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A Singer from the Sea

by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #29909 · 517,646 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Singer from the Sea

Author: Amelia E. Barr


        
Release date: September 4, 2009 [eBook #29909]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SINGER FROM THE SEA ***




Produced by Katherine Ward and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)





  A SINGER FROM THE SEA

  by
  AMELIA E. BARR

  AUTHOR OF "JAN VEDDER'S WIFE," "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON," "FRIEND
  OLIVIA," ETC., ETC.


  NEW YORK
  DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS


  Copyright, 1893, by
  DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

  _All rights reserved._




CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE
       I. DENAS PENELLES                                             1
      II. OH, THE PITY OF IT!                                       22
     III. THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA                                    41
      IV. THE SEED OF CHANGE                                        59
       V. WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR ROLAND?                            77
      VI. ELIZABETH AND DENAS                                       95
     VII. IS THERE ANY SORROW LIKE LOVING?                         115
    VIII. A SEA OF SORROW                                          138
      IX. A PIECE OF MONEY AND A SONG                              161
       X. A VISIT TO ST. PENFER                                    181
      XI. FATHERLY AND MOTHERLY                                    199
     XII. A COWARDLY LOVE                                          225
    XIII. DEATH IS DAWN                                            251
     XIV. SORROW BRINGS US ALL HOME                                272
      XV. ONLY FRIENDS                                             295
     XVI. THE "DARLING DENAS"                                      314
    XVII. DENAS                                                    331




A SINGER FROM THE SEA.


CHAPTER I.

DENAS PENELLES.

  "'Tell me, my old friend, tell me why
  You sit and softly laugh by yourself.'
  'It is because I am repeating to myself,
          Write! write
  Of the valiant strength,
  The calm, brave bearing
  Of the sons of the sea.'"
                               --FRENCH ROWING SONG

  "And that is why I have written this book
  Of the things that live in your noble hearts.
  You are really the authors of it.
  I have only put into words
  The frank simplicity of your sailor life."
                        --GUILLAUME DE LA LAUDELLE.


From Padstow Point to Lundy Race is one of the wildest and grandest
portions of the Cornish coast, and on it there is always somewhere a
tossing sea, a stiff breeze above, and a sucking tide below. Great
cliffs hundreds of feet high guard it, and from the top of them the
land rolls away in long ridges, brown and bare. These wild and rocky
moors, full of pagan altars, stone crosses, and memorials of the Jew,
the Phoenician, and the Cornu-British, are the land of our childhood's
fairy-folk--the home of Blunderbore and of Jack the Giant Killer, and
the far grander

             "Fable of Bellerus old,
  And the great vision of the Guarded Mount."

But it is the Undercliff which has the perennial charm for humanity,
for all along its sloping face there are bewildering hummocks and
hollows, checkered with purple rocks and elder-trees. Narrow footpaths
curve in and out and up and down among the fields and farms, the
orchards and the glimmering glades, and there the foxgloves grow so
tall that they lift their dappled bells level with the eyes.

Further down are queer, quiet towns, hundreds of years old,
squeezed into the mouths of deep valleys--valleys full of delicate
ferns and small wild roses and the white heath, a flower peculiar to
the locality. And still lower--on the very shingle--are the
amphibious-looking cottages of the fishermen. They are surrounded
by nets and boats and lobster-pots. Noisy children paddle in the
flowing tide, and large, brown, handsome women sit on the door-steps
knitting the blue guernsey shirts and stockings which their husbands
wear.

Such a lonely, lovely spot is the little village of St. Penfer. It is
so hidden in the clefts of the rocks that unless one had its secret
and knew the way of its labyrinth down the cliff-breast it would be
hard to find it from the landward side. But the fishermen see its
white houses and terraced gardens and hear the sweet-voiced bells of
its old church calling to them when they are far off upon the ocean.
And well they know their cottages clustered on the shingle below, and
all day they may be seen among them, mending their boats, or painting
their boats, or standing with their hands in their pockets looking at
their boats, fingering the while the bit of mountain ash which they
carry there to keep away ill-luck.

John Penelles was occupied on the afternoon of that Saturday which
comes between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. His boat was
rocking on the tide-top and he seemed to be looking at her. But his
bright blue eyes saw nothing seaward; he was mentally watching the
flowery winding way up the cliff to St. Penfer. If his daughter Denas
was coming down it he would hear her footsteps in his heart. And why
did she not come? She had been away four hours, and who knew what evil
might happen to a girl in four hours? When too late to forbid her
visit to St. Penfer, it had suddenly struck him that Roland Tresham
might be home for the Easter holidays, and he disliked the young man.
He had an intuitive dislike for him, founded upon that kind of "I
know" which is beyond reasoning with, and he had told Denas that
Roland Tresham was not for her to listen to and not for her to trust
to.

"But there, then, 'tis dreadful! dreadful! What foolishness a little
maid will believe in!" he muttered. "I have never known but one woman
who can understand reason, and it isn't often she will listen to it.
Women! women! women! God bless them!"

He was restless with his thoughts by the time they arrived at this
point, but it still took him a few minutes to decide upon some action
and then put his great bulk into motion. For he was a large man, even
among Cornish fishermen, and his feet were in his heavy fishing-boots,
and his nature was slow and irresolute until his mind was fully made
up. Then nothing could move him or turn him, and he acted with that
irresistible celerity which springs from an invincible determination.

His cottage was not far off, and he went there. As he approached, a
woman rose from the steps and, with her knitting in her hand, went
inside. She was putting the kettle on the fire as he entered, and she
turned her head to smile upon him. It was a delightful smile, full of
love and pleasure, and she accompanied it with a little nod of her
head that meant any good thing he liked to ask of her.

"Aw, my dear," he said, "I do think the little maid is a sight too
long away."

"She do have a long walk, John dear. St. Penfer isn't at the
door-step, I'm sure."

"You see, Joan, it is like this: Denas she be what she is, thank God!
but Roland Tresham, he be near to the quality, and they do say a great
scholar, and can speak langwidges; and aw, my dear, if rich and poor
do ride together the poor must ride behind, and a wayless way they
take through and over. I have seen that often and often."

"We mustn't be quick to think evil, John, must we? I'm sure Denas do
know her place and her right, and she isn't one to be put down below
it. You do take a sight of trouble you aren't asked to take, father."

"Do I, my dear?"

"To be sure you do. And they that go seeking trouble are very like to
find it. Is Roland Tresham home again?"

"Not as I know by certain. I haven't heard tell so."

"There, now! How people do go thinking wrong of others instead of
themselves! That isn't the Bible way, is it, father?"

"To be sure it isn't, Joan. But we aren't living among Bible people,
my dear, are we now?"

"Well, I don't know that, father. Fisher-folk feature one another all
the world over as much as their lines and boats do. I think we could
find all those Galilean fishers among the fishers of Penfer. I do,
really--plenty of Peters and sons of Zebedee, I'll warrant. Are not
John and Jacob Tenager always looking to be high up in the chapel? And
poor Cruffs and Kestal, how they do deny all the week through what
they say on Sunday! And I know one quiet, modest Andrew who never
grumbles, but is alway content and happy when his brothers are
favoured above him." And she looked and smiled at her husband with
such loving admiration that the big fisherman felt the glow of the
look and smile warm his heart and flush his cheeks, and he hastened to
the tea-table, and was glad to be silent and enjoy the compliment his
dear Joan had given him.

For Joan Penelles was not only a good wife, she was a pious, truthful,
sensible, patient woman. The days of her youthful beauty were over,
but her fine face left the heart satisfied with her. There was room in
her eyes, light upon her face, strength and mature grace in her tall
figure--the grace of a woman who has grown up like a forest tree in
fresh air and winds and liberty--the physical grace that never comes
by the dancing-master. And her print dress and white kerchief and
neatly braided hair seemed as much a part of her charm as the thatched
roof, the yellow stone-wort, and the dainty little mother of millions
creeping over the roof and walls were a part of the picturesque
cottage. The beauty of Joan Penelles was the beauty of fitness in
every part, of health, of good temper, of a certain spiritual
perception. Penelles loved her with a sure affection; he trusted in
her. In every strait of his life he went to her for comfort or advice.
He could not have imagined a single day without Joan to direct it.

For his daughter Denas he had a love perhaps not stronger, but quite
different in kind. Denas was his only living child. Denas loved the
sea. Penelles could remember her small pink feet in the tide, when
they were baby feet scarce able to stand alone. As she grew older she
often begged to go to sea with the fishers, and on warm summer nights
she had lain in the boat, and talked to him and his mates, and sung
them such wild, sweet songs that the men vowed she charmed the fish
into the nets. For they had always wondrous takes when Denas leaned
over the gunwale, and in sweet, piercing notes sang the old
fishing-call:

  "Come, gray fish! gray fish!
  Come from the gray cold sea!
  Fathoms, fathoms deep is the wall of net.
  Haddock! haddock! herring! herring!
  Halibut! bass! whatever you be,
  Fish! fish! fish! come pay your debt."

And while the men listened to the shrill, imperative voice mingling
with the wash of the waves, and watched the child's long yellow hair
catching the glory of the moonlight, they let her lead them as she
would. She did not fear storms. It was her father who feared them for
her, though never after one night when she was twelve years old.

"You cannot go to-night, Denas," he said; "the tide is late and the
wind is contrary."

"Well, then," the little maid answered with decision, "the contrary
wind be God's wind. 'Twas whist poor speed the fishers were once
making--toiling and rowing--and the wind contrary, when He came
walking on the water and into the boat, and then, to be sure, all was
quiet enough."

There were no words to dispute this position, and Denas went with the
fishers, and sat singing like a spirit while the boat kissed the wind
in her teeth. And anon the tide turned, and the wind changed, and
there was a lull, and so the nets were well shot, and they came back
to harbour before the breeze just at cock-light--that is, when the
cocks begin to crow for the dawning.

Thus petted and loved, the pretty girl made her way into all hearts,
and when she said one day that she wanted to go to the school at St.
Penfer and learn all about the strange seas and the strange lands that
were in the world, her father and mother were quite thrilled by her
great ambition. But she had her desire, and for three years she went
to the private school at St. Penfer, and among the girls gathered
there made many friends. Chief among these was Elizabeth Tresham, the
daughter of a gentleman who had bought, with the salvage of a large
fortune, the small Cornish estate on which he lived, or rather fretted
away life in vain regrets over an irrevocable past. Elizabeth was his
only daughter, but he had a son who was much older than Elizabeth--a
handsome, gay young man about whom little was known in St. Penfer.

