181CHAPTER X.A VISIT TO ST. PENFER.
“Oh, waly waly, but love be bonnyA little while while it is new;But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauldAnd fades away like morning dew.”––Old Song.
“Oh, waly waly, but love be bonnyA little while while it is new;But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauldAnd fades away like morning dew.”––Old Song.
“Oh, waly waly, but love be bonny
A little while while it is new;
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld
And fades away like morning dew.”
––Old Song.
“Oh, and is all forgot––All school days’ friendship, childhood’s innocence?. . . . . . . . . .Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,Though I alone do feel the injury.”––Shakespeare.
“Oh, and is all forgot––All school days’ friendship, childhood’s innocence?
“Oh, and is all forgot––
All school days’ friendship, childhood’s innocence?
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,Though I alone do feel the injury.”––Shakespeare.
Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.”
––Shakespeare.
Denasiamade herdébutin the last ten days of January, and she retained the favour of that public which frequented Willis Hall for three months. Then her reputation was a little worn; people whistled and sang her songs and were pleased with their own performance of them. And Roland, also, had tired a little of the life––of its regularity and its obligations. He was now often willing to let any other performer who desired to do so take his place at the piano. He began to have occasional lookings-backward to Burrell Court and the respectability it represented.
Then at the close of April Denasia fell ill. The182poor girl fretted at the decline of enthusiasm in her audience. She made stupendous efforts to regain her place in the popular favour, and she failed because of the natural law which few are strong enough to defy––that change is as necessary to amusement as fidelity is to duty. Denasia did not indeed reason about the event; the simple fact that she had no recalls and no clamorous approval made her miserable, and then sickness followed.
She was very ill indeed, and for four weeks confined to her room; and when she was able to consider a return to the hall, Roland found that her place had been taken by a Spanish singer with a mandolin and a wonderful dance. That was really a serious disappointment to the young couple, for during the month money had been going out and none coming in. For even when Denasia had been making twenty-five pounds a week, they had lived and dressed up to the last shilling; so that a month’s enforced idleness and illness placed them deeply in debt and uncomfortably pressed for the wherewithal to meet debt.
Denasia also had been much weakened by her illness. Her fine form and colour were impaired, she was nervous and despondent; and a suffering, sickly wife was quite out of Roland’s calculations and very much out of his sympathies. Poverty had a bad effect upon him. To be without money to buy the finest brand of cigars, to be annoyed by boarding-house keepers, tailors, and costumers, to have to buy medicines with cash when he was without his usual luxuries, was a condition of affairs that struck183Roland as extremely improper for a young man of his family and education.
And he disliked now to interview managers. Mademoiselle Denasia was a recognised member of the profession which more than any other demands that everyone stand upon their merits; and Denasia had not been a very pronounced success. She remained just about where she had begun, and managers naturally thought that she had done the best of which she was capable. That best was not a phenomenal one, and Roland, as her husband and business agent, received no extraordinary amount of respect. He was offended where he had no reason for offence––offended often because everyone did not recognise him as a member of an old Cornish family and the son of an ex-lord mayor of London. Often he felt obliged, in order to satisfy his own self-respect, to make the fact known; and the chaff, or indifference, or incredulity, with which his claims were received made him change his opinions regarding the “jolly company of actors.” In fact, he was undoubtedly at this period of Denasia’s career her very worst enemy; for whatever Denasia might be, Roland and his pretensions were usually regarded as a great bore.
One afternoon in May he became thoroughly disgusted with the life he had chosen for himself. The bright sunshine made the shabby carpet and tawdry furniture and soiled mirrors intolerably vulgar. They had just finished a badly cooked, crossly served, untidy dinner, and Roland had no cigar to mend it. Denasia had not eaten at all; she lay on184the bright blue sofa with shut eyes, and her faded beauty and faded dress were offensive to the fastidious young man.
She was thinking of her father’s cottage, of the love at its hearth, and of the fresh salt winds blowing all around it. Roland half-divined her thoughts, and his own wandered to Burrell Court and his long-neglected sister.
Suddenly he resolved to go and see her. Elizabeth had always plenty of money, then why should he be without it? And the desire having entered his heart, he was as imperative as a spoiled child for its gratification. Denasia’s physical condition did not appeal to him in any degree; he could not help her weakness and suffering, and certainly it was very inconvenient for him. He felt at that hour as if Denasia had broken her part of their mutual compact, which had not included illness or loss of prestige and beauty. He turned sharply to her and said:
“Denasia, I am going to St. Penfer. I shall have to sell a ring or something valuable in order to get the fare, but I see no other way. Elizabeth never disappointed my expectations; she will give me money, I am sure.”
“Don’t leave me, Roland. I will get well, I will indeed, dear. I am better this afternoon. In a few days––in a week, Roland, I can find some place to sing. Please have a little patience. Oh, do, my dear!”
“Little patience! What are you saying, Denasia? You are very ungrateful! Have I not had patience185for a whole month? Have I not spent even my cigar-money for you? Patience, indeed!”
“Is there nowhere but St. Penfer? No person but Elizabeth?”
“I can go to St. Merryn’s, if you like. Give me an order for the money in your name at St. Merryn’s Bank.”
She turned sullen in a moment. “I have told you a thousand times, Roland, I would rather die of hunger than rob my father.”
“Very well, then, why do you complain if I go to my own people? I hope when I return you will be better.”
“Roland! Roland! You are surely not going to leave me––in a moment––without anything?”
