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And he declaimed his mock heroics so delightfully that Elizabeth not only succumbed to his charm, but also wondered in her heart why everyone else did not.
“You see, sweet sister, that wealth is not exactly the same thing as shining virtue, or else Caroline would have been generous. I am sure I should be particularly grateful to any woman who made me rich.”
“Why woman, Roland?”
“Well, because if a man puts any money in my way he expects me to work for it and with it; to invest it and double it; to give an account of it; to sacrifice myself body and soul for it. But a dear little darling woman would never ask me questions and never worry me about interest. She would take love and kisses as full value received––unless she was a girl like Caroline, an unwomanly, mercenary, practical, matter-of-money creature.”
“Do not talk in that way of Caroline.”
“I am talking of her money, and it is no impeachment of its value to say that it is mortal like herself. Still, I am ready to acknowledge
“‘How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!How pleasant it is to have money!’
“‘How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!How pleasant it is to have money!’
“‘How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!
How pleasant it is to have money!’
and as much of it as possible, Elizabeth.”
“We come to no definite results by talking in this way, Roland. When you get to singing snatches of song I may as well be quiet. And yet I am so unhappy about you. O Roland! Roland! my dear, dear brother, what can I do for you?”
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She covered her face with her hands, and Roland took them away with gentle force. “Elizabeth, do not cry for me. I am not worth a tear. Darling, I will do anything you want me to do.”
“If I get Robert to give you a desk in the bank?”
“Well, love, anything but that. I really cannot bear the confinement. I should die of consumption; besides, I have a moral weakness, Elizabeth, that I am bound to consider––there are times, dear, when I get awfully mixed and cannot help
“‘Confounding the difference ’twixtmeumandtuumBy kindly converting it all intosuum.’”
“‘Confounding the difference ’twixtmeumandtuumBy kindly converting it all intosuum.’”
“‘Confounding the difference ’twixtmeumandtuum
By kindly converting it all intosuum.’”
“O Roland, I really do not know what you are fit for!”
“If I had been born three or four centuries ago I could have been a knight-errant or a troubadour. But alas! in these days the knight-errants go to the Stock Exchange and the troubadours write for the newspapers. I am not fitted to wrestle with the wild beasts of the money market; I would rather go to Spain and be a matador.”
“Roland, here comes Robert. Do try and talk like a man of ordinary intelligence. Robert wants to like you––wants to help you if you will let him.”
“Yes, in his way. I want to be helped in my own way. Good-evening, Robert! I am glad you were not caught in the rain.”
The grave face brightened to the charm of the young man, and then for an hour Roland delighted his sister by his sensible consideration, by his patient92attention to some uninteresting details, by his prudence in speaking of the future; so that Robert said confidentially to his wife that night:
“Roland is a delightful young man. There must be some niche he can fill with honour. I wonder that Caroline could resist his attentions. Yet she told me to-day that she had refused him twice.”
“Caroline is moved by her intellect, not by her heart. Also, she is very Vere-de-Vereish, and she has set her mark for a lord, at least.”
“What can be done for Roland?”
“He talked of going into the army.”
“Nonsense! Going into the army means, for Roland, going into every possible temptation and expense––that would not do. But he ought to be away from this little town. He will be making mischief if he cannot find it ready-made.”
“I am very uneasy about that girl from the fishing village, the girl whom I used to have with me a great deal.”
“Denas––the girl with the wonderful voice?”
“Yes. Did you think her voice wonderful?”
“Perhaps I should say haunting voice. She had certainly some unusual gift. I do not pretend to be able to define it. But I remember every line of the first measure I heard her sing. Many a time since I have thought my soul was singing it for its own pleasure, without caring whether I liked it or not; for when mentally reckoning up a transaction I have heard quite distinctly the rhythmical rolling cadence, like sea wave, to which the words were set. I hear it now.”
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“Upon my word, Robert, you are very complimentary to Denas. I shall be jealous, my dear.”
“Not complimentary to Denas at all. I hardly remember what the girl looked like. And it is not worth while being jealous of a voice, for I can assure you, Elizabeth, a haunting song is a most unwelcome visitor when your brain is full of figures. And somehow it generally managed to come at a time when the bank and the street were both in a tumult with the sound of men’s voices, the roll of wagons, and the tramp of horses’ feet.”
“A song of the sea in the roar of the city! How strange! I am curious to hear it: I have forgotten most of the songs Denas sang.”