That little was not altogether favourable. It was understood that he
painted pictures and played very finely on the piano, and every one
could see that he dressed in the most fashionable manner and that he
was handsome and light-hearted. But it could not be hid that he often
came for money, which old Mr. Tresham had sometimes to borrow in St.
Penfer for him. And business men noted the fact that his visits were
so erratic and frequently so long in duration that it was hardly
likely he had regular employment. And if a man had no private steady
income, then for him to be without steady daily labour was considered
in St. Penfer suspicious and not at all respectable. So in general
Roland Tresham was treated with a shy courtesy, which at first he
resented, but finally laughed at.

"Squire Peverall is afraid of his daughter and barely returns my bow,
and the rector has sent his pretty Phyllis to St. Ives while I am
here, Elizabeth," he said one night to his sister. "Phyllis is well
enough, but she has not a shilling, and pray who would marry Clara
Peverall with only a paltry twenty thousand?"

"Clara is a nice girl, Roland, and if you only would marry and settle
down to a reasonable life, how happy I should be."

"Could I lead a more reasonable life, Elizabeth? I manage to get more
pleasure out of a hundred pounds than some men get out of their
thousands."

"And father and I carry the care of it."

"You are very foolish. Why carry care? I do not. I let the men to whom
I owe money carry the care."

"But father cannot do that--nor can I. And to be in debt, in St.
Penfer, is disreputable."

"Well, Elizabeth, is it reasonable that I should suffer for father's
and your inability to be happy, or for the antiquated notions of such
an antiquated town as St. Penfer? I am only twenty-nine, and the
pleasures of life are necessities to me."

"I am only nineteen, Roland."

"But then you are a girl--that is such a different thing."

"Yes, it is a different thing," and Elizabeth laid down the piece of
linen she was stitching and looked up at the handsome fellow who was
leaning against the open window and puffing his cigar smoke out of it.
She had the English girl's adoration of the eldest son, and likewise
her natural submission to the masculine element. Besides which, she
loved Roland with all her simple faith and affection. She loved him
for his handsome self and his charming ways. She loved him because he
had been her mother's idol, and she had promised her mother never to
desert Roland. She loved him because he loved her in his own perfectly
selfish way. She was just as willing to bear his troubles, and plan
for their relief, and deny herself for his pleasure, as Roland was
willing to accept the sacrifice. Of course she was foolish, perhaps
sinfully foolish, and it is no excuse for her folly to admit that
there are thousands of women in the same transgression.

In one of his visits to St. Penfer, about two years previous to this
Easter Eve, Roland Tresham had met Denas Penelles. At that time he had
been much interested in her. The little fisher-girl with her piquant
face, her strange haunting voice, and her singular self-possession was
a charming study. He made several sketches of her, he set her wild,
sweet fisher-songs to music, he lent her books to read, he talked to
her and Elizabeth of the wonderful London life which Elizabeth could
partly remember, but which was like a fairy-tale to Denas.

Fortunately Elizabeth was jealous of her brother and jealous of her
friend, and she never gave them any opportunity for private
conversation. If Roland proposed to see Denas down the cliff-breast,
Elizabeth was always delighted to go also. If Roland asked Denas to go
into the garden to gather fruit or flowers, or into the drawing-room
to sing her songs to his accompaniments, Elizabeth was faithfully at
the side of Denas. She was actuated by a variety of motives. She
wished her brother to make a prudent marriage. There were at least
three young girls in the vicinity eligible, and Elizabeth believed
that Roland had only to woo in order to win. Any entanglement with
Denas, therefore, would be apt to delay such a settlement.

She liked Denas, and she did not wish to be the means of giving her a
heartache or a disappointment. But she liked her as a friend and
companion, not as a probable sister. Mr. Tresham in the days of his
commercial glory had once been Lord Mayor of London. Mrs. Tresham had
been "presented," and the grand house and magnificent entertainments
of the Treshams were chronicled in newspapers, which Elizabeth highly
valued and carefully treasured. She had also her full share of that
all-pervading spirit of caste which divides English society into
innumerable circles, and though she did not dislike the tacit offence
she gave to the St. Penfer young ladies by selecting a companion not
in their ranks, she was always ready to defend her friendship for
Denas by an exaggerated description of her many fine qualities. On
this subject she could air the extreme social views which she heard
from Roland, and which she always passionately opposed when Roland
advocated them; but she was not any more ready to put her ideas of an
equality based on personal desert into practice than was the most
bigoted aristocrat of her acquaintance.

There was also another motive for her care of Denas, a strong one,
though Elizabeth's mind barely recognised its existence. John
Penelles, though only a fisher, was a man who had influence and who
had saved money. Once when Mr. Tresham had been in a great strait for
cash, Penelles, remembering Denas, had cheerfully loaned him a hundred
pounds. Elizabeth recollected her father's anxiety and his relief and
gratitude, and a friend who will open, not his heart or his house, but
his purse, is a rare good friend, one not to be lightly wronged or
lost. Besides these reasons, there were many smaller ones, arising out
of petty social likes and dislikes and jealousies, which made Miss
Tresham determined to keep Denas Penelles precisely in the position to
which she had at first admitted her--that of a friend and companion.

To visitors she often used the adjective "humble" before the noun
"friend," glossing it with a somewhat exaggerated account of Denas and
their relationship, but with Denas herself she never thought of such
qualification. Denas had all the native independence of her class--the
fisher class, who neither sow nor reap, but take their living direct
from the hand of God. She was proud of her father, and proud of his
boats, and proud of his skill in managing them. She said, whenever she
spoke of him: "My father is an upright man. He is a fine sailor and a
lucky fisher. Every one trusts my father. Every one honours him."

Of course Denas recognised the differences in her friend's life and
her own. Mr. Tresham's old stone mansion was large and lofty. It had
fine gardens, and it had been well furnished from the wreck of the
London house. Elizabeth played on the harp and piano in a pretty,
fashionable way, and she had jewelry, and silk dresses, and many
adornments quite outside of the power of Denas to obtain. But Denas
never envied her these things. She looked on them as the accidentals
of a certain station, and God had not put her in that station. In her
own she had the very best of all that belonged to it. And as far as
personal adornment went, she was neither vain nor envious. Her
dark-blue merino dress and her wide straw hat satisfied her ideas of
propriety and beauty. A shell comb in her fair hair and a few white
hyacinths at her throat were all the ornaments she desired. So dressed
that Easter Eve, she had stood a moment with her hat in her hand
before her mother, and asked, with a merry little movement of her eyes
and head, "what she thought of her?" and Joan Penelles had told her
child promptly:

"You be sweet as blossoms, Denas."

There was an engagement between her and Elizabeth to adorn the altar
for the Resurrection Service, and it was mainly this duty which had
delayed her until John Penelles began to worry about her long absence.
He did not ask himself why he had all in a moment thought of Roland
Tresham and felt a shiver of apprehension. He was not accustomed to
reason about his feelings, it was so much easier to go to Joan with
them. But this evening Joan did not quite satisfy him. He drank his
tea and ate plentifully of his favourite pie, of fresh fish and cream
and young parsley, and then said:

"Joan, my dear, I have an over-mind to light my pipe and saunter up
the cliff-breast. I may meet Denas."

"I wish you wouldn't go, father. It do look as if you had lost trust
in Denas--misdoubting one's own is a whist poor business and not worth
the following."

"Aw, my dear, I just want to talk a few words to her quiet-like. If
Denas is companying with Roland Tresham she oughtn't to do it, and I
must tell her so, that I must. My dear girl, right is right in the
devil's teeth."

He said the words so sternly that they seemed to make a gloom in the
cottage, but Joan's cheerful laugh cleared it away. "You be such a
dear, good, careful father, John," she said, as she tucked in with a
caressing movement the long ends of his kerchief. "I was only thinking
that if it be good to watch, it is far better to trust--there then,
isn't it, father?"

"Why, my dear, I'll watch first and I'll trust after--that's right
enough, isn't it, Joan?"

Joan sighed and smiled, and Penelles, with his pipe in his mouth,
turned his face landward. Joan thought a moment and then called to
him:

"Father! Paul Tynton is very bad to-day. He was taken ill when the
moon was three days old; men die who sicken on that day. Hadn't you
better call and speak a word with him? He is in your class, you
know."

"He was taken when the moon was four days old; he'll have a hard
little time, but he'll get up again."

There was nothing else she could think of, and she knit her brows and
turned in to her house duties. Joan did not want any meeting between
her husband and Roland Tresham. She did not want anything to occur
which would interfere with Denas visiting Miss Tresham, for these
visits were a source of great pleasure to Denas and great pride to
herself. And Joan could not believe that there was any danger to be
feared from Roland; Denas had known him for two years and nothing evil
had yet happened. If Roland had said one wrong word to Denas, Joan was
sure her child would have told her.

While she was thinking of these things, John Penelles went slowly up
the winding path that led to the top of the cliff. It was sweet and
bright on either hand with the fragile, delicate flowers of early
spring. He stopped frequently to look at them, and he longed to touch
them, to hold them in his palm, to put them against his lips. But he
looked at his big, hard hands, and then at the flowers, and so,
shaking his head, walked on. The blackbird was piping and the
missel-thrush singing in one or two of her seven languages, and John
felt the spring joy stirring in his own heart to melody. He sat in the
singing-pew at St. Penfer Chapel, and he had a noble voice, so he
shook the ashes out of his pipe, and clasping his hands behind his
back was just going to give the blackbirds and thrushes his evening
song, when he heard the rippling laugh of Denas a little ahead of
him.

He told himself in a moment that it was not her usual laugh. He could
not for his life have defined the difference, but there it was. Before
he saw her he knew that Roland Tresham was with her, and in a moment
or two they came suddenly within his vision. Denas was walking a
little straighter than usual, and Roland was bending toward her. He
was gay, laughing, finely dressed; he was doing his best to attract
the girl who walked so proudly, so apart, and yet so happily beside
him. Penelles went forward to meet them. As they approached Denas
smiled, and the young man called out:

"Hello, Penelles! How do you do? And what's the news? And how is the
fishing? I was just bringing Denas home--and hoping to see you."

"Aw, then, sir, you can see for yourself how I be, and the news be
none, and the fishing be plenty."

"St. Penfer harbour is not much of a place, Penelles. I was just
telling Denas about London."

"St. Penfer be a hard little place, but it do give us a living, sir; a
honest living, thank God! Come, Denas, my dear."

As he spoke he gently took the girl's hand, and with a perfectly civil
"Good-evening, sir," turned with her homeward.

"Too fast, Penelles; I am going with you."

"Much obliged; not to-night, sir. It be getting late. Say good-evening,
Denas."