Her cry so full of anguish brought him back to her side; but his purpose had taken full possession of him; only he left her with those kisses and promises which women somehow manage to live upon. He still loved her in his way of loving, but his way demanded so many pleasant accidentals that it was impossible for Denasia always to provide them. And yet, having once realised, in a great measure, his ideal of her value to his happiness, he did feel that her sudden break-down in health was a failure he ought to show disapproval of.
However, there was method even in Roland’s selfish plans. He did not wish to find Mr. Burrell at St. Penfer, so he went to the bank and ascertained his whereabouts. He was told that Mr. Burrell had just left for Berlin, and was likely to be a week or ten days away. This information quite186elated Roland. He sold his watch and took the first train to Cornwall. And as he was certain that Elizabeth would have settled his bill at the Black Lion, he went there with all his old swaggering good-humour and thoroughly refreshed himself before going out to Burrell Court.
Elizabeth gave him a hearty welcome; she was indeed particularly glad to see him just then. She was lonely in the absence of her husband; she had just had a slight disagreement with the ladies at a church meeting; she was feeling her isolation and her want of family support; and she had met, for the first time since their interview, the Rev. Mr. Farrar, who had presumed to arrest her coachman and, in the presence of her servants, congratulate her on the marriage of her brother and her friend. Under the circumstances, she had judged it best to make no remarks; but she was very angry, and not sorry to have the culprit in her presence and tell him exactly what she thought of his folly and disgrace.
She kept the lecture, however, until they had dined and were alone; then, as he sat serenely smoking one of Mr. Burrell’s finest cigars, she said:
“I hope you are come back to me, Roland. I hope you have left that woman for ever.”
“Who do you mean by ‘that woman,’ Elizabeth?”
“De––You know who I mean.”
“Denas! Left Denas! Left my wife! That is absurd, Elizabeth! I wanted to see you. I could not bear to be ‘out’ with you any longer. You know, dear, that you are my only blood relative. Denas187is my relative by marriage. Blood is thicker than––everything.”
“Roland, you know how I love you. You are the first person I remember. All my life long you have been first in my heart. How do you think I liked to be put aside for––that fisher-girl? It nearly broke my heart with shame and sorrow.”
“I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I did behave badly to you. I am ashamed of myself. Forgive me, darling sister.” And he pulled his chair to her side, and put his arm around her neck, and kissed her with no simulated affection. For he would indeed have been heartless had he been insensible to the true love which softened every tone in Elizabeth’s voice and made her handsome face shine with tender interest and unselfish solicitude.
“I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I believe you are noble enough to have accepted Denas for my sake.”
“I am not, Roland. Nothing could have made me accept her. I have taken a personal dislike to her. I am sure that I cannot even do her justice.”
“She has been very ill. She is still very weak. I have been unable to get her all the comforts she ought to have had––unable to take her to the sea-side, though the doctor told me it was an imperative necessity. We have been very poor, but not unhappy.”
“I understood she was making a great deal of money with her trashy, vulgar little songs.”
“She was until she fell ill. And whatever her songs are, they have been very much admired.”
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“By her own class. And you let her sing for your living! I am amazed at you, Roland!”
“I do not see why. You wanted me to marry Caroline Burrell and let her support me out of the money old Burrell worked for. Denas loves me, and the money she gives me is given with love. Old Burrell never saw me, and if he had I am quite sure he would have hated me and despised me as a fortune-hunter. Denas is a noble little darling. She has never inferred, either by word or look, that she sang for my living. It took you to do that, Elizabeth. Besides, I help Denas to make money. I arrange her business and I play her accompaniments, and, as I said, I love her and she loves me. Why, I have done without cigars to buy medicines for her; and if that isn’t a proof of my devotion, I do not know how to give one! I can tell you that Mademoiselle Denasia is a great favourite with everyone.”
“Mademoiselle Denasia!” cried Elizabeth with the utmost scorn. “Mademoiselle! and Denasia! However, she might well change her name.”
“She did not change her name. She was baptised Denasia.”
“Robert went to hear her sing. He says it was in a fourth-rate place, and I can tell you he was burning with indignation to see his brother-in-law playing a piano there.”
“Then he ought to let his anger burn to some purpose. Signor Maria says that if Denasia had proper masters and was sent to Italy for two or three years she could sing in grand opera. Mind,189Maria says that; not I. Suppose you get Robert to send Denas to Italy.”
“I will do nothing at all for Denas. And I think, Roland, that you ought to do something for yourself. I hate to think of my own brother taking his living from that fisherman’s daughter. It is a shame! Father brought you up like a gentleman, sent you to college, gave you an opportunity–––”
“If father had given me a profession of any kind, if he had put me in the army or the navy, I should be to blame. If he had bought me a kit of carpenters’ tools and had me taught how to use them, I should be no man at all if I looked to a woman for a living. But he did not. He sent me to college, gave me expensive tastes, and then got me a desk in a bank, where the only prospect before me was to add figures for the rest of my life for two pounds a week. Naturally I looked around for something more to my liking. I found Denasia. I loved her. She loved me. I could play, she could sing, and we made twenty-five pounds a week. That is the true state of the case.”
“And do you intend to spend your life playing accompaniments to fishing-songs?”
“No. I am studying for the stage.”
“Roland Tresham! Roland Tresham!”
“I think I have a new conception of the character of Orlando and I flatter myself the Romeo is yet to be played. I shall attempt it next winter. Now, Elizabeth, all the summer is before us. If you will not ask us to Burrell Court, then do in sisterly kindness send us to some quiet sea-side190place to study. We could, of course, come to Penelles’ cottage–––”
“No, you could not. John Penelles would not permit you to enter his door. He says he will never forgive his daughter until she leaves you for ever. I understand him. I cannot fully forgive you while you remain with that woman.”
