CHAPTER IV.

“Oh, Mr. Tresham, let me go! Let me go!” cried Denas.

“Not while you say ‘Mr. Tresham.’”

“Oh, Roland!”

“Yes, love, Roland. Say it a thousand times. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

“You were very cruel.”

“Cruel to be kind, Denas. My love! they think I am in London. Everyone thinks so. I did go to London last Wednesday. I left London this morning very early. I got off the train at St. Claire and walked across the cliff, and found out this pretty hiding-place. And I am going to be here every Saturday night––every Saturday night, wet or fine, and if you do not come here to see me, I will go to Australia and never see St. Penfer again.”

He would talk nothing but the most extravagant nonsense, and finally Denas believed him. He gave her a ring that looked very like Elizabeth’s betrothal ring, and was even larger than Elizabeth’s, and he told her to wear it in her breast until she could wear it on her hand. And for this night, and for many other Saturday nights, he never named the plot in his shallow head and selfish heart; he devoted himself to winning completely the girl’s absorbing love––not a very difficult thing to do, for the air of romance and mystery, at once so charming and so dangerous, enthralled her fancy; his eager, masterful, caressing wooing made her tremble with a delicious fear and hope; and in the week’s silence and dreaming, the folly of every meeting grew marvellously.

Nor was the loving, ignorant girl unaffected by58the apparently rich gifts her lover brought her––brooch and locket and bracelet, many bright and sparkling ornaments, which poor Denas hid away with joy and almost childish delight and prideful expectations. And if her conscience troubled her, she assured it that “if it was right for Elizabeth to receive such offerings of affection, it could not be wrong for her to do likewise.”

Alas! alas! She did not remember that the element of secrecy made the element of sin. If she had only entertained this thought, it would have made her understand that the meeting which cannot be known and the gift which cannot be shown are wicked in their essence and their influence, and are incapable of bringing forth anything but sorrow and sin.

59CHAPTER IV.THE SEED OF CHANGE.

“I love thee! I love thee!’Tis all that I can say;––It is my vision in the night,My dreaming in the day.”––Hood.

“I love thee! I love thee!

’Tis all that I can say;––

It is my vision in the night,

My dreaming in the day.”

––Hood.

“Ah, if the selfish knew how much they lost,What would they not endeavour, not endure,To imitate as far as in them layHim who His wisdom and His power employsIn making others happy.”––Cowper.

“Ah, if the selfish knew how much they lost,

What would they not endeavour, not endure,

To imitate as far as in them lay

Him who His wisdom and His power employs

In making others happy.”

––Cowper.

Allfashionable wedding ceremonies are similar in kind and effect, and Elizabeth would not have been satisfied if hers had varied greatly from the highest normal standard. Her dress was of the most exquisite ivory-white satin and Honiton lace. Her bridesmaids wore the orthodox pink and blue of palest shades. There was the usual elaborate breakfast; the cake and favours, the flowers and music, and the finely dressed company filling the old rooms with subdued laughter and conversation. All things were managed with that consummate taste and order which money without stint can always command; and Elizabeth felt that she had inaugurated a standard of perfection which cast all60previous affairs into oblivion, and demanded too much for any future one to easily attain unto.

In the arrangements for this completely satisfactory function, the position which Denas was to occupy caused some discussion. Mr. Tresham had hitherto regarded her with an indifference which sometimes assumed a character of irritability. He was occasionally jealous of his daughter’s liking for the girl; he knew men, and he was always suspicious of her influence on his son Roland. Proud and touchy about his own social position, he never forgot that Denas was the child of poor fisher people, and he could not understand the tolerant affection Elizabeth gave to a girl so far beneath her own standing.

When Elizabeth included her in the list of bridesmaids, he disputed the choice with considerable temper. He said that he had long endured a companionship not at all to his taste, because it gave Elizabeth pleasure; but that on no account would he compel his guests to receive Denas as their equal. His opposition was so determined that Elizabeth gave up her intention, though she had to break an oft-repeated promise. But, then, promises must be dependent on circumstances for their redemption, and all the circumstances were against Denas.

“Mr. Burrell has two sisters,” said Elizabeth to her, “and if I do not ask Cousin Flora I shall never be forgiven; and father insists upon Georgia Godolphin, because of his friendship with Squire Godolphin; and I cannot manage more than four61bridesmaids, can I? So you see, Denas,” etc., etc., etc.

Denas saw quite clearly, and with a certain pride of self-respect she relegated herself to a position that would interfere with no one’s claims and offend no one’s social ideas.

“I am to be your real bridesmaid, Elizabeth,” she said. “Miss Burrells, and your cousin Flora, and Miss Godolphin are for show. I shall be really your maid. I shall lace your white satin boots, and fasten your white satin dress, and drape the lace, and clasp the gems, and make your bride-bouquet. I shall stay upstairs while you are at church and lay ready your travelling costume and see that Adèle packs your trunks properly; and when you go away I shall fasten your cloak, and tie your bonnet, and button your gloves, and then go away myself; for there will be no one here then that likes me and nothing at all for me to do.”