There was something so final about the man's manner that Roland was
compelled to accept the dismissal, but it deeply offended him, and the
unreasonable anger opened the door for evil thoughts; and evil
thoughts--having a cursed and powerful vitality--immediately began to
take form and to make plans for their active gratification. Denas
walked silently down the narrow path before her father. He could see
by the way she carried herself and by the swing of the little basket
in her hand that she was vexed, and he had a sense of injustice in her
attitude which he could not define, but which wounded his great loving
heart deeply. At last they reached the shingle, and he strode to her
side.

"You be in a great hurry now, Denas," he said.

"I want to speak to my mother."

"What is it, dear? Father will do as well."

"No, he won't. Father is cruel cross to-night, and thinking wrong of
his girl and wrong of others who meant no wrong."

"Then I be sorry enough, Denas. Come, my dear, we won't quarrel for a
bad man like Roland Tresham."

"He isn't bad, father."

"He is cruel bad--worse than an innocent girl can know. Aw, my dear,
you must take father's word for it. How was he walking with you
to-night? 'Twas some devil's miracle, I'll warrant."

"No, then, it was not. He came from London on the afternoon train, and
Miss Tresham had a bad headache and could not set me home as she
always does."

"You should have come home alone. There was nothing to fear you."

"'Tis the first time."

"And, my dear, 'tis the last time. Mind that! 'Twill be a bad hour for
Roland Tresham if I see him making love to my girl again."

"He didn't say a word of love to me, father."

"Aw, then, he was looking it--more shame to him, not to give looks
words."

"Cannot a man look at a pretty girl? I call that nonsense, father."

"Roland Tresham can't look at you, Denas, any more as I saw him
looking at you to-night--bold and free, and sure and laughing to his
own heart for the clever he was, and the devil in his eyes and on his
tongue. 'Twas all wrong, my dear, or I wouldn't be feeling so hot and
angry about it. I wouldn't be feeling as if my heart was cut loose
from its moorings and sinking down and down as deep as fear can send
it."

"You might trust me, father."

"Aw, my sweet girl, there's times an angel can't be trusted, or so
many wouldn't have lost themselves. It takes a man to know men and all
the wickedness mixed up in their flesh and blood. There's your mother,
Denas--God bless her!"

Joan came strolling forward to meet them, her large, handsome face
beaming and shining with love and pride. But she was immediately
sensitive to the troubled, angry atmosphere in which her husband and
child walked, and she looked into John's face with the inquiry in her
eyes.

"Denas is vexed about Roland Tresham, mother."

"There then, I thought Denas had more sense than to trouble herself or
you, father, with the like of him. Your new frock is home, Denas, and
pretty enough, my dear. Go and look at it before it be too dim to
see."

Denas was glad to escape to her room, and Penelles turned suddenly
silent and said no more until he had smoked another pipe on his own
door-step.

Then he went into the cottage and sat down. Joan was by the fire with
her knitting in her hand, and softly humming to herself her favourite
hymn:

  "When quiet in my house I sit."

Penelles let her finish, and then he told her all that he saw and all
that he thought and every word he and Denas had spoken. "And I said
what was right, didn't I, Joan?" he asked.

"No words at all are sometimes better than good words, John. When the
wicked was before him, even David didn't dare to say good and right
words."

"David wasn't a St. Penfer fisherman, Joan, and the wicked men of his
day were a different kind of wicked men--they just thought of a bad
thing and went and did it. They didn't plot and plan how to make
others wicked for them and with them."

"What do you know wrong of Roland Tresham, John?"

"What do I know wrong of Trelawny's little Jersey bull? Nothing. It
never hurt me yet. But I see the devil in his eyes and in the lift of
his feet and the toss of his horns and the switch of his tail, and I
know right well he'd rip me to pieces if I'd only give him the chance.
That's the way I know Roland Tresham is a bad one. I see the devil in
the glinting of his eyes and the mock of his smile, and I wouldn't
have been more sick frightened to-night if I'd seen a tiger purring
around Denas than I was when I got the first glimpse of Tresham
bending down, coaxing and flattering our little girl. He's a bad man,
sent with sorrow and shame wherever he goes, and I know it just as I
know the long dead roll of the waves and the white creeping mist--like
a dirty thief--which makes me cry out at sea 'All hands to reef!
Quick! All hands to reef!'"

"There then, John, if wrong and danger there be, what must be done?"

"Keep the little maid out of it. Don't let her go to Mr. Tresham's. I
wouldn't hear tell of it. If Denas would only listen a bit to Tris
Penrose, he'd be the man for her--a good man, a good sailor, and he do
love the very stones Denas steps on, he do for sure."

"She used to like Tris, but these few months her love has all quailed
away."

"'Tis dreadful! dreadful! Why did God Almighty make women so? Here be
good love going a-begging to them and getting nothing but a frown and
a hard word, while devil's love is fretted for and heart-nursed.
Whatever is a woman's love made of, I do wonder?"

As he asked the question he knocked his pipe against the jamb to
clean it out, and then quickly turned his head, for an inner door
opened and Denas peeped out and then came forward and put her arm
around his neck and said:

"Woman's love or man's love, who knows how God makes it, father? And
the fisherman's poet--a far wiser man than most men--asks and answers
the same troublesome question in his way. What is love? How does it
come?

  "'Is it sucked with your milk? is it mixed with your flesh?
  Does it float about everywhere like a mesh,
  So fine you can't see it? Is it blast? Is it blight?
  Is it fire? Is it fever? Is it wrong? Is it right?
  Where is it? What is it? The Lord above,
  He only knows the strength of love;
  He only knows, and He only can,
  The root of love that is in a man.'[1]

For a woman; that's harder still, isn't it, father? But never fret
yourself, father, for Denas loves you and mother first of all and best
of all." And she slipped on to his knee and stretched out her hand to
her mother, and so, kissing the tears off her father's face and the
smiles off her mother's lips, she went happily to her sleep.

And a great trust came into the father's and mother's hearts; they
spoke long of their hopes and plans for her happiness, and then,
stepping softly to her bedside, they blessed her in her sleep. And she
was dreaming of Roland Tresham. So mighty is love, and yet so
ignorant; so strong, and yet so weak; so wise, and yet so easily
deceived.




CHAPTER II.

OH, THE PITY OF IT!

  "One love is false, one love is true:
  Ah, if a maiden only knew!"

  "It is dear honey that is licked off a thorn."


The thing Elizabeth Tresham had done her best to prevent had really
happened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quite
unexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unable
to keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth's own
love-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacy
and decision.

Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of most
women--the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and the
eligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. The
first was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabeth
ascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthly
goods had not been well considered by the church he served. The living
of St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itself
was early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old.
Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under such
conditions; and at nineteen years of age poverty has a romantic
colouring if only love paint it.

Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, not
even poverty. He was unpoetically rich--he even trafficked in money.
The rector was a very young man; Burrell was thirty-eight years old.
The rector wrote poetry, and understood Browning, and recited from
Arnold and Morris. Burrell's tastes were for social science and
statistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent;
small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, on
the contrary, was tall and fair, and so exceedingly handsome that
women especially never perceived that the portal to all his senses was
small and low and that he was incapable of receiving a great idea.

On that Saturday morning Robert Burrell resolved to test his fate, and
he wrote to Miss Tresham. It was a letter full of that passionate
adoration he was too timid to personally offer, and his protestations
were honourably certified by the offer of his hand and fortune. It was
a noble letter; a letter no woman could easily put aside. It meant to
Elizabeth a sure love to guard and comfort her and an absolute release
from the petty straits and anxieties of genteel poverty. It would make
her the mistress of the finest domestic establishment in the
neighbourhood--it would give her opportunities for helping Roland to
the position in life he ought to occupy; and this thought--though an
after one--had a great influence on Elizabeth's mind.

After some consideration she took the letter to her father. He was in
one of his most querulous moods, ill-disposed to believe in any good
thing coming to him. He read the letter under such influence, and yet
he could not but be sensible of its importance.

"It is a piece of unexpected good fortune for you, Elizabeth," he said
with a sigh. "Of course it will leave me alone here, but I do not mind
that now; all else has gone--why not you? I thought, however, the
rector was your choice. I hope you have no entanglement there."

"He has never asked me to be his wife, but he has constantly shown
that he wished it. He is poor--I think he felt that."

"He has made love to you, called you the fairest girl on earth, made
you believe he lived only in your presence, and so on, and so on?"

"Yes, he has talked in that way for a long time."

"He never intends to ask you to marry him. He asked Dr. Eyre if you
had any fortune. Oh, I know his kind and their ways!"

"I think you are mistaken, father. If he knew Mr. Burrell wished to
marry me he would venture to----"

"You think he would? I am sure he would not--but here the gentleman
comes. I will speak a few words to him and then he will speak to you,
and after that you can answer Mr. Burrell's letter. Stay a moment,
Elizabeth. It is only fair to tell you that I have no money but my
annuity. When I die you will be penniless."

So Elizabeth went out of the room silent and with her head drooping a
little. The word "penniless" was a shock to her. She sat down in a
large chair with her back to the light and shut her eyes. She wished
to set the two men clearly before her. It would be easy to love Robert
Burrell if she did not love the other. Did she love the other? She
examined her heart pitilessly, and found always some little "if"
crouching in a corner. In some way or other it was evident she did not
believe "the other" would stand trial.

Mr. Tresham had the same opinion in a more positive form, and he was
quite willing to test it. He met the rector with more effusion than
was usual with him, and putting on his hat said:

"Walk around the garden with me, sir. I have something to say to you,
and as I am a father you must permit me to speak very plainly. I
believe you are in love with Elizabeth?"

There was no answer from the young man, and his face was pale and
angry.

"Well, sir! Am I right or wrong?"

"Sir, I respect and like Miss Tresham. Everyone must do so, I think."

"Have you asked her to marry you?"

"Oh, dear, no! Nothing of the kind, sir; nothing of the kind!"

"I thought not. Well, you see, sir, your dangling about my house keeps
honest men outside, and I would be obliged to you, sir--in fact, sir,
I require you at once to make Miss Tresham understand that your
protestations are lies--simple and straightforward lies, sir. I insist
on your telling her that your love-making is your amusement and
girls' hearts the pawns with which you play. You will tell her that
you are a scoundrel, sir! And when you have explained yourself to Miss
Tresham, you had better give the same information to Miss Trelawny,
and to Miss Rose Trefuses, and to that poor little sewing-girl you
practise your recitations on. Sir, I have the greatest contempt for
you, and when you have spoken to Miss Tresham, you will leave my house
and come here no more."

"It will give me pleasure to obey you, sir."

With these words he turned from the contemptuous old man, and in a
hurried, angry mood sought Elizabeth in her usual sitting-room.