“Who told you John Penelles said such a thing? I do not believe it.”
“Priscilla Mohun. He said it to her.”
“Ah! He would not say it to Denasia. And it would not be a bad place to study. I should soon be a favourite with the fishers. I know how to get around that class of people, and I am fond of the sea and could spend a month very comfortably there. Cigars make any place comfortable.”
“You are talking simple nonsense, Roland. You know it, too. Penelles would not endure your presence five minutes.”
“I have done his daughter no harm.”
“He believes that you have ruined her immortal soul. You are the devil incarnate to John Penelles. He would not let you put your foot in his cottage. And he is not a man to trifle with. He knocked Jacob Trenager down, and the man goes lame ever since, they say.”
“I am not going in his way to be knocked down. It is absolutely necessary, both for Denas and myself, to be near London. If we had the means I would go to Broadstairs or perhaps Hastings.”
“Do you want to ask me for money, Roland? If so, be man enough to ask me plainly.”
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“Yes, I want money, Elizabeth. I want you to give it to me. I have not troubled you for a long time, have I? All my life long I have come to you for money, and you never yet refused me. My dear sister, I remember that you once sold a brooch for me when we were both children.” He kissed her and was silent, and Elizabeth’s face was wet with tears.
“I could give the last shilling I had to you, Roland,” she said, “but it is hard to ask me to rob myself for that woman.”
“She is my wife. I want her to get strong and well. She is a comfort and a pleasure to me. You were always glad to give me money for my comforts and pleasures. You never before asked me what they were or said: ‘You cannot have money for such or such a purpose.’ You gave me money for whatever I wanted. Now I want Denas.”
“Mademoiselle Denasia!”
“Well, then, Denasia. I want Denasia as I want my cigars or any other pleasant thing in life. Does it matter to you, if the money makes me happy, how I spend it?”
“If you put the question in that light I do not suppose it does matter.” Then after a moment’s pause: “Every shilling will be a coal of fire upon Mademoiselle Denasia’s head. There is nothing wrong in that consideration––it is perfectly Christian.”
“I should say it was perfectly unchristian; but, then, I am only a sinner. However, Elizabeth, if you can help me to get Denasia to the sea-side the192action will be a good one, and we need not go about to question the motives for it. I think one hundred pounds will keep us until Denasia is able to sing again or I get an engagement as Romeo. I shall make up splendidly as Romeo. You must come and see me, Elizabeth.”
“Not for anything in life! And one hundred pounds is a large sum of money. I cannot afford it.”
“But, Elizabeth, I must have one hundred. I need every penny of it. I cannot do with less. Give me one hundred, Elizabeth.”
“I tell you it will trouble me very much to spare a hundred pounds. It will indeed, Roland.”
But Roland stuck to the idea of one hundred pounds, and finally Elizabeth gave way before his entreaties. She looked at the handsome fellow and sighed hopelessly. She said, “I will give it to you, and do as you wish with it.” Why should she now look for consideration from her brother? He had never yet reached higher ground than “I want;” and to expect Roland to look beyond himself was to expect the great miracle that never comes.
He remained with his sister ten days, and thoroughly enjoyed the change of life. And indeed he found himself quite a little hero in St. Penfer. Miss Mohun met him with smiles; she asked sweetly after Mrs. Tresham and never once named the fifty pounds Roland had promised her. The landlady of the Black Lion made a great deal of him. She came herself of fisher-folk, and she was pleased that the young gentleman had treated her caste honourably. The landlord gave him cigars and193wine, and all the old companions of his pleasures and necessities showed him that they approved his conduct. The Rev. Mr. Farrar made a point of praising him. As he stood with the landlord of the Black Lion at the open door of the inn, he said to him:
“Mr. Tresham, I respect your strength of character. I know that in certain circles of society it is considered a slight offence for a young man to seduce a girl of the lower orders; but that amesalliancewith her is a social crime almost unpardonable. You have said boldly to the whole community that it is more ungentlemanly to wrong a poor girl’s honour than to marry a wife below your own station. Sir, such an example is worth all the sermons that could be preached on the subject.”
And Roland listened to all the spoken and unspoken praise given him with a smiling appropriation. It really never struck him, or apparently anyone else, that Denas might have been the person who took care of her own honour; or that Roland had done right because he could not induce his companion to do wrong. And there was another popular view of this marriage which was singularly false––the general assumption that Denas had been greatly honoured by it, and that John and Joan Penelles ought to be pleased and satisfied. Why not? Such a decision was the evident one, and how many people have the time or the interest in any subject to go below or beyond the evident?
One morning when Roland had been put into a very good humour by the public approval of his194conduct, he saw John Penelles and Tris Penrose and two other fishers go into the Ship Inn together. They had Lawyer Tremaine with them, and were doubtless met to complete the sale or purchase of some fishing-craft. Roland knew that it would be an affair to occupy two or three hours, and he suddenly resolved to go down the cliff and interview his mother-in-law. It would please Denasia, and he was himself in that reckless mood of self-complacency which delights in testing its influence.
Without further consideration he lit a fresh cigar and went down the familiar path. It was full of memories of his wooing of Denas, and he smiled with a soft triumph to them. And the exquisite morning, the thrushes singing to the sun, the fluting of the blackbirds, the south wind swinging the blue-bells, the mystical murmur of the sea––all these things set themselves unconsciously to his overweening self-satisfaction.