“The roar of the city appeared to provoke it. When it was loudest I usually heard most clearly the sweet thrilling echo, asking
“‘What is the tale of the sea, mother?What is the tale of the wide, wide sea?’‘Merry and sad are the tales, my darling,Merry and sad as tales may be.Those ships that sail in the happy mornings,Full of the lives and souls of men,Some will never come back, my darling;Some will never come backagain!’”
“‘What is the tale of the sea, mother?What is the tale of the wide, wide sea?’‘Merry and sad are the tales, my darling,Merry and sad as tales may be.Those ships that sail in the happy mornings,Full of the lives and souls of men,Some will never come back, my darling;Some will never come backagain!’”
“‘What is the tale of the sea, mother?
What is the tale of the wide, wide sea?’
‘Merry and sad are the tales, my darling,
Merry and sad as tales may be.
Those ships that sail in the happy mornings,
Full of the lives and souls of men,
Some will never come back, my darling;
Some will never come backagain!’”
And as Elizabeth listened to her husband half singing the charmful words, she took a sudden dislike to Denas. But she said: “The song is a lovely song, and I must send for Denas to sing it again for us.” In her heart she resolved never to send for Denas; “though if she does come”––and at this point Elizabeth held herself in pause for a minute94ere she decided resolutely––“if she does come I will do what is right. I will be kind to her. She cannot help her witching voice––only––only I must step between her and Roland––that is for the good of both;” and she fell asleep, planning for this emergency.
95CHAPTER VI.ELIZABETH AND DENAS.
“There is no hate in a woman which is not born of love.”
“There is no hate in a woman which is not born of love.”
“There is no hate in a woman which is not born of love.”
“Ever note, Lucilius,When love begins to slacken and decay,It uses an enforced ceremony:There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.”––JULIUS CÆSAR.
“Ever note, Lucilius,When love begins to slacken and decay,It uses an enforced ceremony:There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.”––JULIUS CÆSAR.
“Ever note, Lucilius,
When love begins to slacken and decay,
It uses an enforced ceremony:
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.”
––JULIUS CÆSAR.
Therain was over on Wednesday morning, but the day was gray and chill and the crisping turf and the hardening road indicated a coming frost. There was nothing, however, to prevent the contemplated visit to Burrell Court, and a painful momentary shadow flitted over John’s face when Denas came to breakfast in her new ruby-coloured merino dress. She was so pretty, so full of the importance of her trip, so affectionate, that he could not say a word to dash her spirits or warn her carelessness, and yet he had a quick spasm of terror about the danger she was going so gayly into. Of what use, alas! are our premonitions if they do not bring with them the inexorable moral courage necessary to enforce their warnings?
Denas had been accustomed to go to Elizabeth’s very early in the morning, and it did not come into her mind to make any change in this respect because96of Elizabeth’s marriage. So after she had taken her breakfast she put on her hat and ulster and her warm wool gloves and took the cliff road. John, with his pipe in his mouth, leaned against the door lintel and watched her. Joan stood by his side for a moment, following with her eyes the graceful figure of her child, but she quickly went back to her work. John’s work was over for the day; he had come in on the dawn tide with a good take. So he stood at the door, in spite of the frosty air, and watched his little maid climb the hilly road with the elastic step and untiring breath of happy youth.
It was then only eight o’clock. No one at her home had thought the hour too early. But when she reached Burrell Court Elizabeth had not come downstairs and breakfast was not yet served. She was much annoyed and embarrassed by the attitude of the servants. She had no visiting-card, and the footman declined to disturb Mrs. Burrell at her toilet. “Miss could wait,” he said with an air of familiarity which greatly offended Denas. For she considered herself, as the child of a fisherman owning his own cottage and boat and lord of all the leagues of ocean where he chose to cast his nets, immeasurably the superior of any servant, no matter how fine his livery might be.
She sat down in the small reception-room into which she had been shown and waited. She heard Elizabeth and her husband go through the hall together, and the pleasant odours of coffee and broiled meats certified to the serving of breakfast.97But no one came near her. As the minutes slipped away her wonder became anger; and she was resolving to leave the inhospitable house when she heard Roland’s step. He came slowly down the polished oak stairs, went to the front door, opened it and looked out into the frosty day; then turning rapidly in from the cold, he went whistling softly through the hall to the breakfast-room.
Just as he entered the footman was saying: “A young person, ma’am. She had no card, and when I asked her name she only looked at me, ma’am.”
“Where did you put her?” asked Elizabeth.
“In the small reception-room.”
“Is the room warm?”
“Not very cold, ma’am.”
At this point Robert Burrell looked at his wife and said: “It is perhaps that little friend of yours, called Denas.”
