Within the Capes

“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?”

“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.