The door of the Penelles cottage was wide open, and he stood a moment looking into it. The place had an Homeric simplicity and beauty which touched his sense of fitness. On the snow-white hearth there was a handful of red fire, and the bright black hob held the shining kettle. A rug of knitted bits of many-coloured cloths was before it, and on this rug stood John’s big cushioned chair. The floor was white as pipeclay could make it; the walls covered with racks of showy crockery; the spotless windows quite shaded with blossoming flowers; and the deal furniture had been195scrubbed with oatmeal until it had the colour and the beauty of ivory.
Joan sat with her back to the door. She was perfectly still. At her feet there was a pile of nets, and she was mending the broken meshes. When Roland tapped she let them fall and stood upright. She knew him at once. Her fine rosy face turned grey as ashes. She folded her arms across her breast and stood looking at the intruder. For a moment they remained thus––the gay, handsome, fashionably-dressed young man smiling at the tall grave woman in her neat print gown and white linen cap. Roland broke the silence.
“I am Roland Tresham,” he said pleasantly.
“I do know you. What be you come for? Is Denas––where be my child? Oh, man, why don’t you say the words, whatever they be?”
“I am sorry if I frightened you. I thought you might like to know that Denas was well and happy.”
Then Joan went back to her nets and sat down without a word.
“I was in St. Penfer on business, and I thought you would like to know––might like to know––you see, I was here on business––”
He was growing every moment more uncomfortable and embarrassed, for Joan bent busily over her work and her back was to him.
“You see, I was here on business. I wanted to see my sister. I thought you would like to know about Denas.”
She turned suddenly on him and asked: “Where be my child?”
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“I left Denas in London.”
“You be a coward. You be a tenfold coward. Why didn’ you bring your wife home with you? Did Denas send me no letter––no word for myself––for my heart only? Speak then; I want my letter.”
“I left in a hurry. She had no time to write.”
“Aw, then, why did you come here without a word of comfort? You be cruel as well as cowardly. No word! No letter! No time! There then! take yourself away from my door. ’Twas a wisht cruel thought brought you here. Aw, then, a thought out of your own heart. You be a bad man! dreadful! dreadful!”
“Come, my good woman, I wish to be kind.”
“Good woman! Sure enough! but I have my husband’s name, thank God, and there then! when you speak to me I be called by it––Joan Penelles. And Joan Penelles do wish you would turn your back on this house; she do that, for you do have a sight of ghastly mean old ways––more than either big or little devil means a young man to have. There then! Go afore John Penelles do find you here. For ’twill be a bad hour for you if he do––and so it will!”
“I did not expect such a reception, Mrs. Penelles. I have dealt honourably with your daughter.”
“You have made my daughter to sin. Aw, then, I will not talk about my daughter with you. No indeed!”
“Have you no message to send to Denas?”
“Denas do know her mother’s heart and her197father’s heart, and when she do find it in her own heart to leave that sinful place––the the-a-tre––and dress herself like a decent wife and a good woman, and sing for God and not for the devil, and sing for love and not for money, aw, then, who will love her as quick and as warm as I will? But if you do want a message, tell her she have broken her good father’s life in two; and that I do blame myself I ever gave her suck!”
Roland listened to these words with a scoffing air of great amusement; he looked steadily at Joan with a smile that was intolerable to her, then he raised his hat with an elaborate flourish and said:
“Good-morning, Mrs. Penelles.”
No notice was taken of this salute, and he added with an offensive mirthfulness:
“Perhaps I ought to say, ‘Good-morning, mother.’”
Then Joan leaped to her feet as if she had been struck in the face. She kicked the nets from her and strode to the open door in a flaming passion.
“Aw, then!” she cried, “not your mother, thank God! Not your mother, or you’d be in the boats making your awn living. You! you cruel, cowardly, lazy, lounging, bad lot! Living on my poor little girl, you be! You vampire! Living on her body and soul.”
“Madam, where is Mr. Penelles?”
“Aw, to be sure. Well you knew he wasn’ here, or you would never have put foot this road. And no madam I be, but honest Joan Penelles. Go! The Pender men are near by. Go!––and the Trefy198men, and Jack Penhelick, and Reuben Trewillow. Go!––they are close by, I tell you. Go!––if I call they’ll come. Go!––or they will know the reason why!”
Then, still smiling and knocking the end of his cigar against the end of his cane, Roland leisurely took the road to the cliff. But Joan, in her passionate sense of intolerable wrong, flung up her arms toward heaven, and with tears and sobs her cry went up:
“O my God! Look down and see what sin this Roland Tresham be doing!”
199CHAPTER XI.FATHERLY AND MOTHERLY.
“In youth change appears to be certain gain;Age knows that it is generally certain loss.”“The worst wounds are those our own hands inflict.”“Like as a father pitieth his children.”“A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive.”––Coleridge.
“In youth change appears to be certain gain;Age knows that it is generally certain loss.”
“In youth change appears to be certain gain;
Age knows that it is generally certain loss.”
“The worst wounds are those our own hands inflict.”
“The worst wounds are those our own hands inflict.”
“Like as a father pitieth his children.”
“Like as a father pitieth his children.”
“A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive.”––Coleridge.
“A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.”
––Coleridge.
Tendays of the methodical serenity of Burrell Court wearied Roland, and with money in his pocket the thought of London was again a temptation. He was quickly satisfied with green gardens and sea-breezes; the pavements of Piccadilly and Regent Street were more attractive. And for Roland, the last wish or the last plan held the quality of fascination. When he turned his back upon Burrell Court, Elizabeth faded from his thoughts and affections; it was Denasia who then drew him through every side of his vivid imagination and reckless desires.
