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