“Jove!” ejaculated Roland. “I should not wonder. You know, Elizabeth, she was always an early visitor. Shall I go and see?”
“Frederick will go. Frederick, ask the young person her name.” In a few moments Frederick returned and said, “Miss Penelles is the name.”
Then Robert Burrell and Roland both looked at Elizabeth. She had a momentary struggle with herself; she hesitated, her brows made themselves into a point, her colour heightened, and the dead silence gave her a most eloquent chance to listen to her own heart. She rose with leisurely composure and left the room. Mr. Burrell and Roland took no notice of the movement. Mr. Burrell had98his watch in his hand; Roland was directing Frederick as to the particular piece of fowl he wanted. Then there was a little laugh and the sound of voices, and Elizabeth and Denas entered together. Elizabeth had made Denas remove her hat and cloak, and the girl was exceedingly pretty. Roland leaped to his feet and imperatively motioned Frederick to place a chair beside his own, and Robert Burrell met her with a frank kindness which was pleasantly reassuring.
Denas had been feeling wronged and humiliated, but Elizabeth by a few kind words of apology had caused a reaction which affected her inexperienced guest with a kind of mental intoxication. Her countenance glowed, her eyes sparkled, her hair appeared to throw off light; her ruby-coloured dress with its edges of white lace accentuated the marvellous colouring of her cheeks and lips, the snow-white of her wide brows and slender throat, and the intense blue of eyes that had caught the brightest tone of sea and sky.
She talked well, she was witty without being ill-natured, and she described all that had happened in the little town since Elizabeth’s wedding-day with a subdued and charming mimicry that made the room ring with laughter. Also, she ate her breakfast with such evident enjoyment that she gave an appetite to theothers.All took an extra cup of coffee with her, and it seemed only a part of the general conversation and delightful intercourse.
After breakfastRobertBurrell said he would delay his visit to London for a train if Denas would99sing for him once more; and they went together to the parlour, and Roland fell at once into the rocking measure of Robert’s favourite, and in the middle of a bar Denas joined her voice to it, and they went together as the wind goes through the trees or the song of the water through its limpid flow.
As she finished, Roland looked at her with a certain intelligence in his eyes, and then struck a few wild, startling chords. They proved to be the basis of a sea-chant. Denas heard them with a quick movement of her head and an involuntary though slight movement of the hands, as she cried out in a musical cadence:
“Here beginneth the sea,That ends not until the world ends.Blow, westerly wind, for me!When the wind and the tide are friends,Westerly wind and little white star,Safe are the fishermen over the bar.”
“Here beginneth the sea,That ends not until the world ends.Blow, westerly wind, for me!When the wind and the tide are friends,Westerly wind and little white star,Safe are the fishermen over the bar.”
“Here beginneth the sea,
That ends not until the world ends.
Blow, westerly wind, for me!
When the wind and the tide are friends,
Westerly wind and little white star,
Safe are the fishermen over the bar.”
She would sing no more when the chant was finished. She had seen a look on Elizabeth’s face, not intended for her to see, which took the music out of her heart. Yet she had sung enough, for she had never before sung so well. She was astonished at her own power, and Robert Burrell thanked her with a sincerity beyond question.
“My brain will be among figures all the way to London, Miss Penelles,” he said, “but I am quite sure my soul will be wandering on the shingle, and feeling the blowing winds, and hearing the plash of the waves, and singing with all its power:
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“‘Here beginneth the sea,That ends not till the world ends.’”
“‘Here beginneth the sea,That ends not till the world ends.’”
“‘Here beginneth the sea,
That ends not till the world ends.’”
Then he went away, and Elizabeth took her embroidery and sat down with Denas. A great gulf suddenly opened between them. There was no subject to talk about. Elizabeth had sent Roland away on the double pretence of wanting him to take a message to Caroline and of wanting to have Denas all to herself. And she watched Roland so cleverly that he had no opportunity to say a word to Denas; and yet he had, for in bidding her good-bye he managed, by the quick lift of his brows and the wide-open look in his eyes, to give her assurance that he would be at their usual place of meeting. Elizabeth was a clever woman, but no match for a man who has love in his heart and his eyes to speak for him.
So she had Denas all to herself, and then, in spite of everything she could do, her manner became indifferent and icy. She asked after John and Joan and more pointedly after Tris. And Denas thought there could be no harm in talking of Tris and his affection for her. She chattered away until she felt she was not being listened to. Then she tried to talk of the past; Elizabeth said it was so associated with poor papa she would rather not talk of it. It was very painful to her, and she had promised Mr. Burrell not to indulge in painful thoughts. So Denas felt that the past was a shut and clasped book between them for ever.