He had written to her as soon as Elizabeth promised him the money he needed; for he believed when Denasia was free from care she would speedily recover her health and strength. He pleased himself all the way home with the anticipation of his200wife’s smiles and welcome, and he was a little frightened not to see her face at the window the moment his cab arrived. He expected her to be watching; he was sure, if she were able, she would not have disappointed him. He had a latch-key in his pocket, and he opened the door and went rapidly to the room they occupied. It was empty; it was cleaned and renovated and evidently waiting for a new tenant.
Full of trouble and amazement, he was going to seek his landlady, when she appeared. She was as severely polite as people who have got the last penny they hope to get out of one can be. Mrs. Tresham had gone to the sea-side. She had left five days ago––gone to Broadstairs. The address was in the letter which she gave him. Greatly to Roland’s relief she said nothing about money, and he certainly had no wish to introduce the subject.
But he was amazed beyond measure. Where had Denasia got money? How had she got it? Why had she said nothing to him? He had had a letter two days before, and he took it out of his pocket and re-read it. There was no allusion to the change, but he saw that the postmark showed it to have been mailed on the way to the Chatham and Dover Railway. However, he was not anxious enough to pursue his journey that night. He went to a hotel, had a good dinner, slept off his fatigue, and started for Broadstairs at a comfortable hour in the morning.
Nothing like jealousy troubled him. He had no more fear of Denasia’s honour and loyalty than he had of the sun rising; and with a hundred pounds201in his pocket curiosity was a feeble feeling. “Some way all is right, and when a thing is right there is no need to worry about it.” This was his ultimate reflection, and he slept comfortably upon it.
Broadstairs was a new place, and to Roland novelty of any kind had a charm. A fine morning, a good cigar, a change of scene, and Denasia at the end, what more was necessary to a pleasant trip? His first disillusion was the house to which he was directed. It was but a cottage, and in some peculiar way Roland had persuaded himself that Denasia had not only got money, but also a large sum. The cottage in which he found her did not confirm his anticipations. And in the small parlour Denasia was taking a dancing-lesson. An elderly lady was playing the violin and directing her steps. Of course the lesson ceased at Roland’s entrance; there was so much else to be talked over.
“Why did you come to this out-of-the-way place?” asked Roland with a slight tone of disapprobation.
“Because both my singing and dancing teachers were here for the summer months, and I longed for the salt air. I felt that it was the only medicine that would restore me. You see I am nearly well already.”
“But the money, Denasia? And do you know that old harpy in London never named money. Is she paid?”
“Why do you say harpy? She only wanted what we really owed her. And she was good and patient when I was ill. Yes, I paid her nine pounds.”
“I have one hundred pounds, Denasia.”
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“You wrote and told me so.”
“Elizabeth gave it to me; and I must say she gave it very kindly and pleasantly.”
“Of course Elizabeth gave you it. Why not? Is there any merit in her doing a kindness to her own brother pleasantly? How else should she do it?”
“It was given as much for you as for me.”
“Decidedly not. If Elizabeth has the most ordinary amount of sense, she knows well I would not touch a farthing of her money; no, I would not if I was dying of hunger.”
“That is absurd, Denasia.”
“Call it what you will. I hate Elizabeth and Elizabeth hates me, and I will not touch her money or anything that is bought with it. For you it is different. Elizabeth loves you. She is rich, and if she desires to give you money I see no reason why you should refuse it––that is, if you see none.”
“And pray what are you going to do?”
“Have I suffered in your absence? You left me sick, nervous, without a shilling. I have made for myself a good engagement and received fifty pounds in advance.”
“A good engagement! Where? With whom?”
“I am learning to sing a part in ‘Pinafore.’ I am engaged at the Olympic.”
“Denasia!”
She flushed proudly at his amazement, and when he took her in his arms and kissed her, she permitted him to see that her eyes were full of happy tears.
“Yes,” she resumed in softer tones, “I went to see Colonel Moss, and he was delighted with my203voice. Mr. Harrison says I learn with extraordinary rapidity and have quite wonderful dramatic talent, and madame has almost as much praise for my dancing. I had to pay some bills out of the fifty pounds; but I am sure I can live upon the balance and pay for my lessons until September. As soon as I am strong enough to look after my costumes, my manager will advance money for them.”
“Do you mean that you are to have fifty pounds a week?”
“I am to have thirty pounds a week. That is very good pay, indeed, for a novice.”
“For six nights and a matinée? You ought to have had far more; it is not five pounds a performance. You ought to have ten pounds. I must see about this arrangement. Moss has taken advantage of you.”
“I have given my promise, Roland, and I intend to keep it. You must not interfere in this matter.”
“Oh, but I must!”
“It will be useless. I shall stand to my own arrangement.”
“It is a very poor one.”
“It is better than any you ever made for me.”
“Of course! I had all the preparatory work to do, getting you known––getting a hearing for you, in fact. Now the harvest is ripe, it is easy enough to get offers. You had better let me have a talk with Moss.”
“I have signed all the necessary papers. I have accepted fifty pounds in advance. I will not––no––I will not break a letter of my promise for anyone.”
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“Then I shall have nothing to do with the affair. It is a swindle on Moss’ part.”
“No, it is not. He made me a fair offer; I, of my own free will and judgment, accepted it.”
“Thirty pounds a week! What is that for a first-class part?”
“It is a good salary. I can pay my expenses and buy my wardrobe out of it. You have Elizabeth’s money. When it is done she will probably give you more. She ought to, as you preferred trusting to her.” But though the words were laughingly said, they sprang from a root of bitterness.
