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?”
“I should think that thee might know why, without putting me to the
pains of telling thee. We’re a plain folk hereabouts, and the son’s
followed in his father’s steps for a hundred and fifty years and more.
I suppose that it’s an old-fashioned way that we have, but I like it.
I’d rather that my daughter had chosen a man that had been contented
with the ways of his father, and one that I had seen grow up under my
eye, and that I might know that I could rely upon. I’ve seen little or
nothing of thee, since thee ran away to sea, ten or twelve years ago.”
“I don’t see why that should weigh against me.”
“Don’t thee?”
“No. My trade isn’t farming, to be sure, but such as it is, I work
steadily at it. I’m sober; I don’t drink, and I trust that I’m no worse
than most men of my age.”
“That may all be true; I know nothing of thy habits, but this I do
know,—that thee ran away from home once; what surety have I that thee
won’t do it again?” Tom made a motion as though to interrupt him, but
Elihu held up his hand; “I know! I know!” said he; “thee don’t feel,
just now, as though such a thing could happen; but my observation has
led me to find that what a man will do once, he may do again. Besides
all this, thy trade must unsettle thy life more or less; thee knows
the old saying,—‘a rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“I don’t know why a man should want to stay long enough in one place to
get moss-grown,” said Tom.
“That is all very well,” said Elihu Penrose, “but we hereabouts have
been content to grow green in the same place that our fathers grew
green before us. So, I tell thee plainly, I wish that Patty had chosen
some one that I know better than I do thee. Of course, I shan’t bridle
her choice, but I wish that it had been Isaac Naylor. I believe that
she would have chosen him if thee hadn’t come home amongst us.”
There was a time of silence between them in which both were sunk deeply
in thought; then Tom spoke very bitterly: “I see thee don’t like me.”
“Thee’s wrong to say that, Thomas,” said Elihu; “I have no dislike for
thee at all.”
“It looks very much as though thee had.”
“I don’t see that at all. I want to see my daughter well settled in the
world,—that’s all.”
“I should think that thy daughter’s happiness would weigh more with
thee than anything else.”
“It does,” said Elihu, somewhat sternly, “and I hope that I shall know
what is best for her happiness without being taught by any man, young
or old.”
“I had no thought to teach thee.”
Silence followed this, till, after a while, Elihu spoke again.
“However,” said he, “all this is neither here nor there; Patty’s chosen
thee from amongst the rest, and she must lie upon the bed that she’s
made for herself, for I don’t see that I can justly interfere. I can
only make myself sure that thee is able to support a wife, before thee
marries her. How much does thee make a year?”
“About five hundred for pay. Maybe I could make a couple of hundred
more in the way of trade here and there, if I keep my wits about me.”
“Does thy trade bring thee in forty dollars a month now?”
“About that.”
Elihu, sunk in thought, looked at Tom for a while, without speaking.
Tom stood looking at his finger-tips, very unhappy and troubled in his
mind. After a while the absent look left Elihu’s eyes, and he spoke
again.
“Thomas,” said he, “I have no wish to be hard on thee, or any man in
the world. It’s not thee, but thy trade, that don’t please me. If thee
was living quietly at home, like thy brothers John and William, I’d be
glad to give my daughter to thy father’s son, for he and I have been
old friends, and have known each other since we were boys together.
However, I’m not prepared to say that thee shall not marry Patty, so
I’ll make a proposition to thee. If thee’ll show me seven hundred and
fifty dollars of thy own earning at the end of a year’s time, I am
willing that thee shall have her. Is that fair?”
“Yes; I suppose it is,” said Tom.
“Very well. Show me seven hundred and fifty dollars at the end of a
year’s time from to-day, and I’ll give thee leave to marry Patty.
Farewell.”
“May I see Patty now?”
“I reckon so. There’s no reason that thee shouldn’t see her that I know
of.”
Then Tom left the room. He found Patty sitting on the porch when he
went out. He was feeling very bitter, for his talk with Elihu had not
been of the pleasantest kind. It seemed to have taken much of the joy
out of his new happiness, for the grudging words of Elihu’s consent had
stung his pride very sharply. Therefore there was a smack of bitterness
in his joy that spoilt the savor of the whole. He sat down by Patty
without a word, and began rubbing his palm slowly over the end of the
arm of the chair on which he was sitting, looking down at it moodily
the while. It was both weak and selfish in him to give way to such
feelings at such a time, but love is a subtle joy that only one false
chord will jar the whole out of tune, and, for the time, there will be
discord in the heart.
