Take Courage by Phyllis Bentley Page B

show himself to me; he was flushed and laughing and excited, and indeed made a fine handsome picture, with his bright hair and laughing eyes and smooth warm cheek, wheeling his horse about and making it curvet, for he was ever a dashing and accomplished rider. I was proud to see him go on such a high errand, looking so debonair and gallant, and glad that he should have some occupation, to wipe the idle discontented look he had been wearing lately, from his face. My father too came out to say farewell to him, and stood in the doorway smiling and nodding, and many of our neighbours clustered round. Francis drank in their interest, taking it for pure admiration though in truth it had a little sourness, with an eagerness which did not quite please me, though I told myself it was natural and boyish; he showed them the new harness his horse wore, and the feather in his hat, while I was longing till my heart almost burst with it that they should all go away and leave Francis and me to make our farewells alone. But suddenly Francis seemed to tire of the crowd, or think it did not become his dignity, for crying abruptly: “Farewell, Pen!” he wheeled his horse and rode off at once down the street, and there was nothing left to do but go indoors.
    The house seemed dark and quiet and melancholy, and my father, who had tired himself with standing, was fretful and peevish, and my heart ached that I should have parted from my love without one tender word, without one kiss. In my mind I followed him, galloping along the sunnyfrisking lambs, the trees in their fresh spring green, and roads to York, and hawthorn in bud, and daisies in the fields, beside him all the way, to delight him; and I saw York as very fine and throng, full of richly dressed ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the cathedral and admiring Francis. He will forget me, I thought, and I wept secretly. That evening John came in to sit with my father, for the first time since I had declined the Thorpes’ marriage treaty; he gave me a sober searching look, and I fear he saw the redness of my eyes, though he said nothing of it.
    While Francis was away, their first child was born to Will and Eliza. Will’s delight over his little daughter was a pleasure to see, and the infant, being grandchild to both the Thorpes and my father, drew our families nearer again after their recent coolness and distance. I kept myself as much as I could in the background, so as not to intrude a remembrance which might mar this renewal of friendship; but I need not have troubled myself, for a newborn babe supersedes all other interests in its parents’ and grandparents’ hearts, and the affairs of John and myself were for the time forgotten, except by ourselves. Little Martha, as she was called after Mrs. Thorpe, was a sweet little dear, though somewhat sickly, and in helping Eliza to tend her I passed away the time of the absence of Francis.
    Francis was not gone very long, since the English nobles escorted the King only to the Border, where the duty was taken over by the nobles of Scotland; but though he came back to Bradford in a few weeks, his brief absence had changed him—or rather, perhaps not changed, but increased all those inclinations in him which most distressed me. He was more the fine gentleman than ever. To do him justice, his fine manners seemed to sit on him more naturally, as if he were more used to using them, but there was less sincerity in him than before. He paid compliments with a careless graceful ease, as if they were the merest talk and he did not expect them to be believed; I found this a poor exchange for his former sweet teasing. He had been homethree days before he came to see me, but when he came said he had returned to Bradford only for my sake, there was nothing else worth coming for. In general he seemed impatient and restless and critical, with an air of finding himself too good for his company, which, though I supposed it the customary