Nothing remained but to ask Elizabeth about her wedding-trip. She answered her, but not as she101would have answered an acquaintance of her own circle. In her heart she felt it to be a presumption in Denas. Why should this girl question her about her opinions and doings? Her conscience had continually to urge her to justice, and she felt the strife of feeling to be very uncomfortable.
Denas had hoped to be shown all the pretty dresses and cloaks and knick-knacks of fine wearing apparel that Elizabeth had bought in London, Paris, and other European capitals. These things had been much talked of in the town, and it would have been a little distinction to Denas to have seen and handled them. Perhaps, also, there had been, in her deepest consciousness, a hope that Elizabeth had brought her some special gift––some trinket that she could be proud of all her life and keep in memory of their early friendship.
But Elizabeth showed her nothing and gave her nothing; moreover, when Denas spoke of the beautiful morning robe she wore, Elizabeth frowned slightly and answered with an evident disinclination to discuss the subject, “Yes, it is beautiful.” For though Elizabeth did not analyse the feeling, she was annoyed at even a verbal return to a time when gowns of every kind had been a consideration worth while discussing with one whose taste and skill would help to fashion them. Poverty casts only shadows on memory, and few people like to stand voluntarily again in them.
About noon there was a visitor, and Elizabeth received her in another room. She made an apology to Denas, but the girl, left to herself, began to be102angry with herself. She could hear Elizabeth and her caller merrily discussing the affairs of their own set, and Elizabeth had quite a different voice; it was sympathetic, ready to break into laughter, full of confidential tones. Denas remembered this voice well. She had once been used to hear it and to blend her own with it. Her heart burned when she called to mind her old friend’s excessive civility; her hardly concealed weariness; the real coldness of feeling which no pleasant words could warm. There was no longer any sympathy between them; there was not even any interest which could take the place of sympathy. Elizabeth did not really care whether Denas was offended or not, but she had a conscience, and it urged her to be kind and just. And she did try to obey the order, but when orders perversely go against inclination they do not obtain a cheerful service.
Denas felt and thought quickly: “I am not wanted here. I ought to go away, and I will go.” These resolutions were arrived at by apprehension, not by any definable process of reasoning. She touched a bell, asked for her hat and cloak, left a message for Elizabeth, and went away from Burrell Court at once.
The rapid walk to St. Penfer relieved her feelings. “I have been wounded to-day,” she sobbed, “just as really as if Elizabeth had flung a stone at me or stabbed me with a knife. I am heart-hurt. I am sorry I went to see her. Why did I go? She is afraid of Roland! Good! I shall pay her back through Roland. If she will not be a friend to me,103she may have to call me sister.” Then she remembered what Roland had said about her voice and her face was illumined by the thought, and she lifted her head and stepped loftily to it. “She may be proud enough of me yet. I wonder what I have done?”
To such futile questions and reflections, she walked back to St. Penfer. She had not yet found out that the sum of her offending lay in her ability to add the four letters which spelled the word fair to her name. If she had been strikingly ugly and dull, instead of strikingly pretty and bright, Elizabeth would have found it easier to be kind and generous to her.
Denas went to Priscilla Mohun’s. Reticence is a cultivated quality, and Denas had none of it; so she told the whole story of her ill-treatment to Priscilla and found her full of sympathy. Priscilla had her own little slights to relate, and if all was true she told Denas, then Elizabeth had managed in a week’s time to offend many of her old acquaintances irreconcilably.
Denas remained with Priscilla until three o’clock; then she walked down the cliff to the little glade where she hoped to find Roland. He was not there. She calculated the distance he had to ride, she made allowance for his taking lunch with Caroline Burrell, and she concluded that he ought to have been at the trysting-place before she was. She waited until four o’clock, growing more angry every moment, then she hastened away. “I am right served,” she muttered. “I will let Roland Tresham104and Elizabeth Burrell alone for the future.” The tide of anger rose swiftly in her heart, and she stepped homeward to its flow.
She had gone but a little way when she heard Roland calling her. She would not answer him. She heard his rapid footsteps behind, but she would not turn her head. When he reached her he was already vexed at her perverse mood. “I could not get here sooner, Denas,” he said crossly. “Do be reasonable.”
“You need not have come at all.”
“Denas, stop: Listen to me. If you walk so quickly we shall be seen from the village.”
“I wish father to see us. I will call him to come to me.”
“Denas, what have I done?”