And this programme, made with a little heartache and sense of love’s failure, Denas faithfully carried out. It cost her something to do it, but she did not permit Elizabeth to see that she counted her faithless in her heart. For she did not blame her friend; she understood the force of the reasons not given––Mr. Tresham’s latent dislike, her humble birth, her want of fine clothes and fine polish and rich connections––and she felt keenly enough that there was nothing about her, personally or socially, to make Mr. Tresham’s guests desire her.

And when the day drew near and they began to arrive, Denas shrank more and more from their62society. She saw that Elizabeth’s manner with them was quite different from her manner to herself, and in spite of much kindness and generosity she felt humiliated, alone, outside, and apart. She wondered why it was. These rich girls came in little companies to Elizabeth’s room, and with soft laughter and exclamations of delight examined the bride’s pretty garments and presents. They were never haughty with her; on the contrary, they were exceedingly pleasant. They called her “Miss Denas” and carefully avoided anything like condescension in their intercourse. Yet Denas knew that between them and herself there was a line impalpable as the equator and just as potent in its dividing power.

It saddened her beyond reason, and when Roland arrived two days before the wedding and she saw him wandering in the garden, riding, driving, playing tennis, chatting and chaffing, singing and dancing with these four girls of his own circle, she divined a difference, which she could not explain but which pained and angered her.

Still, that last week of Elizabeth’s maiden life was a wonderful week. It was like living in the scenes of a theatre––there was no talk but of love. All that everyone said or did referred to the great passion. The house was in the hands of decorators; the aroma of all kinds of delicious things to eat was in the air. There was a constant tinkling of the piano and harp. Snatches of song, ripples of laughter, young voices calling through the house and garden, light footsteps going everywhere, the63flutter of pink and blue and white dresses, the snowy ribbons and massed roses in every room, the exciting atmosphere of love and expectation––who could escape it? And who, when in the midst of it, was able to prevent or to deny its influence?

Denas gave herself freely to the moment. The presence of Roland made all things easy to her. He contrived many an unseen meeting; her lips never lost the sense of his stolen kisses; her hands were constantly pink with the passing clasp or the momentary pressure. No one could have supposed he was planning anything, for he was continually with someone or with all of the four bridesmaids; yet there was not an hour in which he did not manage to give Denas her part, though it were but an upward glance at the open window where she sat sewing, or a kiss flung backward to her; or a lifted hat, or a rose left where she alone could find it; or a little love-letter crushed into her hand in passing.

Such a week to stir a young heart to love’s sweet fever! It passed like a dream, and went finally with the clashing of wedding-bells and the trampling of horses carrying away the bride. Then the guests followed one by one until the house was lonely and deserted; and the servants began to remove the remnants of the feast and to take down the fading wreaths and roses.

Mr. Tresham took Roland with him to Burrell Court. He seemed determined to keep his son by his side, and the drive to Burrell was an effectual way. No one thought of Denas. She had now no place nor office in the house. But she remained64until near sundown, for she trusted that Roland would find out a way to meet her at their usual trysting-place. And just when she had given him up he came. Then he told her that he was going to London in the morning, because his father had suddenly resolved upon a short pleasure-trip, and he had promised to go with him as far as Paris. But he had provided for their correspondence.

“There is a man in St. Clair called Pyn, a boatman living in the first cottage you come to, Denas,” he said. “I have given him money, and my letters to you will go to him. Can you walk to St. Clair for them?” It was a foolish question; Roland knew that Denas would walk twenty miles for a letter from him. He then gave her some addressed envelopes in which to enclose her letters to him. “Pyn will post them,” he said, “and the handwriting will deceive everyone. And I shall come back to you, Denas, as soon as I can get away from my father; and Pyn will bring a message to St. Penfer and let you know, in some way, when I get home.”

These particulars being fully arranged and understood, he talked to her of her own loveliness. He told her she was more beautiful in her plain white frock than the bride in her bride-robes. He said all that lovers have said from the beginning of time; all that lovers will say until time ends. Denas believed him, believed every word, for the nature of true love is to be without doubt or fear. And Roland thought he loved her quite well enough for their future life together. If she was to become a public singer, it would not be wise for him to have65too exclusive and jealous affection for her. Roland had always been prudent for himself; he thought of everything which might affect his own happiness. This night, however, he gave up all for love. He kept Denas by his side until the gloaming was quite gone, and then he walked with her down to the very shingle. They parted with tears and kisses and murmured protestations of fidelity. And Denas watched her lover until he reached the first bend in the upward path. There he turned, and she stretched out her arms to him, and Roland lifted his hat and kissed his hand, and then vanished among the thick trees.

