away, not once looking back.

Sure enough next morning my father rose up early, and sat at his loom looking blithe and busy. So contented did he seem that my sad heart lifted, and I began to think he might quite recover. It was Market Day, and Lister came in with a message .that if it pleased Mistress Penninah, Mr. Thorpe would like to dine with us. When Mr. Thorpe limped in, my father greeted him so heartily, and seemed so like himself, as to rejoice me still further, and when I left them alone after the meal, I could hear them talking very briskly together. I sang with pleasure, and wished it were to-morrow, when I might see Francis.

When Mr. Thorpe had gone, my father called me in; with a bright and cheerful look he drew me to him, and said:

“I have some good news for thee, Penninah.”

“What is it, father?” I asked, happy in his happiness.

Then he told me that Mr. Thorpe had proposed a marriage treaty between myself and John.

This was a very bitter moment for me.

Not that I doubted what my answer ought to be, or feared my father would compel me against my will. But
it was bitter that Francis by mere carelessness should have cast two people whom he professed to love, into this position. I hated to give the pain of refusal to John, who had stood friend to us in my father's trouble with such exemplary steadiness and affection; I hated to appear harsh and ungracious in my refusal, yet perforce did so, since I could not give a reason for it. Perhaps I was too proud, but I could not bring myself to say my heart was given elsewhere until Francis showed that there was cause for the gift.

Nor did the bitterness pass for me with the moment. My father was grievously disappointed by my refusal, which indeed he declined to communicate immediately to the Thorpes, saying that a young maid needed time to make up her mind; in the meantime he urged me more than I would have believed possible in a man of his gentleness, to change it for a favourable answer. Strangely enough, his eagerness in the business seemed to excite him back into something of his old spirit, and he constantly extolled John to me, with much shrewdness, in the terms best suited to my disposition, for he dwelt not so much on his steadiness and honesty as on a certain greatness in his heart.

“There's no need, father,” I told him at last. “I know John's qualities as thoroughly as you.”

“Then why, Penninah,” he began.

I interrupted him. “Because I do not love John as you loved my mother,” I said.

This gave him pause, and he said: “Well, I will not press you, child.” But his sigh and his sad look were a pressure on my heart stronger than his words.

Nor was my father's the only urging I had to suffer. I wished that Will should not hear of the matter, and my father meant to humour me in this, but let it slip out by chance one day, without intention. As soon as he understood what was toward, Will flushed up in one of his sudden warm vexations, and shouted at me for not knowing my duty, seeming to take it as an insult to himself that I rejected his wife's brother. He grew calmer before he left, and agreed with my father that I should not be pressed into an unwanted
marriage, but every time he came to Fairgap he entered our house with a hopeful questioning air which turned into a frown and a wordy argument when he saw by my face that I had not relented. Sarah, too, clattering her pans bad-temperedly, grumbled many times a day that every one knew I should marry Master Thorpe in the long run, so why this affectation of coyness? It was ungodly, said Sarah, it was against good sense; it did not become the child of a decent God-fearing man to behave like a horse-leech's daughter. Even David, looking up from his books one evening when I was by, suddenly threw his arms round my waist, buried his face in my breast and cried out that he wanted me to marry nobody, nobody, but if it had to be somebody it had best be John. Only John did not urge me, but merely turned on me, whenever he came to our house, a deep look of question from his brown eyes, which grew more sombre as the days went on. For my part, I urged my father continually to give the Thorpes a decisive refusal, which he, shaking his head obstinately and muttering, as continually deferred.

It chanced that just then I saw little of Francis, for it was one of those times when we had quarrelled because I was not kinder to him, and when he came in one night again, smiling and handsome and debonair and eager for kisses as before, I did not tell him of the proposed marriage. Whether this was because I could not bring myself to betray John's love to his laughter, or because I could not for shame seem to press marriage with myself on him again, or because of his lascivious mood, I do not know; all three perhaps.