She opened her eyes as he opened the door and looked at him. Then she
rose and went toward him. He waved her away imperatively and said:

"No, Elizabeth! No! I have no caress for you to-day! I do not think I
shall ever feel lovingly to you again. Why did you tell your father
anything? I thought our love was a secret, sacred affair. When I am
brought to catechism about my heart matters, I shut my heart close. I
am not to be hectored and frightened into marrying any woman."

"Will you remember whose presence you are in?"

"If you wanted to be my wife----"

"I do not want to be your wife."

"If you loved me in the least----"

"I do not love you in the least."

"I shall come here no more. O Elizabeth! Only to think!"

"I am glad you come here no more. I see that you judge the honour and
fulness of my heart by the infidelity and emptiness of your own. Go,
sir, and remember, you discard not me--I discard you."

Thus speaking she passed him haughtily, and he put out his hand as if
to detain her, but she gathered her drapery close and so left him. Mr.
Tresham heard her footsteps and softly opened the door of his library.
"Come in here, Elizabeth," he said with some tenderness.

"I have seen him."

"And he brought you the news of his own dishonour. Let him go. He is
as weak as a bent flax-stalk, and to be weak is to be wicked. Bury
your disappointment in your heart, do not even tell Denas--girls talk
to their mothers and mothers talk to all and sundry. Turn your face to
Burrell Court now--it is a fair fortune."

"And it may be a good thing for poor Roland."

"It may. A respectable position and a certain income is often
salvation for a man. Write to Mr. Burrell at once, and send the letter
by the gardener."

That was an easy direction to give, but Elizabeth did not find it easy
to carry out. She wrote half-a-dozen letters, and none of them was
satisfactory. So she finally asked her lover to call and see her at
seven o'clock that evening. And it was very natural that, in the
stress of such an important decision, the visit of Denas and their
intention of dressing the altar should be forgotten. It was a kind of
unpleasant surprise to her when Denas came and she remembered the
obligation. Of course she could not now refuse to fulfil it. The
offering was surely to God, and no relation between herself and the
rector could interfere with it. But it was a great trial. She said she
had a headache, and perhaps that complaint as well as any other
defined the hurt and shock she had received.

Denas wondered at Elizabeth's want of interest. She did not
superintend as usual the cutting of the flowers, so carefully nursed
and saved for this occasion; and though she went to the church with
Denas and really did her best to make a heart offering with her Easter
wreaths, the effort was evident. Her work lacked the joyous enthusiasm
which had always distinguished Elizabeth's church duties.

The rector pointedly ignored her, and she felt keenly the curious, and
in some cases the not kindly, glances of the other Easter handmaidens.
In such celebrations she had always been put first; she was now
last--rather, she was nowhere. It would have been hard to bear had she
not known what a triumph she held in abeyance. For Mr. Burrell was the
patron of St. Penfer's church; he had given its fine chime of bells
and renovated its ancient pews of black oak. The new organ had been
his last Christmas gift to the parish, and out of his purse mainly had
come the new school buildings. The rector might ignore Miss Tresham,
but she smiled to herself when she reflected on the salaams he would
yet make to Mrs. Robert Burrell.

Now, Denas was not more prudent than young girls usually are. She saw
that there was trouble, and she spoke of it. She saw Elizabeth was
slighted, and she resented it. It was but natural under such
circumstances that the church duty was made as short as possible; and
it was just as natural that Elizabeth should endeavour to restore her
self-respect by a confidential revelation of the great matrimonial
offer she had received. And perhaps she did nothing unwomanly in
leaving Denas freedom to suppose the rector's insolent indifference
the fruit of his jealousy and disappointment.

In the midst of these pleasant confidences Roland unexpectedly
entered. He had written positively that he was not coming. And then
here he was. "I thought I could not borrow for the trip, but I managed
it," he said with the bland satisfaction of a man who feels that he
has accomplished a praiseworthy action. For once Elizabeth was not
quite pleased at his visit. She would rather it had not occurred at
such an important crisis of her life. She was somewhat afraid of
Roland's enthusiasms and rapid friendships, and it was not unlikely
that his first conception of Mr. Burrell's alliance would be "a good
person to borrow money from."

Also she wished time to dress herself carefully and solitude to get
the inner woman under control. After five o'clock Denas and Roland
were both in her way. They were at the piano singing as complacently
and deliberately as if the coming of her future husband was an event
that could slip into and fit into any phase of ordinary life. It was a
strange, wonderful thing to her, something so sacred and personal she
could not bear to think of discussing it while Roland laughed and
Denas sang. It was not an every-day event and she would not have it
made one.

She knew her father would not interfere, and she knew one way in which
to rid herself of Denas and Roland. Naturally she took it. A little
after six she said: "I have a headache, Roland, and shall not walk
to-night. Will you take Denas safely down the cliff?"

Roland was delighted, and Denas was no more afraid of the gay fellow
than the moth is of the candle. She was pleasantly excited by the idea
of a walk all alone with Roland. She wondered what he would say to
her: if he would venture to give voice to the inarticulate love-making
of the last two years--to all that he had looked when she sang to
him--to all that he meant by the soft, prolonged pressure of her hand
and by that one sweet stolen kiss which he had claimed for Christmas'
sake.

They walked a little apart and very silently until they came into the
glades of the cliff-breast. Then, suddenly, without word or warning,
Roland took Denas in his arms and kissed her. "Denas! sweet Denas!" he
cried, and the wrong was so quickly, so impulsively committed that for
a moment Denas was passive under it. Then with flaming cheeks she
freed herself from his embrace. "Mr. Tresham, you must go back," she
said. "I can walk no further with you. Why were you so rude to me?"

"I am not rude, Denas, and I will not go back. After waiting two years
for this opportunity, do you think I will give it up? And I will not
let you call me Mr. Tresham. To you I am Roland. Say it here in my
arms, dear, lovely Denas! Do not turn away from me. You cannot go back
without telling Elizabeth, and I swear you shall not go forward until
you forgive me. Come, Denas, sweet, forgive me!" He held her hands, he
kissed her hands, and would not release the girl, who, as she listened
to his rapid, eager pleading, became more and more disposed to
tenderness. He was telling the story no one could better tell than
Roland Tresham. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his caressing
attitudes, all went with his eager words, his enthusiastic admiration,
his passionate assertion of his long-hidden affection.

And everything was in his favour. The lovely spring eve, the mystical
twilight, the mellow flutings of the blackbirds and the vesper
thrushes piping nothing new or strange, only the sweet old tune of
love, the lift of the hills, the soft trinkling of hidden brooks, the
scent of violets at their feet and of the fresh leaves above them--all
the magic of the young year and of young love made the delicious story
Roland had been longing to tell and the innocent heart of Denas
fearing and longing to hear very easy to interpret--very easy to
understand.

Listening, and then refusing to listen; yielding a little, and then
drawing back again, Denas nevertheless heard Roland's whole sweet
confession. She was taught to believe that he had loved her from their
first meeting; taught to believe and half-made to acknowledge that she
had not been indifferent to him. She was under almost irresistible
influences, and she did not think of others which might have
counteracted them. Even Elizabeth's revelation to her of her own
splendid matrimonial hopes was favourable to Roland's arguments; for
if it was a thing for congratulating and rejoicing that Elizabeth
should marry a man so much richer than herself, where was it wrong for
Denas to love one supposed to be socially and financially her
superior?

Before they were half-way to the shingle Roland felt that he had won.
The conviction gave him a new kind of power--the power all women
delight to acknowledge; the sweet dictation, the loving tyranny that
claims every thought of the beloved. Roland told Denas she must not
dare to remember anyone but him; he would feel it and know it if she
did. She promised this readily. She must not tell Elizabeth. Elizabeth
was unreasonable, she was even jealous of everything concerning her
brother; she would have a hundred objections; she would influence his
father unfavourably; she would do all she could to prevent their
seeing each other, etc., etc. And where a man pleads, one woman is
readily persuaded against another. But Denas was much harder to
persuade where the article of secrecy touched her father and mother.
Her conscience, uneasy for some time, told her positively at this
point that deception was wicked and dangerous. Roland could not win
from her a promise in this direction. But he was not afraid--he was
sure he could trust to her love and her desire to please him.

One of the cruellest things about a wrong love is that it delights in
tangles and hidden ways; that it teaches and practises deceit from its
first inception; that its earliest efforts are toward destroying all
older and more sacred attachments. Roland was not willing to take the
hand of Denas in the face of the world and say: "This is my beloved
wife." Yet for the secret pleasure of his secret love, he expected
Denas to wrong father-love and mother-love and to deceive day by day
the friend and the companion who had been so kind and so fairly loyal
to her.

No wonder John Penelles hated him instinctively. John's soul needed
but a glimpse of the lovers sauntering down the narrow cliff-path to
apprehend the beginning of sorrows. Instantaneous as the glimpse was,
it explained to him the restless, angry, fearful feeling that had
driven him from his own cottage to the place appointed by destiny for
the revelation of his child's danger and of his own admonition.

He was glad that he had obeyed the spiritual order; whatever power had
warned him had done him service. It is true the fond assurances of
Denas had somewhat pacified his suspicions, but he was not altogether
satisfied. When Denas declared that Roland had not made love to her,
John felt certain that the girl was in some measure deceiving
him--perhaps deceiving herself; for he could not imagine her to be
guilty of a deliberate lie. Alas! lying is the vital air of secret
love, and a girl must needs lie who hides from her parents the object
and the course of her affections. Still, when he thought of her arms
around his neck, of her cheek against his cheek, of her assertion that
"Denas loved no one better than her father and mother," he felt it a
kind of disloyalty to his child to altogether doubt her. He believed
that Denas believed in herself. Well, then, he must try and trust her
as far and as long as it was possible.

And Joan trusted her daughter--she scouted the idea of Denas doing
anything that was outside her mother's approval. She told John that
his fear was nothing but the natural conceit of men; they thought a
woman could not be with one of their sex and not be ready to sacrifice
her own life and the lives of all her kinsfolk for him. "It be such
puddling folly to start with," she said indignantly; "talking about
Denas being false to her father and mother! 'Tis a doleful, dismal,
ghastly bit of cowardice, John. Dreadful! aw, dreadful!"

Then John was silent, but he communed with his own heart. Joan had not
seen Roland and Denas as he had seen them; no one had troubled Joan as
he had been troubled. For something often gives to a loving heart a
kind of prescience, when it may be used for wise and saving ends; and
John Penelles divined the angry trend of Roland's thoughts, though it
was impossible for him to anticipate the special form that trend would
take.

Roland had indeed been made furiously angry at the interference
between himself and Denas. "I spoke pleasantly to the old fisher, and
he was as rude as could be. Rude to me! Jove! I'll teach him the value
of good manners to his betters."