The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could see the fishing-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. She knew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottage she saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were folded across her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent or anxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart, though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. She tried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almost angry at the stubborn indifference which she was unable to conquer.

“You be long in getting home, Denas. Father went to sea quite put out. Jane Serlo says the bride did go away at two o’clock. Well, then, it be long after nine now, Denas!”

“I had a lot to do after Mrs. Burrell left, mother––things she would not trust anyone else to look to.”

“Hum-m! ’Tis no good way, to take such charge. Who knows what she may be saying after-times? I do feel glad she be married at last, and done with. Mayhap we may see a bit of comfort ourselves now.”

“She gave me twenty pounds before she left, mother.”

“There be things twenty pound can’t buy nor pay for; I tell you that, Denas. And to see your father go off with the boat to-night, without heart in him and only care for company! I do not feel to like it, Denas. If your lover be dear to you, so be my old husband to me.”

“What lover are you talking about, mother?”

“The lover that kept you on the cliff-breast––Roland Tresham, he be the lover I mean.”

“Who told you I was with Roland?”

“I know that you were not at Mr. Tresham’s, for one called there to put you safely home.”

“I suppose Tris Penrose has been spying me and telling tales to father and you.”

“There be no need for Tris nor for anyone else to speak. Say to me, plain and straight, that you were not with Roland Tresham to-night. Say that to me, if you dare.”

“I have had such a happy day, mother, and now you have taken all the pleasure out of it––a mean thing to do! I say that.”

“Your father and I had a happy day, thinking of your happiness. And then to please that bad young man, who is not of your kind and not of your kin, you do stay out till bad birds and night creatures are prowling; till the dew be wetting you; till you67have sent your father off to the deep sea with a heart heavy enough to sink his boat––a mean thing that to do! Yes! yes! cruel mean thing!”

“Mrs. Burrell gave me twenty pounds. I had to do something to earn it.”

“My faith! I’d fling the twenty pound to the fishes. Aw, then, ’tis a poor price for my girl’s love, and her innocent heart, and the proud content she once had in her own folk. Only fishers! but God’s folk, for all that! But there! What be the use of talking? After Mr. Tresham’s flim-flams, my words be only muddling folly.”

“I am going to bed, mother.”

“To be sure. Go your ways.”

Then Joan also rose, and went to the fireside, and drew the few coals together, and lit a lamp. For a moment she stood still, looking at the closed door between her and her child; then she lifted a large book from the window-sill, laid it on the small round table, opened it wide, and sat down before it. It was a homely, workaday-looking book, and she did not read a word of it, though her eyes were upon the page. But it was the Bible. And the Bible is like the sunshine, it comforts and cheers us only to sit down in its presence.

And very soon Joan lifted her hand and laid it across the open page. It was like taking the hand of a friend. God knows what strength, what virtue, there was in that movement! For she immediately covered her face with her other hand and tears began to fall, and anon mighty whispered words parted her lips––words that went from the mother’s68heart to the heart of God! How can such prayer ever fail?

In the morning John Penelles met his daughter, not with the petulant anger of a wounded woman, but with a graver and more reasonable reproof. “Denas, my dear,” he said, and he gently stroked her hair as he spoke, “Denas, you didn’t do right yesterday; did you now? But you do be sorry for it, I see; so let the trouble go. But no more of it! No more out in the dark, my girl, either for bride-making or for corpse-waking, and as for the man who kept you out, let him ask God to keep him from under my hand. That is all about it. Come and give father his tea, and then we will mend the nets together; and if Saturday be fair, Denas, we will go to St. Merryn and see your Aunt Agnes. ‘You don’t want to go?’ Aw, yes, my dear, you do want to go. You be vexed now; and not you that should be vexed at all, but your mother and I. There, then! No more of it!”

He spoke the last words as if he was at the end of his patience, and then turned sharply toward the broiled fish and hot tea which Joan was placing on the table. The face of Denas angered him, it was so indifferent and so wretched. He could have laughed away a little temper and excused it, for he was not an unjust nor even an unsympathetic man; and he realized his daughter’s youth and her natural craving for those things which youth considers desirable.

But the utter hopelessness of her attitude, her refusal to eat, her silence, her sighs, the unsuitableness69of the dress she wore to the humble duties of her station, her disinclination to talk of what troubled her, or indeed to talk at all––both John and Joan felt these things to be a wrong, deliberate and perpetual, against their love and their home and their daily happiness.

It was certainly a great and sudden change in the life of Denas. For the past eight weeks she had been in an atmosphere of excitement, tinctured with the subtle hopes and expectations of love. In it she had grown mentally far beyond the realization of her friends. She had observed, assimilated, and translated her new ideas through her own personality as far as her means permitted. If her mother and father had looked carefully at their daughter, they would have seen how much more effectively her hair was arranged; what piquancy of mode had been observed in the making of her new dresses; what careful pride had dictated the fashion and fit of her high-heeled shoes; what trouble was systematically taken to preserve her delicate skin and to restore the natural beauty of her hands––in short, they must have noticed that their child’s toilet and general appearance was being gradually but still rapidly removed from all fitness with her present surroundings.