“You! You are a part of the whole. Your sister has taught me to-day the difference between us. I am glad there is a difference––I intend to forget you both from this day.”
“Will you punish me because Elizabeth was unkind?”
“Some day you also will change just as she has done. I will not wait for that day. No, indeed! To be sure, I shall suffer. Father, mother, everybody suffers in one way or another. I can bear as much as others can.”
“You are an absurd little thing. Come, darling! Come back with me! I want to tell you a very particular secret.”
“Do you think you can pet, or coax, or tell me tales like a cross child? I am a woman, and I have105been hurt in every place a woman can be hurt by your sister. I will not go back with you.”
“Very well, Denas. You will repent this temper, I can tell you, my dear.”
“No, I shall not repent it. I will go to my father and mother. I will tell them how bad I have been and ask them to forgive me. I shall never repent that, I know.”
She drew her arm from his clasp and, without lifting her eyes to him, went forward with a swift, purposeful step. He watched her a few moments, and then with a dark countenance turned homeward. “This is Elizabeth’s doing,” he muttered. “Elizabeth is too, too detestably respectable for anything. I saw and felt her sugared patronage of Denas through all her soft phrases; she treats me in the same way sometimes. When women get a husband they are conceited enough, but when they get a husband and money also they are––the devil only knows what they are.”
He entered Elizabeth’s presence very sulkily. Robert was in London and there was no reason why he should keep his temper in the background. “There is Caroline’s answer,” he said, throwing a letter on the table, “and I do wish, Elizabeth, you would send me pleasanter errands in the future. Caroline kept me waiting until she returned from a lunch at Colonel Prynne’s. And then she hurried me away because there was to be a grand dinner-party at the Pullens’.”
“At the Pullens’? It is very strange Robert and I were not invited.”
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“I should say very strange indeed, seeing that Caroline is their guest. But Lord and Lady Avonmere were to be present, and of course they did not want any of us.”
“Any of us? Pray, why not?”
“Father’s bankruptcy is not forgotten. We were nobodies until you married Robert Burrell, and even Robert’s money is all trade money.”
“You are purposely trying to say disagreeable things, Roland. What fresh snub has Caroline been giving you?”
“Snubs are common to all. Big people are snubbed by lesser people, and these by still smaller ones, and soad infinitum. You are a bit bigger than Denas, so you snub her, and Denas, of course, passes on the snub. Why should she not? Where is Denas?”
“She has gone home, and I do hope she will never come here again. She behaved very impertinently.”
“That I will not believe. Put the shoe on your own foot, Elizabeth. You were rude before I left, and I dare swear you were rude, ruder, rudest after you were alone with the girl. For pure spite and ill-nature, a newly married woman beats the devil.”
“Who are you talking to, Roland?”
“To you. I have to talk plainly to you occasionally––birds in their little nests agree, but brothers and sisters do not; in fact, they cannot. For instance, I should be a brute if I agreed with you about Denas.”
“I say that Denas behaved very rudely. She went away without my knowledge and without bidding107me good-bye. I shall decline to have any more to do with her.”
“I have no doubt she has already declined you in every possible form. As far as I can judge, she is a spirited little creature. But gracious! how she did sing this morning! I’ll bet you fifty pounds if Robert Burrell had heard her sing a year ago you would not have been mistress of Burrell Court to-day.”
“Either you or I must leave the room, Roland. I will not listen any longer to you.”
“Sit still. I am very glad to go. I shall take a room at the Black Lion to-morrow. The atmosphere of the Court is so exquisitely rarefied and refined that I am choking in it. I only hope you may not smother Robert in it. Good-night! I notice Robert goes to London pretty often lately. Good-night.”
Then he closed the door sharply and went smiling to his room. “I think I have made madame quite as uncomfortable as she has made me,” he muttered, “and I will go to the Black Lion to-morrow. From there I can reach Denas without being watched at both ends. John Penelles to the right and Elizabeth Burrell to the left of me are too much and too many. For Denas I must see. I must see her if I have to dress myself in blue flannels and oil-skins to manage it.”
In the morning Elizabeth ate her breakfast alone. She had determined to have a good quarrel with Roland, and make him ashamed of his speech and behaviour on the previous evening. But before she108rose Roland had gone to the Black Lion, and moreover he had left orders for his packed traps and trunks to be sent after him. He had a distinct object in this move. At the Court he was constantly under surveillance, and he was also very much at Elizabeth’s commands. He had little time to give to the pursuit of Denas, and that little at hours unsuitable for the purpose. But at the Black Lion his time was all his own. He could breakfast and dine at whatever hour suited his occupation; he could watch the movements of Denas without being constantly suspected and brought to book.