He sat down on a lichen-covered rock, lit a cigar, and began to think.
His personal dignity had been deeply wounded; his pride of petty caste
trod upon. He, a banker's son, had been snubbed by a common
fisherman! "He took Denas from me as if I was going to kill her, body
and soul. He deserves all he suspected me of." And as these and
similar thoughts passed through Roland's mind he was not at all
handsome; his face looked dark and drawn and marked all over with the
characters sin writes through long late hours of selfish revelry and
riot.

But however his angry thoughts wandered, they always came back to the
slight of himself personally--to the failure of Penelles to appreciate
the honour he was doing him in wooing his daughter. And if the devil
wishes to enter easily a man or a woman, he finds no door so wide and
so easy of access as the door of wounded vanity and wounded
self-esteem.

Roland's first impulse was to make Denas pay her father's debt. "I
will never speak to her again. Common little fisher-girl! I will teach
her that gentlemen are to be used like gentlemen. Why did she not
speak up to her father? She stood there without a word and let him
snub me. The idea!" These exclamations were, however, only the quick,
unreasoning passion of the animal; when Roland had calmed himself with
tobacco, he felt how primitive and foolish they were. His reflections
were then of a different character; they began to flow steadily into a
channel they had often wandered in, though hitherto without distinct
purpose.

"After all, I like the girl. She has a kind of nixie, tantalising,
bewitching charm that would drive a crowd mad. She has a fresh,
sympathetic voice, penetrating, too, as a clarion. Her folk-songs and
her sea-songs go down to the bottom of a man's heart and into every
corner of it. Now, if I could get her to London and have her taught
how to manage her voice and face and person, if I had her taught how
to dance--Jove! there is a fortune in it! Dressed in a fancy fisher
costume, singing the casting songs and the boat songs--the calls and
takes she knows so well--why, she would make a gas-lit theatre seem
like the great ocean, and men would see the white-sailed ships go
marching by, and the fishing cobbles, and the wide nets full of
gleaming fish, and--and, by Jove! they would go frantic with delight.
They would be at her feet. She would be the idol of London. She would
sing full pockets empty. I should have all my desires, and now I have
so few of them. What a prospect! But I'll reach it--I'll reach it, and
all the fishers in St. Penfer's shall not hinder me!"

He thought his plans over again, and then it was dark and he rose up
to return home; but as he shook himself into the proper fit of his
clothes and settled his hat at the correct angle, he laughed
vauntingly and said:

"I shall be even with you, John Penelles, before next Easter. I was
not good enough for Denas, was I not? Well, she is going to work for
me and for my pleasure and profit, John Penelles; going to make money
for me to spend, John Penelles. My beautiful fisher-maid! I dare be
bound she is dreaming of me now. Women! women! women! What dear little
fools they are, to be sure!"

He was quite excited and quite good-tempered now. A new plan was like
a new fortune to Roland. He never took into consideration the
contrariness of circumstances and of opposing human elements. His
plans were perfect from his own standpoint; the standpoint of other
people was out of his consideration. Never before had he conceived so
clever a scheme for getting a livelihood made for him. There was
really nobody but Denas to interfere with any of his arrangements, and
Denas was under his control and could be made more so. This night he
felt positive that he had "hit the very thing at last."

He reached home late, but in exuberant spirits. Elizabeth was waiting
for him. She was beautifully dressed, and in a moment he saw upon her
hand the flash of large and perfect diamonds. "They were mother's, I
suppose, and I have as much right--yes, more right--to them than she
has." This was his first thought, but he did not express it. There was
an air about Elizabeth that was quite new to him; he was curious and
full of expectation as he seated himself beside her. She shook her
head in a reproving manner.

"You have been making love to Denas. I see it in your eyes, Roland.
And you promised me you never would."

"Upon my honour, Elizabeth. We met the old fisher Penelles a long way
up the cliff and he took her from me. Talking of making love--pray,
what have you been doing? I thought you had a headache."

"Roland, I am going to be married--June the 11th."

"Is that your engagement ring?"

"It is. Mr. Burrell says it was his mother's engagement ring; but,
then, gems are all second-hand--a hundred-hand--a thousand-hand for
that."

"Burrell! You take my breath away! Burrell! The man who has a bank in
Threadneedle Street?"

"The same."

"Good gracious, Elizabeth! You have made all our fortunes! You noble
girl! I did not know he was thinking of you."

"He was waiting for me. Destiny, Roland. But he is a noble-hearted
man, and he loves me and I intend to be a good wife to him. I do
indeed. He is going to make a great settlement on me, and I shall have
an income of my own from it--all my own, to do what I like with."

"Elizabeth, dear, I always have loved you better than anything else in
the world. You will not forget me now, will you, dear?"

"Why, Roland, I thought of you when I accepted Mr. Burrell. When I am
married, Roland, I shall manage things for you as you wish them, I
daresay. The man loves me so much that I could get not the half, but
the whole of his kingdom from him."

"You are the dearest, noblest sister in the world."

"I could not bear to go to sleep without making you as happy as
myself. Now, Roland, there is something you must not do, and that is,
have any love nonsense with Denas Penelles. At Burrell Court you will
meet rich girls and girls of good birth, and your only chance is in a
rich marriage--you know it is, Roland."

"Oh, I do not quite think that, Elizabeth."

"Roland, you know it. How many situations have you had and lost? If
Mr. Burrell gave you a desk in his bank to-morrow, you would hand back
its key before my wedding-day."

"Perhaps; but there are other ways."

"None for you but a rich marriage. Every other way supposes work, and
you will not work. You know you will not."

"I have some objections."

"Now, any trouble with a fisherman's daughter would be bad every way.
There is the dislike rich girls have for low amours, and, worse still,
the dreadfully Cornish habit fishers have of standing together. If you
offend John Penelles or wrong him in the least, you offend and wrong
every man in St. Penfer fishing quarter. Do not snap your fingers so
scornfully, Roland; you would be no match for a banded enmity like
that."

"All this about Denas?"

"Yes; all this about Denas. The girl is a vain little thing, but I do
not want to see her breaking her heart about your handsome face."

She drew the handsome face down to her lips and kissed it; and Roland
used every charm he possessed in order to deepen his influence over
his going-to-be-rich sister. He was already making plain and straight
his paths for a certain supremacy at Burrell Court. He was already
feeling that a good deal of Robert Burrell's money would come, through
Elizabeth's hands, into his pocket. That would be a perfectly
legitimate course for it to take. Why should not a loving sister help
a loving brother?

And oh, the pity of it! While brother and sister talked only of
themselves, Robert Burrell sat silent and happy in his study, planning
magnificent generosities for his bride; thinking of her youth, of her
innocence, her ignorance of fashionable society, of her affection for
and her loyalty to her father and brother, and loving her with all his
great honest heart for these very things. And Denas lay dreaming of
Roland. And Roland, even while he was talking with Elizabeth about
Burrell Court, was holding fast to his intention to degrade Denas. For
the singing, dancing, fiddling life which he was to lead with her
suited his tastes exactly; he felt it would be the absolutely
necessary alterative to the wealthy decorum of Burrell Court.

O Love! what cruelties are done in thy name! We think of thee as
coming with a rose, and a song, and a smile. Nay, but the Calydonian
Maidens were right when they cried bitterly: "Death should have risen
with Love, and Grief, and visible Fear; and there should have been
heard a voice of lamentation and mourning, as of many in prison."[2]


FOOTNOTES:

  [1] T. E. Brown, M.A.

  [2] "Atalanta in Calydon."




CHAPTER III.

THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

  "O blesséd sounds of wiser life
    Contented with its day,
  How ye rebuke the inner strife
    That wears the soul away."

  "The Eden we live in is our own heart,
  And the first thing we do of our free choice
  Is sure to be sin."
                                     --FESTUS.


John Penelles was one of those strong religious characters whose minds
no questions disturb, whose spiritual aspirations are never put out of
breath. He had not yet been a yoke-fellow with sorrow. Hard work, the
cruelty of the elements, the self-denials of poverty, these things he
had known; but love had never smitten him across the heart.

When he rose that Easter Sunday he rose singing. He sang as he put on
his chapel broadcloth; he was trying over the different metres and the
Easter anthem as he walked about the sanded floor of his cottage, and
thought over the heads of his sermon. For he was to preach that night
in the little chapel of St. Swer, a fishing hamlet four miles to the
northward; indeed, John preached very often, being a local preacher
in the circuit of St. Penfer, and rather famous for his ready, short
sermons, full of the breath of the sea and of the savour of the
fisher's life upon it.

Denas had gone to a neighbouring farm for milk. He heard her quick
step on the shingle, and he stood still in the middle of the floor to
meet her. She had on a short dress of pink calico and a square of
blue-and-white-plaided flannel thrown over her head. She came in like
the breath of the spring Sabbath. Her face was rosy, her lovely lips
slightly apart, her blue eyes dewy and soft and bright and brimming
with love. She lifted her face to her father's face, and he forgot in
a moment all his fears. He saw only Denas, and not any of her faults;
if she had faults, he buried them that moment in his love, and they
were all put out of memory.

Roland and the Treshams were not spoken of. John and Joan both had the
fisher's dislike to name a person or a thing they considered unlucky
or unpleasant. "If you name evil you do call evil" was their simple
creed; and it saved many a household worry. They sat down to their
breakfast of tea, and fresh fish, and white loaf, and the wide-open
door let in the sea wind, and the sea smell, and the soft murmur of
the turning tide. John's heart was full of holy joy; he could feel it
singing: "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" And though he was only a poor
Cornish fisher, he was sure that the world was a very good world and
that life was well worth the living.

"Joan, my dear," he said, "the Bible do tell us that there shall be a
new earth. Can it be a sweeter one than this is?"

"Aw, John, it may be a sight better, for we be promised 'there shall
be no sea there,' thank God! no freezing, drowning men and no weeping
wives. I do think of that when you are out in the frost and storm,
John, and the thought be heaven itself."

"My dear, the sea be God's own highway. There be wonders by the sea.
Was not St. John sent to the sea-side for the Revelations? 'Twas there
he heard the angels, whose voices were like the sound of many waters.
Heaven will be wonderful! wonderful! if it do make us forget the sea.
Aw, my dear Joan, 'twill be something added to this earth, not
something taken away, and the good thing added will make both the sea
and the 'bounds of the everlasting hills' to be blessed."

"John, who told you that? And if the cruel, hungry, awful sea is not
to be taken away, nor yet the 'everlasting hills,' what will make it a
new earth?"

"God's tabernacle will be in it. Aw, my dear, that will make
everything new--sea and land, men and women; and then there will be no
more tears. My dear, when I think of that I love this old world, not
only for what it is, but also for what it is going to be."