And just after Elizabeth’s marriage came on the hardest and most distinctive part of the fisher’s year. All along the rocky coast the “huers” were standing watching for the shoals of pilchard, and the men were in the boats beneath, waiting for their signal to shoot the seines. Every fisher had now, in an70intense degree, the look which always distinguishes him––the look of a man accustomed to reflect and to be ready for emergencies. This year the shoals were so large that boat-loads were caught easily in fifty feet of water.

Then every wife in the hamlet had her hands full and busy from dawn till dark; and Joan went to the work with an exuberant alacrity and good nature. In former years Denas had felt all the enthusiasm of the great sea harvest. This year she could not endure its clamour and its labour. What had happened to her that the sight of the beautiful fish was offensive and the smell of its curing intolerable? She shut her eyes from the silvery heaps and would gladly have closed her ears against the jubilant mirth, the shouting and laughing and singing around her.

Her intense repugnance did really at last breed in her a low fever, which she almost gladly succumbed to. She thought it easier to lie in bed and suffer in solitude than to put her arms to her white elbows in fresh fish and bear the familiar jokes of the busy, merry workers in the curing-sheds. Denas was not really responsible for this change. It had grown into her nature, day by day and week by week, while she was unconscious of any transforming power. The little reluctances which had marked its first appearance had been of small note; her father and mother had only laughingly reproved them, telling her “not to nourish prideful notions.” She had not even been aware of nourishing anything wrong. Was it wrong? She lay tossing on her bed71in the small warm room, and argued the question out while fever burned in her veins and gave to all things abnormal and extravagant aspects.

She was really ill, and she almost wished she could be more ill. No one quite believed she was suffering much. The headache and languor incident to her condition did not win much sympathy until their ravages became apparent. Then Joan honestly believed that a little exercise in the fresh salt air would have cured, perhaps even prevented, the illness. So that at this time Denas thought herself very unkindly used.

This apparent lack of interest in her condition added greatly to that dissatisfaction with her life which she now constantly dwelt upon. She felt that she must do something to escape from an existence which repelled her; and yet what could she do? Somehow she had suddenly lost faith in Elizabeth. Elizabeth changed before she went away; who could say how much greater the change would be when she returned after four months’ travel?

Denas at this time pitied herself greatly, and taking women as they are, and not as they ought to be, she deserved some pity. For though it may not be a lofty ambition to long after a finely appointed house, and delicate food delicately served, and elegant clothing and refined society, and, with all and above all, a lover who fits into such externals, yet Denas did long for these things; and the circumstances of her own life were common, and vulgar, and hateful to her.

True, she had her father and mother, and she72loved them dearly; but, then, she could undoubtedly love them quite as well if she were rich, while they would not love her any the less. As for Tris Penrose and his tiresome devotion, what was Tris to Roland? Tris did not even know how to woo her. He never told her how beautiful she was, and how he adored her, and longed for her, and thought all women wearisome but her. He never kissed her hands and her hair, her cheeks and her lips, as Roland did. He never said to her, “You are fit to be a duchess or a queen; you sing like a nightingale and charm my soul out of me, and you have hands and feet like a fairy.” Poor Tris! He was stupid and silent. He could only look and sigh, or, if he did manage to speak, he was sure to plunge into such final questions as, “Denas, will you marry me? When will you marry me?” Or to tell her of his stone cottage, and his fine boat, and the money he had in the St. Merryn’s Savings Bank.

For three weeks this silent conflict went on in the mind and heart of Denas, an unsatisfactory fight in which no victory was gained. At the end she was no more mistress of her inclinations than at the beginning, and her returning health only intensified her longings for the things she had not. One morning she awoke with the conviction that there was a letter for her at St. Clair. She determined to go and see. She said to her mother that she felt almost well and would try to take a walk. And Joan was glad and encouraged the idea.

“Go down to the sea-shore, Denas, and breathe the living air; do, my sweetheart!”

“No, mother. There are crowds there and the smell of fish, and––I can’t help it, mother––it turns me sick; it makes me feverish. I want to go among the trees and flowers.”

“Aw, my dear, you will be climbing and climbing up to St. Penfer; and you be weak yet and not able to.”

“I will not climb at all. I will walk near the shingle; and I will take a bit of bread with me and a drink of milk; then I can rest all day on the grass, mother.”

“God bless you, dear! And see now, come home while the sun is warm––and take care of yourself, Denas.”

Then Joan went to the curing-sheds. She had a light heart, for Denas was more like her old self, and after going a hundred yards she turned to nod to her girl, and was glad that she was watching her and that she waved her kerchief in reply. Something heavy slipped from Joan’s heart at that moment and her work went with her all day long.