Her temper the previous evening, while it seriously annoyed, did not dishearten him. He really liked her better for its display. He never supposed that it would last. He expected her to make a visit to St. Penfer the next day; she would hope that he would be on the watch for her; she would be sure of it.
But Denas did not visit St. Penfer that week, and Roland grew desperate. On Saturday night he went down the cliff after dark and hung around John’s cottage, hoping that for some reason or other Denas would come to the door. He had a note in his hand ready to put into her hand if she did so. He could see her plainly, for the only screen to the windows was some flowering plants inside and a wooden shutter on the outside, never closed but in extreme bad weather. Joan was making the evening meal, John sat upon the hearth, and Denas, with her knitting in her hands, was by his side. Once or twice he saw her rise and help her mother with some109homely duty, and finally she laid down her work, and, kneeling on the rug at her father’s feet, she began to toast the bread for their tea. Her unstudied grace, the charm of her beauty and kindness, the very simplicity of her dress, fascinated him afresh.
“That is the costume––the very costume––she ought to sing in,” he thought. “With some fishing nets at her feet and the mesh in her hands, how that dark petticoat and that little scarlet josey would tell; the scarlet josey cut away just so at the neck. What a ravishing throat she has! How white and round!”
At this point in his reverie he heard footsteps, and he walked leisurely aside. His big ulster in the darkness was a sufficient disguise; he had no fear of being known by any passer-by. But these footsteps stopped at John’s door and then went inside the cottage. That circumstance roused in Roland’s heart a tremor he had never known before. He cautiously returned to his point of observation. The visitor was a young and handsome fisherman. It was Tris Penrose. Roland saw with envy his welcome and his familiarity. He saw that Joan had placed for him a chair on the hearth opposite John; Denas, therefore, was at his feet also. Tris could feed his eyes upon her near loveliness. He could speak to her. He did speak to her, and Denas looked up with a smile to answer him. When the toast was made Tris helped Denas to her feet; he put her chair to the table, he put his own beside it. He waited upon her with such delight and tender admiration that Roland was made furiously angry110and miserable by his rival’s happiness. The poor ape jealousy began meddling in all his better feelings.
He hung around the cottage until he was freezing with cold and burning with rage. “And this is Elizabeth’s doing,” he kept muttering as he climbed the cliff to the upper town. He could not sleep all night. He thought of everything that could add to his despairing uncertainty. The next day was the Sabbath. Denas would go to chapel with her father and mother. Tris would be sure to meet her there, to return home with her, to sit again at her side on that bright, homelike hearthstone.
“I wish I were a fisher,” he cried passionately. “They know what it is to live, for their boats make their cottages like heaven.” He could not deny to himself that Tris was a very handsome fellow and that Denas smiled pleasantly at him. “But she never smiled once as she smiles at me. He never once drew her soul into her face, as I can draw it. She does not love him as she loves me.” With such assertions he consoled his heart, the while he was trying to form some plan which would give him an opportunity to get Denas once more under his influence.
On Monday morning he went to see Priscilla Mohun. He had a long conversation with the dressmaker, and that afternoon Priscilla walked down to John’s cottage and made a proposal to Denas. It was so blunt and business-like, so tight in regard to money matters, that John and Joan, and Denas also, were completely deceived. She said she had heard111that Denas and Tris Penrose were to be married, and she thought Denas might like to make some steady money to help the furnishing. She would give her two shillings a day and her board and lodging. Also, she could have Saturday and Sunday at her home if she wished.
Denas, who was fretted by the monotony of home duties really too few to employ both her mother and herself, was glad of the offer. John, who had a little vein of parsimony in his fine nature, thought of the ten shillings a week and of how soon it would grow to be ten pounds. Joan remembered how much there was to see and hear at Miss Priscilla’s, and Denas was so dull at home! Why should she not have a good change when it was well paid for? And then she remembered the happy week-ends there would be, with so much to tell and to talk over.
She asked Priscilla to stay and have a cup of tea with them, and so settle the subject. And the result was that Denas went back to St. Penfer with Priscilla and began her duties on the next day. That evening she had a letter from Roland. It was a letter well adapted to touch her heart. Roland was really miserable, and he knew well how to cry out for comfort. He told her he had left his sister’s home because Elizabeth had insulted her there. He led her to believe that Elizabeth was in great distress at his anger, but that nothing she could say or do would make him forgive her until Denas herself was satisfied.