"Father, you are preaching and not eating your breakfast; and I want
to get breakfast over and the cups washed, for I have to dress myself
yet, and a new dress to put on, too," and Denas smiled and nodded and
touched her father's big hand with her small one, and then John
smiled back, and with a mighty purpose began to eat his fish and bread
and drink his tea.

The whole day took its colour from this happy beginning. In
after-years John often spoke of that Easter Sabbath; of their quiet
walk all together up the cliff to St. Penfer Chapel; of the singing,
and the sermon, and the Sunday-school in the afternoon for the fisher
children; of the walk to St. Swer with Denas by his side and the walk
back, singing all the way home; of the nice supper ready for them, and
how they had eaten and talked till the late moon made a band of light
across the table, and John said hurriedly:

"Well, there now! The tide will be calling me before I do have time to
get sleep in my eyes."

Then Joan rose quickly and Denas began to put away the bread and
cheese and milk, and though none recognised the fact at the time, the
old life passed away for ever when the three rose from that midnight
supper.

Yet for several days afterward nothing seemed to be changed. John went
to his fishing and had unusual good fortune; and Joan and Denas were
busy mending nets and watching the spring bleaching. It was the duty
of Denas to take the house linen to some level grassy spot on the
cliff-breast and water and watch it whiten in the sunshine. Monday she
had gone to this duty with a vague hope that Roland would seek her
out. She watched all day for him. She knew that she was looking
pretty, and she felt that her employment was picturesque.

As she stood over the breadths of damask, with the water-can making
mimic rain upon them, she was well aware that all her surroundings
added charm to her charm. The soft winds blowing her hair and her pink
skirt; the green leaves whispering above and around her; the rippling
of the brook running down the hillside--all these things belonged as
much to her as the frame belongs to the picture. Why did not Roland
come to see her thus? Was he afraid for the words he had said to her?
Were they not true words? Did he intend, by ignoring them, to teach
her that he had only been playing with her vanity and her credulity?

Tuesday was too wet and blowy to spread the linen, and Denas felt the
morning insufferably long and tedious. Her father, who had been on the
sea all night, dozed in his big chair on the hearthstone. Joan was
silent, and went about her duties in a tiptoeing way that was very
fretful to the impatience of Denas. Denas herself was knitting a
guernsey, and as she sat counting the stitches Tristram Penrose came
to the door and, after a moment's pause, spoke to her. He was a fine
young fellow with an open-air look on his brown face and an open-love
look in his brown eyes.

"My dear Denas," he said, "is your father in?"

"Tris, who gave you license to call me dear? and my father is asleep
by the fireside."

"Aw, then, the One who gave me license to live gave me the license to
love; and dear you be and dear you always will be to Tris Penrose. The
word may be shut in my heart or I may say it in your ear, Denas; 'tis
all the same; dear you be and dear you always will be."

She shrugged her shoulders petulantly, and yet could not resist the
merry up-glance which she knew went straight to the big fellow's
heart. Then she began to fold up her knitting. While Tris was talking
to her father, she would ask for permission to go and see Elizabeth.
While Tris was present, she did not think he would refuse her request,
for if he did so she could ask him for reasons and he would not like
to give them.

Denas had all the natural diplomacy of a clever woman, and she knew
the power of a fond word and a sunny smile. "Father"--is there any
fonder word?--"Father, I want to go and see Miss Tresham. She told me
a very important secret on Saturday, and I know she was expecting me
yesterday to talk it over with her;" then she went close to his side
and put her hand on his shoulder and snuggled her cheek in his big
beard, and called poor Tris' soul into his face for the very joy of
watching her.

John was not insensible to her charming. He hesitated, and Denas felt
the hesitation and met it with a bribe: "You could come up the cliff
to meet me before you go to the boats--couldn't you, father?"

"Nay, my dear, I'll not need to look for you on the cliff, for you
will stay at home, Denas; it rains--it blows."

"Miss Tresham was expecting me all through yesterday, but it was so
fine I took the linen to bleach. She will be so disappointed if I do
not come to-day. We have a secret, father--a very particular secret."

It was hard to resist the pretty, pleading, coaxing girl, but John had
a strength of will which Denas had never before put to the test.

"My dear girl," he answered, "if Miss Tresham be longing to talk her
secrets to you, she can come to you. There be nothing in the world to
hinder her. Here be a free welcome to her."

"I promised, father."

"'Tis a pity you did."

"I must go, father."

"You must stay at home. 'Twould be like putting my girl through the
fire to Baal to send her into the company there be now at Mr.
Tresham's."

"I care nothing for the company. I want to see Miss Tresham."

"Now, then, I am in earnest, Denas. You shall not go. Take your
knitting and sit down to your own work."

She lifted her knitting, but she did not lift a stitch. Where there is
no positive compulsion the hand is only handmaid to the heart, and it
does the work only which the heart wishes. At this hour Denas hated
her knitting, and there being no necessity on her to perform it, her
hands lay idle upon her lap. After a few minutes' conversation John
went out with Tris Penrose, and then Denas began to cry with anger and
disappointment.

"My father has insulted me before Tris Penrose," she said, "and I will
never speak to Tris again. Many a time and oft he has let me go to St.
Penfer when it was raining and blowing. He is very cross, cruel cross!
Mother, you give me leave--do! I will tell you a secret. Elizabeth is
going to be married, and she wants me to help in getting her things
ready. Mother, let me go; it is cruel hard to refuse me!"

The news of an approaching marriage can never be heard by any woman
with indifference. Joan stayed her needle and looked at Denas with an
eager curiosity.

"'Tis to the rector, I'll warrant, Denas," she said.

"No, it is not; but the rector is fine and angry, I can tell you. It
was too much for him to speak to Miss Tresham on Saturday afternoon at
the church. But won't he be sorry for his disknowledging her when he
knows who is to be the bridegroom? He will, and no mistake."

"I don't understand you, Denas. Who is going to marry Miss Tresham?
Say the man's name, and be done with it."

"'Tis a great secret, mother; but if you will let me go to St. Penfer
I will tell you."

"Aw, my dear, I can live without Miss Tresham's secrets. And I do know
she can't be having one I would go against your father to hear tell
of, not I."

"Father is unjust and unkind. What have I done, mother?"

"Your father is afraid of that young jackanapes, Roland Tresham, and
good reason, too, if all be true that is said to be true."

"Mr. Roland is a gentleman."

"Gentleman and gentleman--there be many kinds, and no kind at all for
you. You be a fisher's daughter, and you must choose a husband of
your own sort--none better, thank God! The robin would go to the
eagle's nest, and a poor sad time it had there. Gentlemen marry
gentlemen's daughters, Denas, and if they don't, all sides do be sorry
enough."

"Am I to go no more to Miss Tresham's?"

"Not until the young man is back in London."

"Then I wish he would hurry all and be off."

"So do I, my dear. I would be glad to hear that he was far away from
St. Penfer."

Joan rose with these words and went out of the room, and Denas knew
that for this day also there was no hope of seeing Roland. Her heart
was hot with anger, and she began to lay some of the blame upon her
lover. He was a man. He could have braved the storm. And there was no
open quarrel between her father and himself; it would have been easy
enough to make an excuse for calling. Elizabeth might have written a
letter to her. Roland might have brought it. Sitting there, she could
think of half-a-dozen things which Roland might have accomplished. How
long the hours were! How would she ever get the days over? Her mother
singing in the curing-shed made her angry. The ticking of the big
clock accentuated her nervous irritability, and when John returned
silent and with that air about him which indicated the master of the
house, Denas felt surely that all was over for the present between her
and Roland Tresham.

The night became blustery after John and the men had gone to the
fishing, and by midnight there was a storm. Joan's white, anxious
face was peering through the windows or out of the open door into the
black night continually. And the presence of Denas did not comfort
her, as it usually did; the mother felt that her child's thoughts were
with strangers, and not with her father out on the stormy sea.

It was ten o'clock next morning before John got home. He had made a
little harbour some miles off, and glad to make it, and had been
compelled to lay there until daybreak. He was weary and silent. He
said it would have gone hard with him had not Tris been at his right
hand. Then he looked anxiously at Denas, and when she did not give him
a smile or a word, he sat down by the fire much depressed and
exhausted. For he saw that his child had a hard, angry heart toward
him, and he felt how useless it was to try and explain or justify his
dealings with her.

It was now Wednesday, and Denas burned with shame when she thought
how readily she had listened to so careless a lover. No word of any
kind came from Elizabeth, who indeed was not to blame under the
circumstances. Mr. Burrell was much with her; they had a hundred
delightful arrangements to make about their marriage and their future
housekeeping. And if in these days Elizabeth was a little proud and
important and very much interested in her own affairs, she was
innocently so. She was only exhibiting the natural parade of a
lovely bud spreading itself into a perfect flower.

She had not the slightest intention of being unkind to Denas; indeed,
she looked forward to many pleasant hours with her and to her
assistance in all the preparations for her marriage. And Roland had
introduced the subject quite as frequently as he felt it to be
prudent. Finally Elizabeth had plainly told him that she did not
intend to have Denas with her until he returned to London. "I see you
so seldom, Roland," she said, "and we will not have any stranger
intermeddling when you are at home."

"Come, Elizabeth," he answered, "you are putting up your disapprovals
in the shape of compliments. My dear, you are afraid I will fall in
love with Denas."

"I am afraid you will make love to her, which is a very different
thing."

"Do you want Denas here?"

"I shall be glad to have her here. I have a great deal of sewing to
do, and she is a perfect and rapid needlewoman."

"Then go to-morrow and ask her to come. I am off to London to-night.
In this world no one has pleasure but he who gives himself some. You
were my only pleasure at St. Penfer, and I do not care to share your
society with Robert Burrell."

"I will go and see Denas. I must ask her parents to let her stay with
me until my marriage."

But as Denas did not know of this intention, that weary Wednesday
dragged itself away amid rain and storm and household dissatisfaction;
but by Thursday morning the elements had blustered their passion away
and the world was clear-skied and sunshiny. Not so Denas; she sat in a
dark corner of the room, cross and silent, and answering her father
and mother only in monosyllables. John's heart was greatly troubled by
her attitude. He stood leaning against the lintel of the door,
watching his boat rocking upon the tide, for he was thinking that
until Denas and he were "in" again he had better stop at home.

"I do leave my heart at home, and then I do lose my head at sea;" and
with this unsatisfactory thought John turned to his daughter and said
softly: "Denas, my dear, 'tis a bright day. Will you have a walk? But
there--here be Miss Tresham, I do know it is her."

Denas rose quickly and looked a moment at the tall, handsome girl
picking her way across the pebbly path. Then she threw down her
knitting and went to meet her, and Elizabeth was pleased and flattered
by her protégée's complaints and welcomes. "I thought you would never
send me a message or a letter," almost sobbed Denas. "I never hoped
you would come. O Elizabeth, how I have longed to see you! Life is so
stupid when I cannot come to your house."