It was two miles to St. Clair, but Denas walked there very rapidly. She remembered that Pyn’s cottage was the first cottage; and as she approached it the boatman came to the door. He looked at her with a grave curiosity, and she went straight up to him and said: “Have you a letter for me?”

“I do think I have. You be John Penelles’ little girl?”

“Yes.”

“I knew John years ago. We sat in the same boat. I like John––he is a true man. Here be three74letters. At first I thought these letters be going to bring a deal of potter and bother––maybe something worse––and I will put them in the fire. Then I thought, they bean’t your letters, Pyn, and if you want to keep yourself out of a mess, never interfere and never volunteer. So here they be. But if you will take an old man’s advice, I do say to you, burn the letters. It will be better far than to be reading them.”

“Why will it be better?”

“There be letters worse than death drugs. If you do buy a bottle of arsenic, the man will put its character on the bottle. You see ‘poison’ and you be warned. But young men do write poison, and worse than poison, to young women, and no warning outside the letter. It isn’t fair, now, is it?”

“Why did you take charge of the poison?”

“To be sure! Why did I? Just because it was for John Penelles’ little girl, and I thought mayhap she’d take a warning from me. Don’t you read them letters, my dear. If you do, let the words go in at one ear and out of the other. Roland Tresham! he be nothing to trust to! Aw, my dear––a leaky boat––a boat adrift; no man at the helm; no helm to man; no sail; no compass; no anchor; no anything for a woman to trust to! There, then, I have had my say; if this say be of no ’count, twould be the same if I talked my tongue away. If you come again and there be any letters, you will find them under the turned boat––slip your hand in––so. Dear me! You be fluttering and wuttering like a bird. Poor dear! Step into my boat and I’ll put75you back home. You look as quailed as a faded flower.”

Thus Pyn talked as he helped Denas into the boat and slowly settled himself to the oars. Afterward he said nothing, but he looked at Denas in a way that troubled her and made her thankful to escape his silent, pitiful condemnation. Her mother was still absent when she reached the cottage, and she was so weary that she was very grateful for the solitude. She shut her eyes for a few minutes and collected her strength, and then opened Roland’s letters.

They were full of happiness––full of wonders––full of love. He was going to Switzerland with his father. Elizabeth was there, and Miss Caroline Burrell, and a great many people whom they knew. But for him, no one was there. “Denas was all he longed for, cared for, lived for!” Oh, much more of the same kind, for Roland’s love lay at the point of his pen.

And he told her also that he had heard many singers, many famous singers, and none with a voice so wildly sweet, so enthralling as her voice. “If you were only on the stage, Denas,” he wrote, “you could sing the world to your feet; you could make a great fortune; you could do anything you liked to do.”

The words entered her heart. They burned along her veins, they filled her imagination with a thousand wild dreams. She put the fatal letters safely away, and then, stretching her weary form upon her bed, she closed her eyes and began to think.

Why should she cure fish, and mend nets, and76clean tables and tea-cups, if she possessed such a marvellous gift? Why should her father go fishing with his life in his hand, and her mother work hard from dawn to dark, and she herself want all the beautiful things her soul craved? And how would Elizabeth feel? Perhaps they might be glad enough yet if she married Roland. And as the possibility of returning social slights presented itself, she remembered many a debt of this kind it would be a joy to satisfy. And then Roland! Roland! Roland! He had always believed in her; always loved her. She would repay his trust and love a thousand-fold. What a joy it would be!

So she permitted herself to grasp impossibilities, to possess everything she desired. Well, in this life, what mortals know is but very little; what they imagine––ah, that is everything!

77CHAPTER V.WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR ROLAND?

“When, lulled in passion’s dream, my senses slept,How did I act?––E’en as a wayward child.I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept,And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled.”––Moncrieff.

“When, lulled in passion’s dream, my senses slept,

How did I act?––E’en as a wayward child.

I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept,

And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled.”

––Moncrieff.

“Love not, love not! O warning vainly saidIn present years, as in the years gone by;Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,Faultless, immortal––till they change or die.”––Hon. Mrs. Norton.

“Love not, love not! O warning vainly said

In present years, as in the years gone by;

Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,

Faultless, immortal––till they change or die.”

––Hon. Mrs. Norton.

Hopehas a long reach, and yet it holds fast. So, though Roland’s return was far enough away, Denas possessed it in anticipation. The belief that he would come, that he would give her sympathy and assistance, helped her through the long sameness of uneventful days by the witching promise, “Anon––anon!”

There was little to vary life in that quiet hamlet. The pilchard season went, as it had come, in a day; men counted their gains and returned to their usual life. Denas tried to accept it cheerfully; she felt that it would soon be a past life, and this conviction helped her to invest it with some of that78tender charm which clings to whatever enters the pathetic realm of “Nevermore.”