And Denas was glad that Elizabeth should suffer.112She hoped Roland would make her suffer a great deal. For Denas had not yet reached that divine condition in which it is possible to love one’s enemies. She was happy to think that Roland was at the Black Lion with all his possessions; for she knew how the gossip on this occurrence would annoy all the proprieties in Mrs. Burrell’s social code.
Her anger served Roland’s purpose quite as much as her love. After the third letter she wrote a reply. Then she agreed to meet him; then she was quite under his influence again, much more so, indeed, than she had ever been before. In a week or two he got into the habit of dropping into Priscilla’s shop for a pair of gloves, for writing paper, for theDaily News, for a bottle of cologne––in short, there were plenty of occasions for a visit, and he took them. And as Priscilla’s was near the Black Lion and the only news depot in town, and as other gentlemen went frequently there also for the supply of their small wants, no one was surprised at Roland’s purchases. His intercourse with Priscilla was obviously of the most formal character; she treated him with the same short courtesy she gave to all and sundry, and Denas was so rarely seen behind the counter that she was not in any way associated with the customers. This indeed had been the stipulation on which John had specially insisted.
One morning Roland came hurriedly into the shop. “My sister is coming here, I am sure, Miss Mohun,” he said. “Tell Denas, if you please, she said she wished to meet her again. Tell her I will remain here and stand by her.” There was no time113to deliberate, and Denas, acting upon the feeling of the moment, came quickly to Roland, and was talking to him when Mrs. Burrell entered. They remained in conversation a moment or two, as if loth to part; then Denas advanced to the customer with an air of courtesy, but also of perfect ignorance as to her personality.
“Well, Denas?” said the lady.
“What do you wish, madam?”
“I wish to see Miss Priscilla.”
Denas touched a bell and returned to Roland, who had appeared to be unconscious of his sister’s presence. Elizabeth glanced at her brother; then, without waiting for Priscilla, left the shop. The lovely face of Denas was like a flame. “Thank you, Roland!” she said with effusion. “You have paid my account in full for me.”
“Then, darling, let me come here to-night and say something very important to us both. Priscilla will give me house-room for an hour, I know she will. Here she comes. Let me ask her.”
Priscilla affected reluctance, but really she was prepared for the request. She had expected it before and had been uneasy at its delay. She was beginning to fear Roland’s visits might be noticed, might be talked about, might injure her custom. It pleased her much to anticipate an end to a risky situation. She managed, without urging Denas, to make the girl feel that her relations with Roland ought either to be better understood or else entirely broken off.
So Roland went back to his inn with a promise114that made him light-hearted. “Elizabeth has done me one good turn,” he soliloquized. “Now let me see. I will consider my plea and get all in order. First, I must persuade Denas to go to London. Second, the question is, marriage or no marriage? Third, her voice and its cultivation. Fourth, the hundred pounds in St. Merryn’s Bank. Fifth, everything as soon as can be––to-morrow night if possible. Sixth, my own money from Tremaine. I should have about four hundred pounds. Heigho! I wish it was eight o’clock. And what an old cat Priscilla is! I do not think I shall give her the fifty pounds I promised her. She does not deserve it––and she never durst ask me for it.”
115CHAPTER VII.IS THERE ANY SORROW LIKE LOVING?
“For love the sense of right and wrong confounds;Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds.”––Dryden.
“For love the sense of right and wrong confounds;Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds.”––Dryden.
“For love the sense of right and wrong confounds;
Strong love and proud ambition have no bounds.”
––Dryden.
“The fate of love is suchThat still it sees too little or too much.”––Dryden.
“The fate of love is suchThat still it sees too little or too much.”––Dryden.
“The fate of love is such
That still it sees too little or too much.”
––Dryden.
“Fate ne’er strikes deep but when unkindness joins.But there’s a fate in kindness,Still to be least returned where most ’tis given.”––Dryden.
“Fate ne’er strikes deep but when unkindness joins.But there’s a fate in kindness,Still to be least returned where most ’tis given.”––Dryden.
“Fate ne’er strikes deep but when unkindness joins.
But there’s a fate in kindness,
Still to be least returned where most ’tis given.”
––Dryden.
Loverssee miracles, or think they ought to. Roland expected all his own world to turn to his love. The self-denying, forbearing, loyal affection Elizabeth had shown him all her life was now of no value, since she did not sympathize with his love for Denas. John and Joan Penelles were the objects of his dislike and scorn because they could not see their daughter’s future as he saw it. He thought it only right that Priscilla Mohun should risk her business and her reputation for the furtherance of his romantic love affair. He had easily persuaded himself that it was utterly contemptible in her to expect any financial reward for a service of love.