"Why did you not come?"

"Father was afraid of your brother."

"He was right, Denas. Roland is too gay and thoughtless a young man to
be about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I do
not think he will come back here until near the wedding-day."

Then they were at the door, and John Penelles welcomed the lady with
all the native grace that springs from a kind heart and from noble
instincts which have become principles. "You be right welcome, Miss
Tresham," he said. "My little maid has fret more than she should have
done for you. I do say that."

"I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, and
Denas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if she
may stay with me until my marriage in June. No one can sew like Denas,
and now I can afford to pay her a good deal of money for her work--for
her love I give her love. No gold pays for love, does it, sir?"

John was pleased with her frankness. He knew the value of money, he
knew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answered
with a candour which brushed away all pretences:

"We be all obliged to you, Miss Tresham. We be all glad that Denas
should make money so happily. It will help her own wedding and
furnishing, whenever God do send her a good man to love her. It be a
great honour to Denas to have your love, but there then! your brother
is a fine, handsome young man, and--no offence, miss--it would not be
a great honour for my little maid to have his love or the likelihood
of it--and out of temptation is out of danger, miss, and if so be I do
speak plain and bluff, you will not put it down against me, I'll
warrant."

"I think, Mr. Penelles, that you are quite right. I have felt all you
say for two years, and have shielded the honour and the happiness of
Denas as if she was in very deed my sister. Can you not trust her
with me now?"

"'Tis a great charge, miss."

"I am glad to take it. I will keep it for you faithfully."

"'Tis too much to ask, miss; 'twould be a constant charge, for
wrong-doing is often a matter of a few moments, though the repentance
for it may last a lifetime."

"Roland is in London. He went yesterday. I do not expect him to come
to St. Penfer again until the wedding. I assure you of this, Mr.
Penelles."

"Then your word for it, Miss Tresham. Take my little maid with you.
She be my life, miss. If Denas was hurt any way 'twould be like I got
a shot in my backbone; 'twould be as bad for her mother, likewise for
poor Tris Penrose."

Elizabeth smiled. "I am glad to hear there is a lover; Denas never
told me of him. Is he good and brave, and handsome and young, and
well-to-do?"

"He be all these, and more too; for he do love the ground Denas treads
on--he do for sure."

Denas was in her room putting on her blue merino and her hat, and
while she made her small arrangements and talked to her mother,
Elizabeth set herself to win the entire confidence of John Penelles.
It was not a hard thing to do. Evil and sin had to be present and
palpable for John's honest heart to realize them. And Miss Tresham's
open face, her frank assurances, her straightforward understanding of
the position were a pledge John never doubted.

Certainly Elizabeth meant all she promised. She was as desirous to
prevent any love-making as John Penelles was. And when interest and
conscience are in the same mind, people do at least try to keep their
promises. Denas went gayly back with her to St. Penfer. It was
something to be in Roland's home; she would hear him spoken of, and
she would exchange the monotonous common duties of her own home for
the happy bustle and the festive preparations of a house where a fine
wedding was to be celebrated.

Her expectations in this respect were more than gratified. Every hour
of the day brought something to discuss, to exclaim over, to wonder
about, to select, to try on. Notes and flowers, and sweetmeats, and
presents of all kinds were continually reminding Elizabeth of her
lover; and she grew beautiful and generous in the sunshine of such a
magnificent love. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed like a happy
dream. On Saturday evening Denas was to return home until after the
Sabbath. For Saturday night and Sunday were John's holiday, and a poor
one indeed it would be to him without his daughter. Nor was Denas
averse to go home. She looked forward to the pleasure of telling her
mother everything she had seen and done; she looked forward to going
to chapel with her father, and showing a pretty hat and collar and a
pair of kid gloves which Elizabeth had given her.

About five o'clock she started down the cliff. Her heart was light in
spite of Roland's silence. Indeed, she had begun to feel a contempt
for him and greater contempt for herself because she had for a moment
believed in a man so light of love and so false of heart. Elizabeth's
affairs were full of interest to her. Elizabeth had been so sisterly
and kind. She had paid her well and promised her many things that made
life seem full of hope to the ambitious fisher-girl. How the birds did
sing! How still the green glades were! In that one week of rain and
sunshine, how the leaves had grown!

She went gayly forward, humming softly to herself--none of the songs
Roland sang with her, but a little love-song Elizabeth had learned
from Robert Burrell. Her foot had that spring to its lift and fall
that shows there is a young innocent heart above it. In and out among
the glades she went, almost as brightly and musically as the brook
whose sparkling and darkling course she followed. When but a few
hundred yards down the path, someone called her. She thought it was a
fancy and went onward, nevertheless feeling a sudden silence and
trouble. Immediately she heard footsteps and the rustling swish of
parting leaves and branches.

Then she stood still and looked toward the place of disturbance. A
moment afterward Roland Tresham was at her side. He took her hand; he
said softly, "This way, darling!" and before she could make the
slightest resistance he had drawn her into a little glade shut in by
large boulders and lofty trees. Then he had his arms around her, and
was laughing and talking a thousand sweet, unreasonable things.

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

"Not while you say 'Mr. Tresham.'"

"Oh, Roland!"

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

"You were very cruel."

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.

THE SEED OF CHANGE.

  "I love thee! I love thee!
    'Tis all that I can say;--
  It is my vision in the night,
    My dreaming in the day."
                        --HOOD.

  "Ah, if the selfish knew how much they lost,
  What would they not endeavour, not endure,
  To imitate as far as in them lay
  Him who His wisdom and His power employs
  In making others happy."
                                     --COWPER.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She gave me twenty pounds before she left, mother."

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

"What lover are you talking about, mother?"

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

"Who told you I was with Roland?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am going to bed, mother."

"To be sure. Go your ways."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do think I have. You be John Penelles' little girl?"

"Yes."

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

"Why will it be better?"

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

"Why did you take charge of the poison?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR ROLAND?

  "When, lulled in passion's dream, my senses slept,
    How did I act?--E'en as a wayward child.
  I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept,
    And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled."
                                        --MONCRIEFF.

  "Love not, love not! O warning vainly said
    In present years, as in the years gone by;
  Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
    Faultless, immortal--till they change or die."
                               --HON. MRS. NORTON.


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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you hear about young Mr. Tresham?"

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

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

"I'll warrant--many a one--and he never stays in any. He has a bad
temper for work."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long have they been at home?" asked Denas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You see I am wet through, Elizabeth. I will change my clothing and
come to you. Where is Robert?"

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

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

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

"Where have you been, Roland?"

"I could have bet on the words 'Where have you been?' That is always a
woman's first question."

"Have you been with Denas?"

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

"Say to me plainly: 'I have not seen Denas.'"

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

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

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

"What did she say?"

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

"The idea!"

"She talked about the responsibilities of wealth."

"How could she talk to you in that way?"

"She did--really."

"Then Caroline is out of reckoning."

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

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

"I daresay he put Caroline up to refuse me."

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

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

  "'I never had a piece of toast
    Particularly long and wide,
  But it fell on the sanded floor,
    And always on the buttered side.'

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

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

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

  "'Some talk of Alexander,
    And some of Hercules,
  And of many a great commander
    As glorious as these;
  If you want to know a hero
    Of genuine pluck and pith,
  It's perfectly clear that none come near
    The full British private Smith.'"

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!'

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?"

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 'twixt _meum_ and _tuum_
  By kindly converting it all into _suum_.'"

"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 patient attention 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."

"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 back again!'"

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 minute
ere 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.




CHAPTER VI.

ELIZABETH AND DENAS.

  "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.


The rain 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 because of 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. But 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 had his 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 the others. All took an extra
cup of coffee with her, and it seemed only a part of the general
conversation and delightful intercourse.

After breakfast Robert Burrell said he would delay his visit to London
for a train if Denas would sing 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."

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:

  "'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 she would 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 be angry 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,
she 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 Tresham and 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 have been 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."

"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 so _ad 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 bidding me 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 she rose 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 some homely 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 angry and 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
heard that 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. She 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 the _Daily 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 time to 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 promise that 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."




CHAPTER 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.

                    "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.


Lovers see 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.

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

She rose with such an air of decision and wounded feeling that Roland
involuntarily thought of her attitude when Elizabeth offended her.
From the position taken at that hour she had never wavered; she was
still as angry at Mrs. Burrell as she had been when she left the Court
in the first outburst of her indignation. And she was so handsome in
her affected indifference and her real indignation that Roland was
ready to sacrifice everything rather than lose her. He let all other
considerations slip away from him; he vowed that his chief longing,
his most passionate desire, was to marry her--to make her his and his
only; and that nothing but a chivalric sense of the wrong he might be
doing her future had made him hesitate. And then he eloquently praised
himself for such a nicety of honour, and tried to make her understand
how really noble he had been in his self-denial, and how hard it was
for him to be accused of the very thing he was trying to avoid. And he
looked so injured, with his beautiful eyes full of tears, that Denas
was privately ashamed of herself, and fearful that she had in defence
of her modesty gone beyond proper boundaries.

Then the subject of their marriage was frankly discussed. Roland
was now honest and earnest enough, and yet Denas felt that the
charm of the great question and answer had been lost in considering
it. Spontaneity--that subtle element of all that is lovely and
enchanting--had flown away at the first suspicion of constraint. Some
sweet illusion that had always hung like a halo over this grand
decision evaded her consciousness; the glorious ideal had become a
reality and lost all its enchantments in the change.

After a long discussion, it was finally arranged that Roland should
meet Denas at a small way-station about four miles distant on the
following Monday evening. From there they could take a train to
Plymouth, and at Plymouth there was a Wesleyan minister whom Denas had
seen and who she felt sure would marry them. From Plymouth to Exeter,
Salisbury, and London was a straight road, and yet one which had many
asides and not too easy to follow; though as to any fear of
interruptions, they were hardly worth considering. Denas would leave
her home as usual on Monday morning, and her parents would have no
expectation of seeing her until the following Friday night. By that
time she would be settled in London--she would have been Roland's wife
for nearly four days.

These arrangements were made on Friday night, and on the following
morning Denas went home very early. As she took the cliff-road she
felt that the spirit of change had entered into her heart and her
imagination. The familiar path had become monotonously dreary; she had
a kind of pity for the people who had not her hope of a speedy escape
from it. The desolate winter beach, the lonely boats, the closed
cottages--how inexorably common they looked! She felt that there must
be something in the world better for her than such mean poverty.
Roland's words had indeed induced this utter weariness and contempt
for the conditions of her life, but the conditions themselves were
thus made to give the most eloquent sanction to his advice and
entreaties.