Her parents were singularly kind to her, and John tried to give a little excitement to her life by coaxing her to share with him the things he considered quite stirring. But visits to her aunt at St. Merryn, and Sunday trips to hear some new preacher, and choir practisings with Tris dangling after them wherever they went, were not interesting to the wayward girl. She only endured them, as she endured her daily duties by keeping steadily in view the hope Roland had set before her. However, as she sang nearly constantly, Joan’s mind was easy; she was sure Denas could not be very discontented, for it never entered Joan’s thought that people could sing unless there was melody in their heart. And undoubtedly Denas was cheered by her own music, for if song is given half a chance it has the miraculous power of turning the water of life into wine.

Only two more letters repaid her for many walks to the turned boat, and she did not see Pyn again. She was sure, however, that he knew of her visits and wilfully avoided her. The last of these letters contained the startling intelligence of Mr. Tresham’s death. He had foolishly insisted upon visiting Rome in the unhealthy season and had fallen a victim to fever. Roland wrote in a very depressed mood. He said that his father’s death would make a great difference to him. In a short time the news arrived by the regular sources. Lawyer Tremaine had been advised to take charge of79Mr. Tresham’s personal estate, and the newspaper of the district had a long obituary of the deceased gentleman.

John said very little on the subject. He had not liked Mr. Tresham while living, but he was particularly careful to avoid speaking ill of the dead. He said only that he had heard that “the effects left would barely cover outstanding debts, and that Mr. Tresham’s income died with him. ’Tis a good thing Miss Tresham be well married,” he added, “else ’twould have been whist hard times for her now.”

Denas did not answer. Her sudden and apparently unreasonable indifference to her former friend was one of the many mental changes which she could not account for. But she waited impatiently for some word about Roland. John appeared to have nothing to say. Joan hesitated with the question on her lips, and at last she almost threw it at her husband.

“What did you hear about young Mr. Tresham?”

“I asked no questions about him. People do say that he will have to go to honest work now. ’Twill do him no harm, I’m sure.”

“Honest work will be nothing strange to him, father. He has been in a great many offices. I have heard Elizabeth speaking of many a one.”

“I’ll warrant––many a one––and he never stays in any. He has a bad temper for work.”

“Bad temper! That is not true. Mr. Roland has a very good temper.”

“Good temper! To be sure, after a fashion, a80kind ofHy-to-everybodyfashion. But a good business temper, Denas, be a different thing; it be steady, patient, civil, quiet, hard-to-work temper, and the young man has not got it. No, nor the shadow of it. If he was worth thousands this year he wouldn’t have a farthing next year unless he had a guider and a withholder by his side constantly.”

“You ought not to speak of Mr. Roland at all, father, you hate him that badly.”

“Right you be, Denas. I ought not to speak of the young man. I will let him alone. And I’ll thank every one in my house to do the same thing.”

For some weeks John’s orders were carefully observed. Denas got no more letters, and the summer weather became autumn weather; and then the leaves faded and began to fall, and the equinoctial storm set the seal of advancing winter on the cliff-breast. Yet through all these changes the clock ticked the monotonous days surely away, and one morning when Denas was standing alone in the cottage door a little lad slipped up and put a letter into her hand.

He was gone in a moment, and Denas, even while answering a remark of her mother’s, who was busy at the fireside, hid the message in her bosom. Of course it was from Roland. He said that they had all returned to Burrell Court and that he could not rest until he had seen her. Wet or fine, he begged she would be at their old trysting-place that evening.

Then she began to consider how this was to be managed, and she came to the conclusion that a visit to St. Penfer was the best way. She knew81well how to prepare for it––the little helps, and confidences, and personal chatter Joan was always pleased and flattered by were the wedge. Then as they washed the dinner dishes and tidied the house together, Denas said:

“Mother, it is going to storm soon, and then whole days to sit and sew and nothing to talk about. Priscilla Mohun promised me some pretty pieces for my quilt, and Priscilla always knows everything that is going on. What do you think? Shall I go there this afternoon? I could get the patches and hear the news and bring back a story paper, and so be home before you would have time to miss me.”

“Well, my dear, we do feel to be talked out.”

“Priscilla will tell me all there is to hear, and if I get the patches, a few days’ sewing and the quilt will be ready for you to cross-stitch; and a story paper is such a comfort when the storm is beating you back to house every hour of the day.”

“You say right––it be a great comfort. But you will have to be busy all, for it is like enough to rain within an hour––the tide will bring it, I’ll warrant.”

“I will wear my waterproof. Mother, dear, I do want a little change so much––just to see some new faces and hear tell of the St. Penfer people.”

“Well, then, go your way, Denas, a wetting will do you no harm; and I do know the days be long days, and the nights do never seem to come to midnight and then wear to cock-crow. ’Twould be a whist poor life, my dear, if this life were all.”