In fact, Roland quickly discovered that those ten days he had so idly passed at Burrell Court with his sister had been ten days of amazing growth in every direction to Denasia. She had wept when Roland so suddenly left her; wept at his want of faith in her, at his want of care for her, at his indifference to her weakness and poverty. But to sit still and cry was not the way of her class. She had been accustomed to reflect, when trouble came, whether it could be helped or could not be helped. If the former, then it was “up and about it;” if the latter, tears were useless, and to make the best of the irrevocable was the way of wisdom.
In an hour she had conquered the physical weakness which spoke by weeping. A suspicion of cruelty gave her the salutary stimulus of a lash; she sat upright and began to plan. The next day she went out, sold a bracelet, hired a cab, and went from one manager to another until she succeeded. Brought face to face with the question of work and205wage, all the shrewd calculating instincts of a race of women accustomed to chaffer and bargain awoke within her. She sold her wares to good advantage, and she knew she had done so. Then a long-nascent distrust of Roland’s business tact and ability sprang suddenly to vigorous life. She realised in a moment all the financial mistakes of the past winter. She resolved not to have them repeated.
The sea air soon restored all her vigour and her beauty. She gave herself to study and to practice with an industry often irritating to Roland. It reproached his own idleness and it deprived him of her company. He did indeed rehearse his characters, and in a stealthy way he endeavoured to find a better engagement for Denasia. He was sure that if he were successful there would be no difficulty in inducing, or if necessary compelling, his wife to accept it. He could as easily have made Queen Victoria accept it. For with the inherited shrewdness of her class she had also their integrity. She would have kept any engagement she made even if it had ruined her.
The winter was a profitable one, though not as happy as Denasia had hoped it would be. They had no debts and were able to indulge in many luxuries, and yet Roland was irritable, gloomy, and full of unpleasant reminiscences and comparisons. He thought it outrageous for Moss to refuse the payment of his wife’s salary to him. And Denasia had a disagreeable habit of leaving a large portion of her income with the treasurer of the company, and then sending her costumer and other creditors206to the theatre for payment. Indeed, she was developing an independence in money matters that was extremely annoying to Roland. He felt that his applications to Elizabeth were perpetual offences to Denasia, and if he had been a thoughtful man he would have understood that this separation of their interests in financial matters was the precursor of a much wider and more dangerous one.
Roland had other unpleasant experiences to encounter. It seemed incredible that the handsome, witty, fascinating Mr. Tresham could possibly be a bore, and yet the authorities in various green-rooms either said so in plain English or made him aware of the fact through every other sense but hearing. He felt himself to be politely or sarcastically quizzed. Stars ignored him; meaner lights gave him a bare tolerance. A few inquired if his grand relatives had yet forgiven him. One or two affected to have heard he had an offer from Henry Irving, or some other histrionic luminary; in fact, he gradually was made to understand that Roland Tresham was by no means a name to conjure with.
He did not tell Denasia of these humiliations, and she believed that his chagrin and ill-temper arose from his continual disappointments. He could get no chance worthy of his efforts for a trial of his new Shakespearian interpretations. He felt sure there was a coalition against him. “Let a man have a little more beauty or talent than the crowd, and the crowd are determined to ruin him, naturally,” he said, and he believed his own dictum thoroughly. Toward the end of the season, however, he did obtain207a hearing under what were undoubtedly favourable circumstances; and then the press was his enemy. And he knew positively that the adverse criticisms were the results of venality, or ignorance, or want of taste, or of that brutal conservatism which makes Englishmen suspicious of everything notendorsedby centuries of use and wont.
It may be easily seen how these personal irritations made an unhappy atmosphere in which to dwell. And Roland had another disappointment also which he hardly liked to admit to himself––Denasia was changing so rapidly. The society into which he himself had brought her forced the simple, trustful, ignorant girl into observations and calculations which lifted her unconsciously to a level, perhaps in some respects to a plane above her husband. She was naturally clever, and she learned how to dress herself, how to take care of herself, how to look out for her own interests. Roland had intended to dictate to her, and she began to smile at his dictations and to take her own way, which she charmingly declared was the only reasonable way for her to take.
During this interval Roland wrote often to Elizabeth. He wanted some one to complain to, and Elizabeth was the only person he knew who was willing to listen to his complaints. She perceived very early the little rift between husband and wife which might be bridged by love or might become an abyss in which love would be for ever lost. It must, however, be noted to her credit that she avoided any word likely to widen it. She did not208like Denasia, but she had a controlling sense of honour. She had also a lofty ideal of the sacredness of the marriage tie. To have made trouble between a man and his wife would, in Elizabeth’s opinion, have been as wicked a thing as to break into a church vestry and steal the sacramental silver. But she did sympathize with her brother, and advise him, and send him money. And naturally Denasia, who thought badly of Elizabeth, resented her interference in her life at all; so that there was usually a coolness between Roland and Denasia after the arrival of a letter from Burrell Court.
In truth, any letter from St. Penfer at this period of Denasia’s life hurt her. She longed for her own people. She felt heart-sick for a word from them. In some moment of confidence or ill-temper, Roland had given his wife his own version of the visit to his mother-in-law. And whatever else he remembered or forgot, he was clear and positive about Joan’s message to her daughter. She had broken her good father’s life in two and her mother was sorry she had ever given her suck. Denasia knew her mother’s passionate nature, and she could understand that some powerful aggravation had made her speak so strongly, but the words, after all allowances, were terrible words. They haunted her in the midst of her professional excitements, and still more in the solitude of her frequently restless nights.