At last one quiet Sunday afternoon there was a great clatter of hoofs outside our Fairgap windows, through the noise of which came John's steady knock. When Sarah opened there was Mrs. Thorpe, who had come pillion behind her son, descending in massive dignity from one of The Breck horses, John helping her, while Mr. Thorpe, groaning about his lame foot, was gingerly dismounting by the aid of Lister's shoulder from the other. Sarah brought
the Thorpes in, and they disposed themselves about the house-room with ceremony, John standing stiffly between his parents. My father, who had been asleep by the fire, awoke, and tottered towards them with something of embarrassment in his greeting.

“We have come,” announced Mrs. Thorpe as soon as she was settled, “to conclude this matter of the marriage treaty. There has been an overlong delay.”

“Aye,” agreed her husband, nodding.

“It is hard,” continued Mrs. Thorpe in a very meaning tone, “that Mr. Thorpe's condescension should be so ill rewarded.”

“Condescension!” I exclaimed, my cheeks aflame.

“There is to be no word of that, Mother,” said John. His voice was quiet, but Mrs. Thorpe, staring at him, was silent, though her lips moved as if she could hardly keep herself from speech. Mr. Thorpe coughed uneasily.

“It is not easy for a young maid to make up her mind,” mumbled my father.

“Oh, Father, how can you be so false!” I cried. “I have begged you for long enough to take Mr. Thorpe my refusal—I am very sensible of the honour,” I went on in a low confused tone, “but I am afraid I must decline it.”

There was a silence.

“Bethink you, Penninah,” said Mrs. Thorpe very grimly: “how you will feel when John marries elsewhere. Think of that before it is too late.”

“I shall never marry elsewhere,” said John.

“Nonsense,” said his father uncomfortably.

John's face was very stern and set, and I remembered with a sinking heart that he always meant exactly what he said.

“Oh, John,” I murmured. I put my hand to my eyes and bowed my head in misery. “I cannot, indeed I cannot. I wish I could.”

There was another long silence. Then all the Thorpes began to speak at once.

“Let us go,” said John.

“I'm disappointed in you, Pen,” said Mr. Thorpe.

“Since your daughter has so many scruples, Robert Clarkson,” concluded Mrs. Thorpe drily, rising: “it is best to let the affair slide off. Let no more word be spoken about it, either between us or outside.”

“It shall be secret between us,” agreed my father sadly. “But perhaps Penninah will change her mind.”

“It will be too late,” said Mrs. Thorpe, sweeping towards the door.

“It will never be too late,” said John. “Mind what I say, Penninah. It will never be too late.”

He stood with his hand on the latch and gave me a last steady look, then followed his parents.

We now entered upon the year 1633, a year I never shall forget, a year so fraught with events of consequence to me and mine that even now, forty years after, a mention of its name sets the strings of my heart quivering. Its happenings crowded upon each other's heels; I see them all in swift flashing pictures, bright gold or sombre purple, and still throbbing with emotion.

The spring season that year was very pleasant and full of sunshine; in its brightness I took heart, and began to indulge in sweet dreams of marriage with my love. Sometimes I wove speeches to myself which I pretended I should make to Mr. Ferrand, explaining how Francis was spoiling himself with the Tempests, and how if I were his wife I would take care of him and keep him always happy and good; and sometimes I invented speeches for Mr. Ferrand too, in which he called me his pretty penny, as he used, and agreed smiling to our marriage. I was a little encouraged in these fond dreams at first by the turn of public affairs that spring. King Charles set out to go to Scotland to be crowned there, passing through Yorkshire on his way, and all the nobility and gentry exerted themselves to do him honour. Such furbishings of armour, training of horses, tailoring of new clothes, re-furnishings of houses and the like went on round Pomfret and York and Ripon as had not been heard of in our county for many a long year; the report of them coming into our clothing towns excited the people, and gave all but the strictest Puritans a pleasant friendly feeling towards our King. Perhaps after all, folk thought, he was not so black as he was painted, and we all had a wish that Yorkshire should
proffer him a generous hospitality and show well in his eyes.