Denas was now very anxious to get off before her father came back from his afternoon gossip at the boats. With a gay heart she left her home and hastened to St. Penfer to execute the things that had been her ostensible reason for the visit. As it happened, Priscilla Mohun was full of news. The first thing she said to Denas related to the return of the Burrells, and then followed all the gossip about the treasures they had brought with them and changes to be made in the domestic life of the Court.

“Mrs. Burrell be going to turn things upside down, I can tell you, Denas. They do say four new servants are hired, two men and two women; and the horses brought down are past talking about, with silver trimmings on their harness––that, and no less––and carriages of all kinds, and one kind finer than the other! I do suppose Mrs. Burrell’s gowns will be all London or Paris bought now; though to be sure poor Priscilla did make her wedding-dress––but there, then! what be the use of talking?”

“How long have they been at home?” asked Denas.

“La! I thought if anybody knew that it would be you. I was just taking a walk last Wednesday, and I happened to see them driving through the town; Mr. Burrell and his sister, and Mrs. Burrell and her handsome brother––how happy they looked, and everyone lifting their hats or making a respectful move to them.”

Last Wednesday! and it was now Monday.83Denas was dashed by the news. But she chattered away about everyone they knew, and got her patches, and her story paper, and then, just as the gloaming was losing itself in the fog from the sea, she started down the cliff. Roland was waiting for her. He took her in his arms and kissed her with an eager and delighted affection; and though the fog had changed to a soft rain, neither of them appeared to be uncomfortably aware of the fact. Denas drew the hood of her waterproof over her head and Roland the heavy collar of his coat about his ears, and they sat close together on the damp rock, with Roland’s umbrella over them.

There was so much to say that they really said nothing. When they had but half finished repeating “Sweet Denas!” and “Dear Roland!” Denas had to go. It was only then she found courage to intimate, in a half-frightened way, that she had been thinking and wondering about her voice, and if she really could learn to sing. Roland flushed with delight to find the seed he had sown with so much doubt grown up to strength and ripeness.

“My lovely one!” he answered, “you must go to London and have lessons; and I will take care of you. I will see that you have justice and that no one hurts you.”

“But where could I live? And how? I have one hundred pounds of my own. Will that be enough?”

“You little capitalist! How did you get a hundred pounds?”

“Father has put a few pounds in the bank at84St. Merryn every year since I was born for me, and I have put there all the money your sister paid me. Father said it was to furnish my home when I got married, but I would rather spend it on my voice.”

“I should think so. Well, Beauty, you are to come and see Elizabeth off Wednesday; then I shall have something sweet and wonderful to say to you.”

“Will Elizabeth send for me? That would make it easy.”

“I do not think Elizabeth will send for you. I have been hoping for that. She has not named you at all. For my sake, come to the Court on Wednesday.”

“It is a long way to walk, but for your sake I will come.”

Then they parted, and she hastened back and reached home just as John and Joan were beginning to be uneasy at her delay. The sight of her happy face, the charming little fuss she made about her dripping waterproof and her wet shoes, the perfectly winning way in which she took possession of her father’s knee and from it warmed her bare rosy feet at the blaze scattered all shadows. She took their fears and nascent anger by storm; she exhibited her many-coloured bits of cloth, and showed John the pictures in the story paper, and coaxingly begged her mother for a cup of tea, because she was cold and hungry. And then, as Joan made the tea and the toast, Denas related all that Priscilla had told her. And Joan wondered and exclaimed, and John listened with a pleased interest, though he85thought it right to say a word about speaking ill of people, and was snubbed by Joan for doing so.

“Mrs. Burrell is putting on grand airs, it seems, so then it will go that people of course will speak ill of her,” said Joan.

“Aw, my dear,” answered John, “few are better spoken of than they deserve.”

“I do think Denas ought to call on the bride,” said Joan. “It would only be friendly, and many will make a talk about it if she does not go.”

“She must find out, first, if the young man be there.”

“No,” said Denas warmly, “I will not find out. If you cannot trust your little maid, father, then do not let her go at all. If people could hear you talk they would say, ‘What a bad girl John Penelles has! He dare not let her go to see her friend if there be a young man in the house.’ ’Tis a shame, isn’t it, mother?”

“I think it be, Denas. Father isn’t so cruel suspicious as that, my dear. Are you, father?”

And what could John answer? Though sorely against his feeling and his judgment, he was induced to agree that Denas ought perhaps to call once on the bride. There were so many plausible arguments in favour of such a visit; there was nothing but shadowy doubts and fears against it.

“Go to-morrow, then,” said John, a little impatiently; “and let me be done with the fret of it.”

“The day after-to-morrow, or Wednesday, father. To-morrow it will be still raining, no doubt, and I have something to alter in my best dress. I want to look as fine as I can, father.”

