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,”