The great landowners of the North summoned—or perhaps I should say invited, I do not know the law of the matter—their tenants to attend them in the escort they were giving to the King; and as Mr. Ferrand was for part of his land a tenant of Sir William Savile, who was a great man at court, Francis went off to York with a new horse and a mounted serving man and a great quantity of new clothes, very joyously. He came to Fairgap on his way, though it was not in his way at all, to bid me good-bye and show himself to me; he was flushed and laughing and excited, and indeed made a fine handsome picture, with his bright hair and laughing eyes and smooth warm cheek, wheeling his horse about and making it curvet, for he was ever a dashing and accomplished rider. I was proud to see him go on such a high errand, looking so debonair and gallant, and glad that he should have some occupation, to wipe the idle discontented look he had been wearing lately, from his face. My father too came out to say farewell to him, and stood in the doorway smiling and nodding, and many of our neighbours clustered round. Francis drank in their interest, taking it for pure admiration though in truth it had a little sourness, with an eagerness which did not quite please me, though I told myself it was natural and boyish; he showed them the new harness his horse wore, and the feather in his hat, while I was longing till my heart almost burst with it that they should all go away and leave Francis and me to make our farewells alone. But suddenly Francis seemed to tire of the crowd, or think it did not become his dignity, for crying abruptly: “Farewell, Pen!” he wheeled his horse and rode off at once down the street, and there was nothing left to do but go indoors.

The house seemed dark and quiet and melancholy, and my father, who had tired himself with standing, was fretful and peevish, and my heart ached that I should have parted from my love without one tender word, without one kiss. In my mind I followed him, galloping along the sunny
frisking lambs, the trees in their fresh spring green, and roads to York, and hawthorn in bud, and daisies in the fields, beside him all the way, to delight him; and I saw York as very fine and throng, full of richly dressed ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the cathedral and admiring Francis. He will forget me, I thought, and I wept secretly. That evening John came in to sit with my father, for the first time since I had declined the Thorpes' marriage treaty; he gave me a sober searching look, and I fear he saw the redness of my eyes, though he said nothing of it.

While Francis was away, their first child was born to Will and Eliza. Will's delight over his little daughter was a pleasure to see, and the infant, being grandchild to both the Thorpes and my father, drew our families nearer again after their recent coolness and distance. I kept myself as much as I could in the background, so as not to intrude a remembrance which might mar this renewal of friendship; but I need not have troubled myself, for a newborn babe supersedes all other interests in its parents' and grandparents' hearts, and the affairs of John and myself were for the time forgotten, except by ourselves. Little Martha, as she was called after Mrs. Thorpe, was a sweet little dear, though somewhat sickly, and in helping Eliza to tend her I passed away the time of the absence of Francis.

Francis was not gone very long, since the English nobles escorted the King only to the Border, where the duty was taken over by the nobles of Scotland; but though he came back to Bradford in a few weeks, his brief absence had changed him—or rather, perhaps not changed, but increased all those inclinations in him which most distressed me. He was more the fine gentleman than ever. To do him justice, his fine manners seemed to sit on him more naturally, as if he were more used to using them, but there was less sincerity in him than before. He paid compliments with a careless graceful ease, as if they were the merest talk and he did not expect them to be believed; I found this a poor exchange for his former sweet teasing. He had been home
three days before he came to see me, but when he came said he had returned to Bradford only for my sake, there was nothing else worth coming for. In general he seemed impatient and restless and critical, with an air of finding himself too good for his company, which, though I supposed it the customary way of courtiers, hurt me sorely. He talked much of the King, and Sir William Savile, and the Earl of Newcastle, in a boyish boasting way, but was never able to answer the questions my father put to him, about the Court's politics and religion; also he seemed never even to have seen, or at least noticed, Bishop Laud. My father could not believe this last, and returned over and over again to the question of Laud's look and air, till Francis was flushed and vexed with denials. Indeed my father's company was not very cheerful nowadays, and I was scarcely surprised, though sick at heart, when Francis began that summer again to drink and gamble with the Tempests instead of coming often to Fairgap.