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Denas had more force of character. She was offended at Elizabeth because Elizabeth had wounded her self-respect and put her into a most humiliating position. She was too truthful not to admit that Elizabeth had from the first hour of their acquaintance openly opposed anything like love-making between Roland and herself. She understood and acknowledged the rights of her parents. In trampling on them she knew that she was sinning with her eyes open. And if Roland spent the day in arranging his plans for the future, she spent it in facing squarely the thing she had determined to do.
For she was aware that Roland was coming that night to urge her to go to London and become a public singer. She did not know how much money would be required, but she knew that whatever the sum was it must come from Roland. Then, of course, she must marry Roland at once. Under no other relationship could she take money from him. Yet on carefully questioning her memory she was sure that the subject of marriage had been avoided, or, at any rate, not spoken of in any discussion of her future.
“But,” she said, with a swift motion of determination, “that is the first subject, and the one on which all others depend.”
At eight o’clock Roland was with her. He came with his most irresistible manner, came prepared to carry his own desires in an enthusiasm of that supreme selfishness which he chose to designate as “love for Denas.”
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“You have only to learn how to manage that wonderful voice of yours, Denas,” he said, “and a steady flow of money will be the result. You must have read of the enormous sums singers receive, but we will be modest at first and suppose you only make a few hundreds a year. In the long run that will be nothing; and you will be a very rich woman.”
“You have often said such things to me, Roland. But perhaps you do not judge me severely enough. I must see a great teacher, and he will tell me the truth.”
“To be sure. And you must have lessons also.”
“And for these things there must be money.”
“Certainly. I have upward of five hundred pounds and you have one hundred at least.”
“I have nothing, Roland.”
“The money you told me of in St. Merryn’s Bank.”
“I cannot touch that.”
“Why?”
“Because I will not. Father has been saving it ever since I was born. If he is sick it is all he has to live upon. It is bad enough to desert my parents; I will not rob them also.”
“You must not look at things in such extreme ways. You are going to spend money in order to make a fortune.”
“I will not spend father’s money––the fortune may never come.”
“Then there is my money. You are welcome to every penny of it. All I have is yours. I only live for you.”
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“To say such things, Roland, is the way to marry me––if you mean to marry me––is it not? Among the fishermen it is so, only they would say first of all, ‘I do wish to be your husband.’”
“I am not a fisherman, Denas. And it would really be very dishonourable to bind your fortune irrevocably to mine. In a couple of years you would be apt to say: ‘Roland played me a mean trick, for he made me his wife only that he might have all the money I earn.’ Don’t you see what a dreadful position I should be in? I should be ashamed to show my face. Really, dearest, I must look after my honour. My money––that is nothing.”
“Roland, if honour and money cannot go together, there is something wrong. If I went to London alone and you were also in London and paying for my lessons, do you know what everyone would say in St. Penfer? Do you know what they would call me?”
“Why need you care for a lot of old gossips––you, with such a grand future before you?”
“I do care. I care for myself. I care a thousand times more for father and mother. A word against my good name would kill them. They would never hold up their heads any more. And then, however bad a name the public gave me, I should give myself a worse one; I should indeed! Night and day my soul would never cease saying to me: ‘Denas Penelles, you are a murderess! Hanging is too little for you. Get out of this life and go to your own place’––and you know where that would be.”
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“You silly, bigoted little Methodist! People do not die of grief in these days, they have too much to do. You would soon be able to send them a great deal of money, and that would put all right.”
“For shame, Roland! Little you know of St. Penfer fishermen, nothing at all you know of John and Joan Penelles, if you think a city full of gold would atone to them for my dishonour. What is the use of going around about our words when there are straight ones enough to say? I will go to London as your wife, or I will not go at all.”
There was a momentary expression on Roland’s face which might have terrified Denas if she had seen it, but her gaze was far outward; she was looking down on the waves and the boats of St. Penfer and on one little cottage on its shingle. And Roland’s hasty glance into her resolute face convinced him that all parleying was useless. He was angry and could not quite control himself. His voice showed decided pique as he answered:
“Very well, Denas. Take care of your own honour, by all means; mine is of no value, of course.”
“If you think marrying me makes it of no value, take care of your own honour, Roland. I will not be your wife; no, indeed. And as for London, I will not go near it. And as for my voice, it may be worth money, but it is not worth my honour, and my good name, and my father’s and mother’s life. Why should I sing for strangers? I will sing for my father and the fishers on the sea; and I will sing in the chapel––and there is an end of the matter.”