And if Joan had felt this a year ago, Denasia knew that she now felt much more bitterly; for in one of her letters to Roland Elizabeth had written209freely of the passionate anger of John Penelles when he learned that his daughter had become a public dancer. Indeed, Elizabeth affected to think it very cruel of Denasia to send to her old ignorant parents the illustrated paper which contained her picture in the dance act. She thought Denasia’s vanity had overstepped all bounds and become positive cruelty, etc., etc. And Denasia, in a passion which matched any outbreak of her father’s, vowed not only that she had never sent such a paper to St. Penfer, but that Elizabeth herself must have been the perpetrator of the cruelty, unless––and she then gave Roland a glance which made him wonder where his willing and obedient Denasia of former days had gone.
In all essential points this story was a false one. It was indeed true that some person had sent to the Penelles cottage a London paper, in which there was a large picture of Denasia and the admiral dancing the famous hornpipe. But the manner of its reception was matter of speculation only, and the speculative had founded their tale upon the known hastiness of John and Joan’s tempers, without taking into consideration the presence of unknown influences.
As it happened, the pictured girl was received in the St. Penfer post-office during a storm. John had been called in the grey dawn to the life-boat, and Joan, in spite of wind and rain, went down to the beach with him. With a prayer in her heart, she saw him buckle on his buoyant armour and set his pale blue oar like lance athwart his rest, and210then make straight out into the breakers that dashed and surged around. Joan saw the boat’s swift forward leaping, its downward plunge into the trough of the sea, its perilous uplifting, its perpendicular rearing, its dread descent. And John felt its human reel and shudder, its desperate striving and leaping and plunging, and its sad submission when the waters half filled it and the quivering men clung for very life under the deluge pouring over them.
So for three hours John was face to face with awful death, and Joan on her knees praying for his safety, and John had but just got back to his home, and the cry of thanksgiving for her old dear’s return was yet on Joan’s lips, when the postman brought the fateful newspaper. Fortunately they did not open it at once. Joan laid it carefully aside and brought on their belated breakfast. And as they ate it they talked of the lives that were lost and saved. Then John smoked his pipe, and Joan tidied up her house and sat down beside him with her knitting in her hands. Both their hearts were solemn and tender. John felt as if his life was a new gift to him; Joan, as if her husband’s love had some miraculous sweetness never known before. They spoke seldom and softly, finding in their responsive silence a language beyond words.
It was, then, in this gentle mood that John reached to the shelf above his head and took down the paper. He opened it, and Denas in her pretty dancing dress, with her bare arms lifted above her head, looked her father full in the face. She was laughing; she was the incarnation of merriment and of211consciously graceful, captivating vivacity. The miserable father was, however, fascinated; he gazed and gazed until his eyes overflowed, and his hands trembled, and the paper fell with a rustle to the floor.
Joan lifted it and looked at her husband. His eyes were shut, he was sobbing inwardly as punished children sob in sleep. She spoke to him, and he opened his eyes and pointed to the paper. Then Joan met the same well-beloved face. The mother’s cheeks burned red and redder, her eyes flashed, she straightened out every crease, as if the pictured satin and lace had been real; and then turning to the printed page, she read aloud every word of adulation.
They had talked together of the men and women drowned within sight of land that morning, but here was their only child dancing in sight of eternal death, and they could not say a word to each other about her. For it must be remembered that these simple, God-fearing fisher-folk had been strictly and straitly reared in a creed which regarded dancing as one of the deadly sins. They honestly believed that there was but a step between their darling and eternal death, and if she should take that step while dancing! To have known that she was on the ship which had just gone to pieces on the rocks would not have made them so heart-sick. Their very souls shivered as they thought of her. As for John, he could find only those two words that spring instinctively to every soul in trouble, “O God!”
But he motioned Joan to take the paper away,212and Joan took it into the room which was still called “Denas’ room.” She kissed the pictured face, the hair and eyes and mouth, the lifted arms, the slender throat. She could not bear to crush the paper together; she opened a drawer and laid it as gently within as if she had been putting her baby in its coffin. At this hour there was no anger in her heart; there was even a little motherly pride in her child’s beauty and grace and cleverness. At this extremity of ill-doing she did not altogether blame Denas. She was certain that before Denas danced, some one had somehow persuaded the girl that it was not wicked to dance. “Denas do have principles,” she said stiffly, “and the man do not live who can make her do wickedly if she do think it be wicked.”
She looked with a sad affection around the little room. How lonely it was! Yes, it is the living who desert us that make lonely rooms, and not the dead. We know the dead will never come back, but oh, how long it seems to wait for the living! Month after month to keep the room ready for the one who does not come for our longing! Month after month to dress the bed and the table, and lay out the books they loved, and the little treasures that may tell they were unforgotten. Joan looked at the small dressing-table holding the shell box, and the satin pincushion, and the alabaster vase which Denas had once thought beautiful beyond price. The snowy quilt and pillows, the carefully kept floor and chairs, the clothing washed and laid with sprigs of lavender in the tidy drawers––oh,213what poetry and eloquence of untiring, undespairing mother-love were in these things!
But this patient, loving pity for their erring child was an attitude not easily supposable, and Denasia did not suppose it. She knew from Roland’s report that her appearance as a public singer had caused her parents great sorrow and anger, and she could only imagine a still deeper anger when she added the sin of dancing to other causes of offence. But this alienation from her own people was the bitter drop in all her success and in all her pleasure. For now that the illusions and selfishness of her bride-days were past, the faithful home affection that never wounded and never deceived resumed its importance, and she longed for her father’s kiss and her mother’s breast.
