Take Courage by Phyllis Bentley Page A

but a little grieved that Mr. Thorpe should have so large a say in our affairs, and I spoke in this sense that night to my father.
    He sighed and said nothing, but after a little roused himself and went up into the loom-chamber, where I heard him rustling papers and pacing with heavy steps. It came to be bedtime, and David and I went in to him to bid him good night; he kissed us very tenderly, seeming heavy in spirit, and said in a mournful tone:
    â€œI fear I have proved but a poor father to you, my children.”
    This was so contrary to all truth that David and I made sport of it, laughing and caressing him, and under our joking his face cleared.
    But when I was alone in my room, I lay awake a long time, distressed for my father, for the change in him and the trouble he seemed to be in. After a long while I heard his voice raised in prayer, and then a broken sound at which I started up abruptly, for it was weeping. I threw on a gown and went to him, and found him still dressed and sitting at his papers. There were tears on his cheeks, and my heart bled for him; I put my arms about his neck and kissed and soothed him, and begged him to tell me what was his trouble. After some coaxing he told me, hesitating, that it was his accounts, which were not in order as they should be, the morrow being Market Day. Child that I was, I did not penetrate his true meaning, but supposed he spoke merely of letters and characters, the late failing of his eyes giving colour to that supposition.
    â€œJohn would cast up your accounts if you asked him, Father,” I said eagerly. “He keeps all Mr. Thorpe’s accounts, and pays his bills. I have seen his accounts, they are very neat and orderly. John would help you.”
    I continued to plead and to urge, longing to cure his trouble and make him happy as he used to be, and at last my father gave me a very sweet look, smiling, and laid his hand on my arm and said:
    â€œWe will ask John, then, since you wish it, Penninah.”
    I was pleased at his yielding, and I coaxed him to bed and gave him a hot spiced drink, and went back to my chamber feeling easier.
    My father slept late next morning and I did not disturb him, though I rose early myself in order to get a message to John. At that time Mr. Thorpe’s lameness of foot, due to a sciatica, was beginning to trouble him, and John often came to market of a Thursday in his father’s place. The Market Cross, round which most of the clothiers gathered, was just a few yards down the hill from our house, and I meant to send Sarah out to find him. But as it chanced I did not need to do so, for the apprentice Lister came in early with a gift of eggs from Mrs. Thorpe. I gave him the message, which it seems he took over-eagerly, for in ten minutes John stood before me breathless, having broken off his business to come immediately to me. I was sorry for this and said so; John said it was no matter, and looked at me expectantly.
    In early life, when young folk are growing, a difference of a few years in age seems a very great one, and John, who was barely five years older than me, then seemed a grown man, very steady and sober and settled, compared with myself or Francis. He was still short and sturdy in stature—Francis far overtopped him—dark and plain in visage and rather sombre in manner. He did not smile easily, and was not given to many words; he cared nothing for musical instruments or poetry, and abominated facetious jests such as his father and Mr. Ferrand delighted in. But he was already known as an honest, trustworthy merchant and a skilled clothier. The Thorpe cloths were always of proper width and woven of well-seasoned wool; I have seen John feel a cloth between his fingers, not looking at it, and with a blunt scornful air declare promptly what waswrong. He knew his own mind, made few promises but kept them, and always meant just what he said; I sometimes thought he was a little chafed by the rule of his father,