Patty sat looking at him, as though waiting for him to speak.
“Thy father don’t seem much pleased with this, Patty,” said he, at last.
“Never mind, Tom,” said Patty, and her little hand slid over and rested
softly upon his own; “he’ll like it when he is more used to the thought
of it. Father’s queer, and sometimes harsh in his ways, but his heart
is all right. No one could be more kind and loving than he is to me.
When he finds how dear thee is to me, he’ll like thee for my sake, if
for nothing else. After a while he will be as proud of thee as though
thee were his own son.”
“I hope that he will like me better, as time goes on,” said Tom, but
the tone of his voice said, “I don’t believe he will.”
“Yes; his liking will come all in good time, Tom;” then, very softly,
“Isn’t thee happy, Tom?”
“Yes; I’m happy,” said Tom, but in truth, his words belied his thoughts
a little, and his voice, I think, must have somewhat belied his words.
“Tom,” said Patty, and he looked up. She looked bravely and lovingly
into his eyes; “I am very happy,” said she, in a low voice.
“God bless thee, Patty!” said Tom, in a voice that trembled a little;
“thee’s a good girl,—too good a girl for me. I’m afraid I’m not worthy
of thee.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Patty, quietly. “Tell me; what did father say to
thee, Thomas?”
Then Tom told all that had passed, and the telling of it seemed to
blow away the dark clouds of his moodiness; for, as he talked, it did
not seem to him that the old man’s words had been as bitter as he had
felt them to be at the time. After all, he had said nothing but what he
should have said, considering that it behooved him to see his daughter
well settled in the world.
“Thee _can_ earn seven hundred and fifty dollars in a year’s time,
can’t thee, Thomas?”
“I hope so.”
“Then it’ll only be waiting a year, and that isn’t a long time, Tom, is
it? Thee’ll find me just the same when thee comes back again.” Patty
talked very bravely;—I believe that she talked more bravely than she
felt, for her eyes were bright with tears, beneath the lids.
“It’s pretty hard to have to leave thee so soon,” said Tom. “I’ll have
to leave thee soon if I’m to earn all that money in a year’s time.”
Both were sunk in thought for a while. “How long will it be before thee
starts, Tom?” said Patty, presently.
“Not longer than a week, I guess.”
Patty looked at him long and earnestly, and then the tears brimmed
in her eyes. Poor girl! What happiness it would have been to her,
if she could have had Tom with her for a while, while their joy was
still fresh and new. The sight of her tears melted away all the little
bitterness that was still in Tom’s heart; he drew her to him, and she
hid her face in his breast and cried. As he held her silently, in
his arms, it seemed to him that their love had not brought them much
happiness, so far.
After a while, she stopped crying, but she still lay with her face on
his shoulder.
As Tom walked home that afternoon, he met Isaac Naylor coming down the
mill-road from the turnpike. He knew that Isaac was going straight to
Penrose’s house.
“How is thee, Thomas?” said he, as they passed one another.
Tom stared at him, but said never a word. He turned and looked after
Isaac as the Friend walked briskly down the road that led through the
woods to the mill.
“Never mind, friend Isaac,” said he, half-aloud, “the father may like
thee better than he does me, but the daughter’s mine.” A thrill darted
through his heart as he said this, for it made him realize that she was
indeed his, and his alone. It was the last time that he saw Isaac for a
year and a half.
Tom went straight to his mother and told her everything. A mother is
nearer to her son in such matters than a father, for there is more in a
woman’s sympathy than there is in a man’s. If he had had any trouble in
regard to money matters, he would, no doubt, have gone to his father;
but troubles like these that were upon him were more fitted for his
mother’s ears.
“I wish thee’d never run away to sea,” said Tom’s mother.
“I wish so too,” said Tom; “but it can’t be helped now. I did run away
to sea, and there’s an end of it.”
“Can’t thee find some way of making a living at home? Maybe Elihu
Penrose would like thee better than he does if thee could stay at home,
as other young men do.”
“How can I make a living at home?” said Tom, bitterly. “Can thee tell
me of any way to make it?”
“No; but something might turn up.”
“I can’t wait for the chance of something turning up. I have seven
hundred and fifty dollars to make in twelve months’ time.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Tom sat beside his mother, and she
was holding his hand and softly stroking it the while.
“Mother,” said Tom, at last.
“Well, son?”
