by Howard Pyle
“I know some people think she’s pretty,” said Mary, “but, I must say, I don’t see where her beauty lies. Her nose isn’t good, and she has hardly a bit of color in her face. She’s a dear good girl, but I don’t think she’s what one would call handsome.”
“Thee isn’t of the same way of thinking as the young men,” said John. “There isn’t one within ten miles of Eastcaster who doesn’t think that she’s the prettiest girl in the township. There isn’t a girl in the neighborhood who has as much company as she.”
“Nonsense,” said Susan; “what does thee know about it, John? Leave out Isaac Naylor and John Black and the two Sharpleys and she doesn’t have any more company than other people.”
“All right,” said John, who had an ill way of holding to an opinion and never arguing about it, “all right, have thy own way; it doesn’t make any difference to me; I only know what I hear the young men say about her.”
Then Tom’s father broke into the talk and nothing more was said about Patty. “I bought a new short-horn bull last fall, Thomas,” said he. “We’ll go over to the cattle-yard after dinner and take a look at it, if thee likes.”
So presently they all got up from their chairs, and the men-folks went over to the barn-yard to take a look at the short-horn bull.
But the talk at the dinner table had not pleased Tom, though I do not know why he should have disliked to have heard that Patty had a great deal of attention paid her; for how could it make any difference to him?
CHAPTER II.
AS TIME WORE along, Tom got into the habit of dropping in at Penrose’s and of spending an evening now and then. At first he would find himself there once in every ten days or two weeks; in time his visits became more and more frequent. Elihu was always very glad to see him and Patty herself seemed pleased at his coming. I think that some of the happiest evenings of his life were those spent in sitting on the porch of the old mill-house in the long summer twilights — Elihu and he smoking their pipes, he telling his adventures at sea and Patty sitting listening to him. Often some one of the young men of the neighborhood would be at the house, and then it was not so pleasant for Tom; his talk would cease, and after a little while, perhaps, he would arise and bid them farewell. Patty and her visitor would usually sit apart talking and laughing together, and it would strike Tom how much more easy she seemed in the company of others than she did with him. More than once when he called he found that she had gone out riding with one of these young men, and then he and Elihu would spend the evening together, and the old man would seem quite contented, for neither Patty nor he seemed to think that Tom’s visits were meant for any one else than him.
One First-day evening Tom mustered up courage to ask Patty to take a walk with him. That evening is impressed upon his mind even yet, for he was very happy. There was a dim glow in the sky to the westward, and the road stretched away grey and glimmering between the blackness of the banks and bushes alongside of it. So, walking slowly and talking but little, they came to the bridge just below Whiteley’s barn, and there they stood leaning on the parapet, looking up the stream into the black woods beyond, from which came the many murmuring whispers of the summer’s night. All the air was laden with the spicy odor of the night woods, and through the silence the sound of the rushing and gurgling of the water of the brook came to them clearly and distinctly. There was a bit of marshy land beyond, over which flew fireflies in thousands, here gleaming a brilliant spark and there leaving a long trail of light against the black woodlands behind. For some time they both leaned upon the bridge without saying a word; it was Patty that broke the silence at last.
“Does thee know, Thomas,” said she, “that when thee first came home I was dreadfully afraid of thee? Thee seemed to me to be so much older than I was, and then thee’d seen so much on thy travels.”
“Thee ain’t afraid of me now, is thee, Patty?”
“No, indeed; it seems as though thee might almost be a cousin of mine, I know thee so well. It does father so much good to see thee; he’s never been the same since mother died till now.”
There was a moment or two before Tom spoke.
“Perhaps it isn’t thy father I come to see, Patty,” said he, in a low voice. He leaned over the edge of the bridge as he spoke and looked fixedly into the dark rushing water beneath.
Patty made no answer, and Tom was not sure that she heard him. Neither of them said another word until Patty said, in a low voice, “I guess we’d better go home now, Thomas.”
Then they turned and walked back again to the old mill. Tom opened the gate for Patty. “Farewell, Patty,” said he.
“Won’t thee come up and see father, Thomas?” said she.
“Not to-night.”
“Farewell, then.”
Tom watched her until she had gone up the porch steps and was hidden by the vines that were clustered about it. He heard Elihu say, “Where’s Thomas?” but he did not hear Patty’s answer; then he turned and walked slowly homeward.
The summer passed, the fall passed, the winter passed, and the spring time had come again.
Tom’s walk with Patty seemed to have broken through the smoothness of the acquaintance betwixt the three.
Elihu had never been the same to him since that night; he had never been as cordial or as friendly as he had been before.
Sometimes it seemed to Tom as though Patty herself was growing tired of seeing so much of him. At such times he would vow within himself as he walked homeward that he would never call there again, and yet he always went back after a while.
So things moved along without that pleasant friendliness in their acquaintanceship until that occurred which altered the face of everything.
One First-day afternoon, Tom found himself standing on the porch of the mill-house. It was in the early part of April, but the day was very mild and soft, and Elihu and Patty were sitting on the porch.
“How is thee, Thomas?” said Elihu. He did not take the pipe from his lips as he spoke, neither did he ask the other to be seated. Tom stood leaning against the post and no one spoke for a while.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” said Patty.
