It was indeed a sad time for me, for beside the grief of my father’s slow decay, I had another trouble.
As peace was shortly made with Spain, though I think more for lack of supplies on our King’s part than for any result accruing to the war, certain of our armies returned from those ill-fated expeditions of Buckingham’s abroad about which Parliament and all honest men had complained so bitterly. Amongst these returning soldiers came a young man, a cousin or some connection of the Tempests of Boiling Hall. He had learned much beside soldiering, on the continent and in London, and was a very fine gentleman, using great licence in clothes, in drink, in gaming, and, as I understand now, with women. Our young gentry round Bradford had a desire to ape him, and be as like soldiers as they could; and as Boiling Hall was but a mile or two from Little Holroyd and Mr. Ferrand was friendly there, Francis got into the acquaintance of this young Tempest, and soon fell into the same courses. My first intimation of this was that he began to swagger to me a good deal about his fine friends. I not knowing the harm of it encouraged him by listening and smiling—it cheered my father to hear his bright lively talk. His tales grew wilder, and began to contain matters that I was ashamed to listen to; my cheek burned and I bent more closely over my needle. It was my poor father’s growing infirmity gave Francis the opportunity for this kind of talk, for he was apt in an evening to drop off to sleep suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and on waking a few minutes later be ignorant that he had slept. For my part I knew not whether it was less maidenly to speak or be silent when my love told these wild tales. At last one night when he was flushed and loud and laughing continually over his lewd jests I could bear it no longer; I rose up quietly and gathered my needlework together and went towards the stairs. Francis, his face changed, sprang after me and seized me by the waist.
“Penninah!” he said, urgently, but in a whisper so as not to wake my father.
“I can’t stay with you while your talk is so ungodly,” I told him, trembling.
“Puritan!” murmured Francis with a teasing smile.
He bent his handsome head and kissed my lips. His breath smelt of wine, and his kisses seemed lecherous; his hand sought my breast caressingly. At this touch my whole soul took fright; I cried “No! No!” and sprang from him, panting. My father stirred and muttered my name drowsily, and we stood very still for a moment till he should sleep again.
“Why are you so cold to me, Pen?” Francis then murmured reproachfully.
“I am not cold to you, Frank,” I told him, the tears thick in my eyes. “I love you wholly.”
He seemed pleased at this, threw up his head and smiled and swung his shoulders.
“But I cannot endure you when you are gross and wanton,” I continued, my voice shaking. “I have not deserved it of you, Francis, that you should treat me so. My father has not deserved it. If we are not rich like the Tempests, we are decent honest people.”
By this time my sobs had gained upon me so that I could keep them down no longer; I burst into tumultuous weeping and ran upstairs. My last glimpse of Francis as I fled showed him hurt and very sorry, with the kind sweet look on his face he used to have as a boy.
Next day he came to me with a jewel in his hand as a present for me, whereat I was very angry. He seemed astonished that I refused it, which vexed me still further; I scolded him roundly for daring to think he could buy my favour, but at last could not help smiling, he looked so hangdog. He revived at once beneath my smile, sprang to me and kissed me very sweetly, and begged me, calling me his dearest love and such fond terms, to forgive him. Ah, how glad I was to do so!
We were very happy that evening, I at my needle, Francis sitting quietly at our fireside opposite my father, our Tabby and his dog Thunder, both now growing somewhat old and heavy, lying friendly between them.
“It’s good to be here, Pen,” murmured Francis when my father slept. He sighed with a kind of relief and comfort, and repeated: “Quietly here with you, Pen.”
Whenever I raised my head I found his eyes fixed on me in a bright sweet look of love.
“I have copied a piece of poetry for you, Pen,” he said presently.
He fumbled in his pocket, and brought out a piece of paper, dirty and crumpled.
“Three mains, Dick’s Red, two o’clock Saturday,” I read.
“No, no!” cried Francis, laughing and colouring. “That’s a cockfight. Turn it over.”
I turned it; in his large round schoolboyish hand, much misspelt, I read:
0 thou art fairer than the evening sky
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars
“It is for thee, Pen,” whispered Francis, suddenly kneeling beside me. “With thy starry eyes and dusky hair. I copied it from a playbook Dick Tempest has. Dick has seen many plays,” he added somewhat wistfully, “in London.”
Yes, that evening I was very happy.
For a few days he came thus every evening, and everything was right between us; then suddenly he came no more for a week, and when at last he did appear, he was flushed with wine again and loud and talkative. I was so overjoyed to see him that I ran to him when he plied his rhythmical knock, crying “Oh, it has been so long since you came, Francis!” forgetting that such behaviour was not maidenly. He soon put me in mind of that, however, by saying with a jaunty air:
“If you were kinder to me, Pen, I would come more often.”
“How could I be kinder to you, Frank?” I wondered.
His laugh, and the look in his eyes, told me partly what he meant, though I was yet too young and innocent to understand him fully. I was angered and drew back, whereupon he begged me to forgive him.
So we went on; some days he told me most lovingly that it was good to be with me, some days he neglected me utterly, and when he returned told me again that if I were kinder to him he would come more often. I grew to hate this saying; at first my pride would not give me leave to answer it, but at last, goaded beyond endurance, I told him quietly but plainly that the way to my kindness was through an honourable marriage. At this Francis frowned and stood first on one foot then on the other, and at last muttered that his father was against the match because of the rift of opinion between him and my father.
“If you do not intend marriage, Francis,” said I in the quietest tone I could command, “let us part now and see each other no more.”
“Of course I intend marriage, Pen!” said Francis peevishly. “But I am waiting a good time to speak to my father.”
I accepted his assurance and strove to be content.
But Francis was ever one to dislike trouble, to put off and delay what would be irksome in the doing. So he did not speak to Mr. Ferrand. Although I never asked whether he had spoken, and he knew I would never ask, yet he was ashamed to come to me with that word unspoken, and therefore he came to Fairgap less often. Yet when he came, our time together was sweet to both of us, and I never doubted I was his true love and we should one day dash aside all hindrances and marry, only I thought it a little hard that he was not kinder just now, seeing I was in such distress about my father.