Take Courage by Phyllis Bentley

steadiness and honesty as on a certain greatness in his heart.
    â€œThere’s no need, father,” I told him at last. “I know John’s qualities as thoroughly as you.”
    â€œThen 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 unwantedmarriage, 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 broughtthe 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.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAye,” agreed her husband, nodding.
    â€œIt is hard,” continued Mrs. Thorpe in a very meaning tone, “that Mr. Thorpe’s condescension should be so ill rewarded.”
    â€œCondescension!” I exclaimed, my cheeks aflame.
    â€œThere 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