“Yes, it is,” said Tom; “would thee like to take a walk up the road as far as Whiteley’s?”
“Yes, I would,” said Patty; “I haven’t been away from the house all day.”
“It’s very damp; it’s too damp to walk,” said Elihu; “besides, thee’s got thy thin shoes on.”
“But we’ll walk in the road, father; I’ll promise not to go off of the road. I’ll put on heavier shoes if thee thinks that these are too thin.”
“Very well, do as thee pleases,” said Elihu, sharply; “I think it’s too damp, but I suppose thee’ll do as thee chooses.” Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and went into the house without another word, shutting the door carefully behind him.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t want me to go,” said Patty; “it’s a lovely day for a walk. Wait till I go in and speak to him, maybe he’ll change his mind;” and she followed her father into the house.
“I can’t bear this any longer;” said Tom to himself. “I’ll have it over this afternoon, or I’ll never come here again. I’ll ask her to be my wife, and if the worst comes to the worst I’ll ship for another cruise.”
Presently Patty came out of the house again. She had thrown a scarf over her shoulders. “Is thee ready to go, Thomas?” said she.
“Yes; I’m ready.”
There was very little talk between them as they walked on side by side, for Tom’s heart was too full of that which was upon his mind to say much with his lips; so they went down the road into the hollow, past the old mill, over the bridge that crossed Stony Brook just beyond, up the hill on the other side, past Whiteley’s farm-house, and so to the further crest of the hill that overlooked Rocky Creek Valley beyond. There they stopped and stood beside the fence at the roadside, looking down into the valley beneath them. It was a fair sight that lay spread out before their eyes �
� field beyond field, farm-house, barn and orchard, all bathed in the soft yellow sunshine, saving here and there where a cloud cast a purple shadow that moved slowly across the hills and down into the valleys.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Patty, as she leaned against the rough fence, looking out across the valley, while the wind stirred the hair at her cheeks and temples.
“Yes; it is;” said Tom, “it’s a goodly world to live in, Patty.”
Then silence fell between them.
“There’s the old Naylor homestead,” said Patty at last.
“Yes; I see it,” said Tom, shortly, glancing as he spoke in the direction which she pointed. Then, after a while, he continued, “What a queer man Isaac Naylor is!”
“I don’t see anything queer about him,” said Patty, looking down at the toe of her shoe.
“Well, I never saw a man like him.”
“He is a very good worthy man, and everybody respects him,” said Patty, warmly.
“Oh! I don’t deny that,” said Tom, with a pang at his heart.
“Thee couldn’t truthfully deny it if thee would, Thomas,” said Patty.
“I’m only a rough sea-faring man,” said Tom. “I don’t know that any one respects me very much.” He waited a moment, but Patty said nothing; then he went on again:
“For all that, I’d rather be a man of thirty at thirty, and not as dead to all things as though I was a man of eighty. Isaac Naylor is more like a man of eighty than he is like one of thirty. No one would take him to be only five years older than I am.”
“I don’t know any man that I respect as much as I do Isaac Naylor,” said Patty. “I don’t like to hear thee talk against him as thee does. He has never spoken ill of thee.”
“Thee need never be afraid of my saying anything more against him,” said Tom, bitterly; “I see that thee likes him more than I thought thee did. I might have known it too, from the way that he has been visiting thee during this last month or two.”
“Why shouldn’t he visit me, Thomas?”
“The Lord knows!”
She made no answer to this, and presently Tom spoke again.
“I’m going off to sea before long, Patty,” said he, for it seemed to him just then that the sea was a fit place for him to be. Patty made no answer to this; she was picking busily at the fringe of the scarf that hung about her shoulders.
“How soon is thee going, Thomas?” said she at last.
“Oh! I don’t know; in three or four weeks, I guess. It doesn’t matter, does it?”
Patty made no reply.
Tom was leaning on the fence, looking out across the valley, but seeing nothing. His mind was in a whirl, for he was saying unto himself, “Now is the time, be a man, speak your heart boldly, for this is the opportunity!”
Twice he tried to bring himself to speak, and twice his heart failed him. The third time that he strove, he broke the silence.
“Patty,” said he. His heart was beating thickly, but there was no turning back now, for the first word had been spoken.
Patty must have had an inkling of what was in Tom’s mind, for her bosom was rising and falling quickly.
“Patty,” said Tom again.
“What is it, Thomas?” said she, in a trembling voice, and without raising her head.
Tom was picking nervously at the rough bark upon the fence-rail near to him, but he was looking at Patty.
“Thee knows why I have been coming to see thee all this time, doesn’t thee, Patty?”
“No,” whispered Patty.
“Thee doesn’t know?”
“No.”
It seemed to Tom as though the beating of his heart would smother him: “Because, — because I love thee, Patty,” said he.
Patty’s head sunk lower and lower, but she neither moved nor spoke.
Then Tom said again, “I love thee, Patty.”
He waited for a while and then he said: “Won’t thee speak to me, Patty?”
“What does thee want me to say?” whispered she.
“Does thee love me?”
