Take Courage by Phyllis Bentley Page A

uneasily.
    â€œIt is not easy for a young maid to make up her mind,” mumbled my father.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œBethink you, Penninah,” said Mrs. Thorpe very grimly: “how you will feel when John marries elsewhere. Think of that before it is too late.”
    â€œI shall never marry elsewhere,” said John.
    â€œNonsense,” 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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œLet us go,” said John.
    â€œI’m disappointed in you, Pen,” said Mr. Thorpe.
    â€œSince 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.”
    â€œIt shall be secret between us,” agreed my father sadly. “But perhaps Penninah will change her mind.”
    â€œIt will be too late,” said Mrs. Thorpe, sweeping towards the door.
    â€œIt 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.

6
I LEARN MY MIND
    We now entered upon the year 1633, a year I never shall forget, a year so fraught with events of consequence to me and mine that even now, forty years after, a mention of its name sets the strings of my heart quivering. Its happenings crowded upon each other’s heels; I see them all in swift flashing pictures, bright gold or sombre purple, and still throbbing with emotion.
    The spring season that year was very pleasant and full of sunshine; in its brightness I took heart, and began to indulge in sweet dreams of marriage with my love. Sometimes I wove speeches to myself which I pretended I should make to Mr. Ferrand, explaining how Francis was spoiling himself with the Tempests, and how if I were his wife I would take care of him and keep him always happy and good; and sometimes I invented speeches for Mr. Ferrand too, in which he called me his pretty penny, as he used, and agreed smiling to our marriage. I was a little encouraged in these fond dreams at first by the turn of public affairs that spring. King Charles set out to go to Scotland to be crowned there, passing through Yorkshire on his way, and all the nobility and gentry exerted themselves to do him honour. Such furbishings of armour, training of horses, tailoring of new clothes, re-furnishings of houses and the like went on round Pomfret and York and Ripon as had not been heard of in our county for many a long year; the report of them coming into our clothing towns excited the people, and gave all but the strictest Puritans a pleasant friendly feeling towards our King. Perhaps after all, folk thought, he was not so black as he was painted, and we all had a wish that Yorkshire shouldproffer him a generous hospitality and show well in his eyes.
    The great landowners of the North summoned—or perhaps I should say invited, I do not know the law of the matter—their tenants to attend them in the escort they were giving to the King; and as Mr. Ferrand was for part of his land a tenant of Sir William Savile, who was a great man at court, Francis went off to York with a new horse and a mounted serving man and a great quantity of new clothes, very joyously. He came to Fairgap on his way, though it was not in his way at all, to bid me good-bye and