“Does thee know what I’ve pretty well made up my mind to do?”
“What?”
“To go to Philadelphia on the stage to-morrow morning, and to take the
first berth that I can get.”
“Oh, Thomas! thee wouldn’t go so soon, surely! What would Patty do?”
“Patty would have to bear it, mother. She’ll have to bear it, anyhow.
It’ll be just as hard to leave to-morrow week as it will to-morrow. The
sooner I leave the sooner I’ll be back, thee knows.”
All this was very reasonable, but, nevertheless, his heart failed him
at the thought of leaving. “Of course,” he burst out, after a while,
“of course, it’s as hard for me to go as it is for her to have me go.”
“I don’t know that, Thomas,” said his mother, in a trembling voice.
“Thy life will be full of work and change. Patty will have nothing to
do but to think of thee.”
“Well, all the same, its hard to leave her, and the knowledge that she
will suffer don’t make it any the easier for me.”
He got up and began walking restlessly up and down the room. Presently
he stopped in front of his mother.
“Yes, mother,” said he, “I’ll go on the stage to-morrow morning.
There’s no use putting it off any longer, and I’d be a coward to do so.”
Then his mother put her handkerchief to her face, and the tears that
she was keeping back came very freely.
The next morning at half-past seven o’clock Tom knocked at the door
of Elihu Penrose’s house. The mill-house was about three-quarters of
a mile from the turnpike, and as he had to meet the stage there about
eight o’clock, he had only a few minutes in which to say farewell.
He walked straight into the dining-room. Patty was busy putting away
the breakfast dishes, and Elihu sat at his old brass-handled desk,
footing up his accounts. He looked up as Tom came in, and the color
flew into Patty’s cheeks.
“Thee’s beginning thy courting early in the morning, Thomas,” said
Elihu, dryly.
Tom vouchsafed no answer to this. He stood leaning against the
door-frame, and his eyes were fixed upon Patty.
“I’m going to leave home this morning,” said he.
Neither of the three spoke for a moment or two. Tom stood looking
at Patty, his hands clasped in front of him, feeling unutterably
miserable. Elihu had arisen from his chair, and he and Patty were
gazing at Tom, surprised at the suddenness of what he had told them.
Then Elihu came forward and laid his hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Thomas,” said he, “does thee mean that thee is going—”
“I mean that I’m going to leave Eastcaster for a year,” said Tom.
“This is—this is very sudden, Thomas,” said he.
Tom nodded his head.
“Come, Thomas; I had no wish to be harsh with thee yesterday,” said the
old man. “I don’t want to push thee to the wall. This is very sudden.
Put off thy going for a week or two. Look here—even if thee don’t bring
me the seven hundred and fifty dollars just at the end of the year, I
won’t count it against thee.”
“It’s too late now,” said Tom. “My chest’s packed, and father’s going
to put it on the stage for me. I’ll not be unmanly and put off the
going, now that everything is fixed for it. If I’d have known how thee
felt yesterday, I don’t deny that I might have stayed a little while
longer. But it won’t do to stop now that I’ve started.”
All this he spoke without looking at Elihu. Elihu took his hand from
Tom’s shoulder. He stood for a moment as though he were about to say
something farther; then he slowly picked up his hat and left the room,
and Tom and Patty were alone.
In about a quarter of an hour the old man came back again. Tom looked
up at the clock. It was a quarter to eight, and he knew that the time
was come for him to go. Patty and he had been sitting on the sofa,
holding one another’s hand. They had been silent for some time, and
they both arose without a word.
Tom stood looking long and earnestly at Patty. Her face was bowed upon
her breast. “Patty, my darling,” whispered he, and then she looked up.
Her eyes were brimming with the tears that she had kept so bravely
hidden until now, and then two bright drops ran slowly down her cheeks.
“Farewell, my darling,” murmured he, in a low, broken voice. He drew
her to him, and their lips met in one long kiss. Then he turned, and
ran out of the house. He did not say farewell to Elihu, for he could
not have spoken the words, if he had tried to do so.
Ah, me! The searching pain of such a parting! Surely, the Good Father
would never have put us on this world to live the life here, were it
not that there is a world and a life to come wherein such partings
shall never be. He hath given that the birds of the air and the beasts
of the field shall not suffer dread of grief to come, and but little
sorrow for things gone by. Why, then, should He give it to us, His
goodliest creatures, to bear these things, if nothing of good or evil
was to come of such suffering hereafter?