“Look like yourself and your people, Denas. That be the best finery. If roses and lilies did grow on the dusty high-road, they would not be as fitly pretty as blue-bells and daisies. I do think that, Denas; and it be the very same with women. Burrell Court is a matter of two miles beyond St. Penfer; ’tis a long walk, my dear, and dress for the walk and the weather. Do, my dear!”

Then the subject was changed, and Denas, having won her way, was really grateful and disposed to make the evening happy for all. She recollected many a little bit of pleasantry; she mimicked Priscilla to admiration, merrily and without ill-will, and then she took the story paper and read a thrilling account of some great shipwrecks and a poem that seemed to John and Joan’s simple minds “the sweetest bit of word music that could be.”

At the same hour Elizabeth and Roland were playing an identical rôle under different circumstances. Roland had hoped to slip away to his room unobserved. He knew Miss Burrell had gone to a friend’s house for a day or two, and he thought Robert and Elizabeth would be sufficiently occupied with each other. But some gentlemen were with Robert on parish business, and Elizabeth was alone and well inclined to come to an understanding with her brother.

“Caroline had to go without an escort, Roland. It was too bad,” she said reproachfully as she stood in the open door of a parlour and waited for his approach.

“You see I am wet through, Elizabeth. I will87change my clothing and come to you. Where is Robert?”

“With the churchwardens. I want to talk to you seriously. We shall be alone for an hour. Come as soon as you can.”

“In five minutes. It will be delightful to have you all to myself once more.”

He came back quickly and placed his chair close to hers, and lifted her face to his face and kissed her, saying fondly, “My dear little sister.”

“Where have you been, Roland?”

“I could have bet on the words ‘Where have you been?’ That is always a woman’s first question.”

“Have you been with Denas?”

“I have been at the Black Lion and at Tremaine’s. We will suppose that I wished to see Denas––is this pouring rain a fit condition? Do think of something more likely, Elizabeth.”

“Say to me plainly: ‘I have not seen Denas.’”

“If you wish me to say the words, consider that I have done so. Why have you taken a dislike to Denas? You used to be very fond of her.”

“I have not taken any dislike to the girl. I have simply passed out of the season of liking her. In the early spring we find the violet charming, but when summer comes we forget the violet in the rose and the lily and the garden full of richer flowers. The time for Denas has passed––that is all, Roland. What are you going to do about Caroline? When will you ask her to marry you?”

“I have asked her twice already; once in Rome,88when she put me off; and again in London, when she decidedly refused me.”

“What did she say?”

“That she believed she could trust herself to my love, because she did not think I would be unkind to any woman; but she was sure she could not trust me with her fortune, because I would waste it without any intention of being wasteful. Caroline wants a financier, not a lover.”

“The idea!”

“She talked about the responsibilities of wealth.”

“How could she talk to you in that way?”

“She did––really.”

“Then Caroline is out of reckoning.”

“Between ourselves, I think she was right, Elizabeth. I am positive I should spend any sum of money. What I need is a wife who can make money week by week, year by year––always something coming in; like an opera-singer, for instance. Do you understand?”

“Could you expect me to understand such nonsense? I asked Robert to-day about poor father’s estate. He thinks there may be four or five hundred pounds after paying all debts. Of course you will receive it all. Robert is very kind, but I can see that he would prefer that you were not always at the Court.”

“I daresay he put Caroline up to refuse me.”

“I have no doubt of it. He would consider it a brotherly duty; and to tell the truth, Roland, I fear you would give any woman lots of heartache. I cannot tell what must be done. You have had so89many good business chances, and yet never made anything of them.”

“That is true, Elizabeth. If I take to a business, it fails. If I dream of some fine prospect, the dream does not come true. In fact, my dear sister,

“‘I never had a piece of toastParticularly long and wide,But it fell on the sanded floor,And always on the buttered side.’

“‘I never had a piece of toast

Particularly long and wide,

But it fell on the sanded floor,

And always on the buttered side.’

Still, there is one thing I can do when all else fails: I can take the Queen’s shilling and go in for glory.”

“Roland, you break my heart with your folly. Why will you not be reasonable? How could I ever show my face if you were a common soldier? But the army is a good thought. Suppose you do try the army. I daresay Robert can get you a commission––at the right time, of course.”

“Thanks! I do not think the army would agree with me; not, at any rate, until I had played my last card. And if I have to make a hero of myself, I shall certainly prefer the position of a full private. It is the privates that do the glory business. I would join the army as Private Smith; for though

“‘Some talk of Alexander,And some of Hercules,And of many a great commanderAs glorious as these;If you want to know a heroOf genuine pluck and pith,It’s perfectly clear that none come nearThe full British private Smith.’”

“‘Some talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

And of many a great commander

As glorious as these;

If you want to know a hero

Of genuine pluck and pith,

It’s perfectly clear that none come near

The full British private Smith.’”

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