Silence.
“Does thee love me?”
Tom was standing very close to her as he spoke; when she answered it was hardly above her breath, but low as the whisper was he caught it —
“Yes.”
Ah me! those days have gone by now, and I am an old man of four score years and more, but even yet my old heart thrills at the remembrance of this that I here write. Manifold troubles and griefs have fallen upon me betwixt then and now; yet, I can say, when one speaks to me of the weariness of this world and of the emptiness of things within it, “Surely, life is a pleasant thing, when it holds such joys in store for us as this, — the bliss of loving and of being loved.”
Half an hour afterward, Tom was walking down the road toward the old mill-house, and in his hand he held the hand of his darling — his first love — and life was very beautiful to him.
CHAPTER III.
NOW, ALTHOUGH THE good people of Eastcaster were very glad to welcome Tom Granger home again whenever he returned from a cruise, at the same time they looked upon him with a certain wariness, or shyness, for they could not but feel that he was not quite one of themselves.
Now-a-days one sees all kinds of strange people; the railroad brings them, — young men who sell dry-goods, books and what not. They have traveled all over the country and have, or think that they have, a world more of knowledge about things in general than other people who are old enough to be their father’s father. Such an one I saw this morning, who beat me three games of chequers, which, I own, did vex me; though any one might have done the same, for I was thinking of other things at the time, and my mind was not fixed upon the run of the game. One sees plenty of such people now-a-days, I say, but in the old times it was different, and few strangers came to Eastcaster, so that but little was known of the outside world. The good people liked well enough to hear Tom tell of the many out-of-the-way things that had happened to him during his knocking about in the world; at the same time there was always a feeling amongst them that he was different from themselves. Tom knew that they felt this way, and it made him more shy of going amongst his father’s neighbors than he would otherwise have been. Nothing makes a man withdraw within himself as much as the thought that those about him neither understand him nor care to understand him. So it came about that Elihu Penrose was not very much pleased with that which had passed between Tom Granger and his daughter.
As Tom and Patty walked home hand in hand, hardly a word was said betwixt them. When they came to the gate in front of the mill-house they saw that Elihu was not on the porch.
“I’ll go in and speak to thy father now, Patty,” said Tom.
“Oh, Tom! Will it have to be so soon?” said Patty, in a half-frightened voice.
“The sooner spoken, the sooner over,” said Tom, somewhat grimly, for the task was not a pleasant one to do, as those who have passed through the same can tell if they choose.
So Tom went into the house, and Patty sat down on a chair on the porch to wait for his coming out again.
Tom looked in through the half-open door of the dining-room and saw Elihu sitting in his cushioned rocking-chair in front of the smouldering fire, rocking and smoking the while.
“May I come in?” said Tom, standing uncertainly at the door.
“Yes; come in,” said Elihu, without moving.
“I have something to tell thee,” said Tom.
“Sit down,” said Elihu.
Tom would rather have stood up, for he felt easier upon his feet; nevertheless, he sat down as he was bidden, leaning his elbows on his knees and gazing into the crown of his hat, which he held in his hand and turned about this way and that.
Old Elihu Penrose’s eyebrows were bushy and thick, and, like his hair, were as white as though he had been in the mill of time, and a part of the flour had fallen upon him. When he was arguing upon religion or politics, and was about to ask some keen question that was likely to trip
up the wits of the one with whom he was talking, he had a way of drawing these thick eyebrows together, until he had hidden all of his eyes but the grey twinkle within them. Though Tom did not raise his head, he felt that the old man drew his eyebrows together just in this manner, as he looked upon him where he sat.
Not a word was spoken for some time, and the only sounds that broke the stillness of the room was the regular “creak, creak” of the rocker of the chair on which Elihu sat, and the sharp and deliberate “tick, tack” of the tall, old eight-day clock in the entry.
Old Elihu broke the silence; he blew a thin thread of smoke toward the chimney, and then he said: “What is it thee wants to say to me Thomas?” And yet, I have a notion that he knew very well what it was that Tom was going to tell him.
Then Tom looked up and gazed straight into the grey twinkle of Elihu’s eyes, hidden beneath their overhanging brows. “I — I love thy daughter,” said he, “and she’s promised to be my wife.”
Elihu looked at Tom as though he would bore him through and through with the keenness of his gaze, and Tom looked steadfastly back again at him. He felt that Elihu was trying to look him down, and he drew upon all of his strength of spirit not to let his eyes waver for a moment. At last Elihu arose from his chair and knocked the ashes out his pipe into the fire-place.
Then Tom stood up too, for he was not going to give the other the advantage that a standing man has in a talk over one that is seated.
“Thomas,” began Elihu, breaking the silence again, and he thrust his hand into his breeches pocket, and began rattling the coppers therein.
“Well?” said Tom.
“I take it thee’s a reasonable man; — at least, thee ought to be, after all the knocking around that thee’s done.”
This did not sound very promising for the talk that was to come. “I hope I’m a reasonable man,” said Tom.
“Then I’ll speak to thee plainly, and without any beating about the bush; — I’m sorry to hear of this, and I wish that it might have been otherwise.”
“Why?”
