For the vigour of my poor father’s mind now sank a little every day under the melancholy that oppressed him.
Gradually it came that he went abroad little, and took no pleasure in either reading or conversation because of the sudden sleep which weighed on him; he sat long hours in his chair by the fire, silent and brooding. Sometimes he would rouse up and be very busy sorting wools in his spectacles, or sit at the loom, panting a little as he laboured at the treadles. But he made little progress at the piece, which stayed on the loom for weeks; at last John, perceiving this one evening, sat himself at the loom and as it were by chance, while talking, began to weave, and the next evening did the same, and the next, and so on, till the piece was finished. John sent it away to a distant market—for it was ill woven—and sold it for a low price, lest my father’s reputation should suffer for it.
Then my father began to set up the warp for a new piece. But he found the task too difficult for him; he often came to the stairhead and called: “Penninah! Penninah!” in a loud shouting voice, and when I ran up I found the threads all in a tangle. (Once he called: “Faith! Faith!” and at that my heart was nearly broken.) I tried my best to set the threads in order, but not being trained to the trade I made but a poor success of it, and my father was very impatient. At length he understood he could never complete the warping, and this I could see was a very severe blow to him. The next time John came in my father asked him, in a somewhat lofty and careless tone, if he would set it straight. John spent many long hours over the business; the threads were so muddled, he said to me, that it was almost impossible to bring order into them, and since the piece would be of little value when woven, why should my father trouble about it. But I begged him urgently to continue, and he did so, and at last had it all straight, and called my father upstairs to see it, gladly. But alas, my father no longer cared about the piece; he dismissed it peevishly, and made light of John’s services. John looked disappointed, and I was grieved for his sake.
“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.