But every day the day’s work is to face, and Denasia’s days were fully occupied by their obvious duties. So week after week and month after month wore on in alternations of hope and despair, happiness and vexation, loving and quarrelling. Roland certainly, with his discontent and abiding sense of wrong, threw a perpetual shadow over life. She did not even dare to take, with any show of pleasure, such poor satisfaction as her passing fame awarded. A man may be jealous of the praise given to his own wife, and there were times when Roland could not understand Denasia’s success and his own failure––bitter hours in which the poor girl felt that whether she pleased her audience or did not please them, her husband was sure to be offended and angry.
She was almost glad when, at the close of the season,214the company disbanded and she was at liberty to retire. She had saved money and was resolved to resume her studies. There was at least nothing in that to irritate her husband, and she had a strong desire to improve her talent in every direction. One evening Roland entered their sitting-room in that hurry of hope and satisfaction once common enough to him, but of which he had shown little during the past winter. Denasia looked up from her writing with a smile, to meet his smile.
“Denasia,” he cried impulsively, “what do you think? We are going to America! The United States is the place for me. How soon can you be ready?”
“But, Roland? What?”
“It is true, dear. Whom are you writing to?”
“I was writing to Mr. Harrison and to madame. I want to know if they are going to Broadstairs this summer, for where they go I wish to go also; that is, if they can give me lessons.”
“A waste of money, Denasia. I have had a long talk with some of the men who are here with the American company. Splendid fellows! They tell me that my Shakespearian ideas will set New York agog. New Yorkers give every one a fair hearing; at least ‘there’s nothing beats a trial!’ That is a New York motto, and these people are sure I would have a fair trial there. And the country is so big! So big, Denasia, that the parts you know will last you for years. There is not a bit of need for you to study new songs and dances. Sing the old ones in new places. Why, you may travel thousands215of miles in all directions––big cities everywhere, little ones scattered thick as blackberries on all the railroad routes, and railroad routes are spread like spider-webs all over the United States! That is the country for us! New York first of all, then Chicago, St. Louis, Salt Lake, San Francisco, New Orleans––oh, hundreds of cities! And money, my dear! Money for the picking up––that is, for the singing for.”
“I do not believe a word of it, Roland. It is all talk. I am going to Broadstairs to spend the summer in study.”
Roland looked a moment at the handsome, resolute woman who had resumed her writing, and he wondered how this Denasia had sprung from the sweetly obedient little maid he had once manipulated to his will with a look or a word. However, he could not spare her. It was not only her earnings he required; her beauty and talent gave him a kind of reflected importance, and he expected great things from their united efforts in the wonderful new world of which he had just begun to think.
So he set himself to win what it was evident he could not command, and, Denasia’s womanly instincts being stronger than her artistic instincts, the husband conquered. The sweet words and kisses, the frank acknowledgment of his faults, the declaration that his whole future hung now on her support and interest in his American scheme, moved Denasia to concede where she felt sure she ought to have refused. But when a man finds all other arguments fail with a woman, he has only to throw himself216upon her unselfishness. To prove it, she will ruin her own life. Denasia was sure she was going a wrong road, but then Roland asked her to take it for his sake, and to show her love for him she offered up her own hopes and desires, and offered them with smiles and kind words and an affected belief that the change might be as good for her reputation as for her husband’s. She did indeed––as good women do a kindness––surrender herself entirely, and pretended that the surrender was her own desire and her husband’s complaisance a thing he deserved praise for.
However, Roland’s enthusiasms were undoubtedly partly contagious. Even Denasia, who had so often been deceived, was partly under their influence. His words had caught something of the vastness of the land of his hopes, and he talked so ambitiously and with so much certainty that the untravelled woman caught his fever once more. Then she also suffered the idea of America to fascinate her, and she permitted Roland to bring his new friends to see her, for she desired to be entirely possessed by the idea which was now to be the ruling motive of their lives. It was decided that they should sail about the middle of June. “We shall then have time to become familiar with the country, and we need not be in a hurry to decide about engagements. Hurry is such a mistake,” said Roland with oracular wisdom. And Denasia hoped and smiled, and then turned away to hide the sudden frown and sigh. For the heart is difficult to deceive, and Denasia’s heart warned her morning, noon, and night. But to what217purpose? Who heeds the warning from their higher selves? Though one rose from the dead to point out a fatal mistake, how many would heed the messenger? For when love says, “This is the way,” wisdom, fate, death itself may speak in vain.
About a week before the voyage, Roland said one night: “I think now, Denasia, that we have everything packed, I shall run down to St. Penfer and see my sister. I may never come back from America. Indeed, I do not think I shall ever want to come back, and I really ought to bid Elizabeth good-bye. She will doubtless also remember me in money matters, and in a strange country money is always a good friend. Is it not, dear? What do you think, Denasia?”
“I have been thinking a great deal of St. Penfer. My heart is like to break when I think of it. I do want to see my father and mother so much.”
“You would only get a heart-break, my love. They would have no end of reproaches for you. I shall never forget your mother. Her temper was awful!”
“You must have said something awful to aggravate her, Roland. Mother has a quick temper, but it is also noble and generous. I do want to see her. I must see her once more. Let us go together.”
“To St. Penfer? What a foolish idea! You would only give yourself a wretched memory to carry through your whole life.”
“Never mind! I want to go to St. Penfer.”
“How can you? I cannot take you to Burrell Court, Denasia.”