And when a girl has set her face toward a wrong road, nothing is
sadder in life than the general certainty there is that every small
event will urge her forward on it. Usually the home-coming of Denas
was watched for and seen afar off, and some special dainty was
simmering on the hob for her refreshment. There was all the pleasant
flurry that belongs to love's warm welcome. But she had delayed her
return in order to spend the evening with Roland, and the environments
of the morning had not the same air of easy happiness that attaches
itself to the evening hours.

Joan was elbow-deep in her week's cleaning and baking. John had the
uncomfortable feeling of a man who knows himself in the way. He had
only loitered around in order to see Denas and be sure that all was
well with his girl. Then he was a trifle disappointed that she had not
brought him his weekly paper. He went silently off to the boats, and
Denas was annoyed and reproved by his patient look of disappointment.
Women who are cleaning and baking are often, what is called by people
less troublesomely employed, cross. Denas was sure her mother was
cross and a little unreasonable. She had not time to listen to the
village gossip; "it would keep till evening," she said.

Then she bid Denas hurry up and get her father's heavy guernsey mended
and his bottle of water filled, ready for the boat. "They be going out
on the noon ebb," she said, "and back with the midnight tide, and so
take thought for the Sabbath; for your father, he do have to preach
over to Pendree to-morrow, and the sermon more on his mind than the
fishing--God help us!"

"Will father expect me to walk with him to Pendree to-morrow, mother?
It is too far; I cannot walk so far."

"Will he expect you? Not as I know by, Denas--if you don't want to go.
There be girls as would busy all to do so. But there! it is easy seen
you are neither fatherish or motherish these days."

"I wish father was rich enough to stay at home and never go to sea
again."

"That be a bit of nonsense! Your father has had a taking to the sea
all his life; and he never could abide to be boxed up on land. Aw, my
dear, John Penelles is a busker of a fisherman! The storm never yet
did blow that down-daunted him! Tris says it is a great thing to see
your father stand smiling by the wheel when the lightning be flying
all across the elements and the big waves be threatening moment by
moment to make a mouthful of the boat. That be the Penelles' way, my
dear; they come from a good old _haveage_;[3] but there, then, it be
whist poor speed we make when our tongues tire our hands."

"'Tis like a storm as it can be, mother."

"Aw, then, a young girl should say brave words or no words at all.
'Tis not your work to forespeak bad weather, and I wish you wouldn't
do it, Denas; I do for sure."

In an hour John came back and had a mouthful of meat and bread, but he
was hurried and anxious, and said he had not come yet to his meat-list
and would be off about his business. Then Joan asked him concerning
the weather, and he answered:

"The gulls do fly high, and that do mean a breeze; but there be no
danger until they fly inland. The boats will be back before midnight,
my dear."

"If the wind do let them, John. Denas says it be on its contrary old
ways again."

"My old dear, we be safest when the storm-winds blow; for then God do
be keeping the lookout for us. Joan, my wife, 'tis not your business
to be looking after the wind, nor mine either; for just as long as
John Penelles trusts his boat to the Great Pilot, it is sure and
certain to come into harbour right side up. Now, my dear, give me a
big jug of milk, with a little boiling water in it to take off the
edge of the cold, and then I'll away for the gray fish--if so be God
fills the net on either side the boat for us."

"Hark, father! The wind has turned to a north-easter--a bad wind on
this coast."

"Not it, Denas. What was it you read me in that story paper? Some
verses by a great and good man who have been in a stiff north-easter,
or else he never could have got the true grip of it:

  "'Welcome, wild north-easter!
  Come, and strong within us
  Stir the seaman's blood,
  Bracing brain and sinew;
  Come, thou wind of God!'"

"That is not right, and that is not the whole of it, father."

"Aw, 'tis enough, my dear; all that the soul wants, the memory can
hold to--'tis enough. Good-bye, and God's keeping."

He drank his warm milk, buttoned close his pilot coat, and went off
toward the boats. Denas had no fear for him, but Joan had not learned
trust from her husband's trust; the iron ring of the wind, the black
sea, the wild sky with its tattered remnants of clouds, made her full
of apprehension. She hurried her work and was silent over it; while
Denas sat in the little window sewing, and occasionally letting her
eyes wander outward over the lonely beach and the homely "cob"
cottages of the fishers.

It was a solitary, lonesome, dreary-looking spot on that bleak winter
day; and life inside those tiny houses was restricted and full of
limitations. Denas thought of them all, but she weighed and measured
the life without taking into account the love that sat on each
hearthstone--the love that turned the simple houses into homes and the
plain, hard-working men into husbands and sons and brothers and lovers
and saw that they were good men and brave heroes in spite of their
poverty. Love would have altered her estimate, but she did not ask
love to count with her. She only thought: "If I did not know of a
better life, of a life full of pleasure and change, I might go and
live with Tris and dree my days out with him; but I am now too wise to
be so easily satisfied. I want a house finer than Elizabeth's; I want
grand dresses, and plenty of servants, and a carriage; and Roland
says all these things are in my voice. Besides, I am far too pretty to
be a fisherman's wife and mend guernseys, and make nets, and bake
fish-pies every day in the year."

Far too pretty! After all, this was the deepest thought in her foolish
heart. At first, Roland's pictures of her in picturesque costume,
singing to enthusiastic crowds, had rather terrified her; but she had
let the idea enter her mind, it had become familiar, then alluring,
and finally a delightful dream. She occupied many hours in devising
costumes, in imagining herself in their colours and forms, and in
considering how the homage she would receive would be most nobly borne
as it affected Roland. Of course she would throw all at his feet--all
the admiration, all the love, all the gold that came to her.

She looked at the grave-faced, preoccupied mother and wished she could
talk with her about her hopes. Roland had expressed himself as greatly
hurt by this inability. "Most mothers, Denas," he said, "would be only
too happy to anticipate such a prospect for their daughter, and you
ought to have had a mother's sympathy and help at this great epoch of
your life. Poor girl! it is too bad that you are obliged to bear the
whole weight of such a movement yourself!"

So Denas looked at her mother, and felt aggrieved by the strict creed
which ruled her life. Methodists were so very narrow. She remembered
her father's anger at a mere proposal of Miss Tresham to take Denas
to a theatre with her. She knew that he believed a theatre to be the
open door to hell; and that the mere idea of men and women, either
with souls saved or souls to be saved, dancing, filled him with shame
and anger. Yet she was going to sing in a theatre if possible; and
Roland had said a great deal about the fisher dances of various
countries and how effective they would be with the songs.

At first she had refused to tolerate the idea; she could not imagine
herself dancing to amuse a crowd of strangers--dancing for money. She
thought of Herodias dancing the Baptist's head off, and she said
solemnly to Roland, and with the utmost sincerity, that she dared not
dance. It was the broad road to perdition. Roland had not cared to
argue with such a prejudice. He knew well that the dancing would
follow the public singing, as naturally as the singing followed the
professional orchestra. But he said then, as he said frequently
afterward: "It is such a pity, Denas, you have not a mother you can
advise with and who could help and encourage you. It just locks a girl
up in a box to be born a Methodist!"

This attitude of Roland's was a very cruel one. It taught Denas to
feel that her secrecy was not her fault. She continually told herself
that she would have been glad to talk over her future plans with her
parents if they would only have listened to her; that it was not her
fault if they were unreasonable and bigoted--not her fault if her mind
had grown beyond her surroundings; that her father and mother ought
to consider that her education and her companionship with Elizabeth
Tresham had led naturally to the craving for a wider life; and that if
they give the first they ought in common justice to be ready to
consider the consequences with her.

"But they will not," she thought angrily. "They want me to settle down
and be content with Tris Penrose. I dare not tell them that Roland
loves me. Roland dare not tell them either. I cannot say a word to
them about my voice and the money it may make. Roland says any
reasonable father and mother would be quite excited at the prospect
and glad to go to London with me. But will my father and mother do so?
Oh, no! In order to do myself justice I am obliged to run away. It is
too bad! Any sensible person would feel sorry for me."

With such specious reasoning she satisfied her conscience, and the
afternoon wore away in gathering gloom and fierce scuds of rain. It
was nearly dark at four o'clock, and she rose and brought a small
round table to the hearth and began to put on it the tea-cups and the
bread and butter. As she did so Joan entered the room. Her arms were
full of clean clothing, but glancing at the table she threw them above
her head, and regardless of the scattered garments cried out:

"Denas! Look to the loaf! Some poor ship be in distress! Pray God it
be not your father's."

Then Denas with trembling hands lifted the loaf, which she had
inadvertently laid down wrong side upward, and placed it, with a "God
save the ship and all in her," in the proper position. But Joan was
thoroughly unnerved by the ominous incident, and she sat down with her
apron over her head, rocking herself slowly to her inaudible prayer;
while Denas, with a resentful feeling she did not try to understand,
gathered up the pieces of linen and flannel her mother had apparently
forgotten.

Into this scene stepped a young man in the Burrell Court livery. He
gave Denas a letter, but refused the offer of a cup of tea, because
"the storm was hurrying landward, and he would be busy all to catch
the cliff-top before it caught him."

Joan took no notice of the interruption, and Denas felt her trouble
over such a slight affair as a turned loaf to be almost a personal
offence. In a short time she said: "Mother, your tea is waiting; and I
have a letter from Mrs. Burrell, if you care anything about it."

"Aw, my girl, I care little for Mrs. Burrell's letters to-night. She
be well and happy, no doubt; and my old dear is in the wind's teeth
and pulling hard against a frosty death."

"Father knows the sky and the sea, and I think it is cruel hard of him
to take such risks."

"And where will the fishers be who do take no risks? Fish be plenty
just before a storm, and the London market-boat waiting for the take;
and why wouldn't the men do their duty, danger or no danger?"

"I would rather die than be a fisher's wife."

"Aw, my girl, the heart for one isn't in you."

"I never saw you so nervous before, mother."

"Nervous! Nervous! No, my dear, it be downright fear. I never knew
what fear was before. I've gone down-daunted--that be the trouble,
Denas. I've had such dreams lately--such creepy-like, ghastly old
dreams of wandering in wayless ways covered with water; of seeing the
hearth-place full of cold ashes and the lights put out; and of
carrying the 'Grief Child' in my breast, a puny, wailing bit of a baby
that I could not be rid of, nor yet get away from--sights and sounds
after me night and day that do give me a turn to think of; and what
they do mean I haven't mind-light for to see. God help us! But I do
fear they be signs of trouble. And who goes into the way of trouble
but your father? May God save him from it!"

"Trouble is no new thing, mother."

"That be the truth. Trouble be old as the floods of Dava."

"And it does seem to me religious people, who are always talking about
trusting God, are a poor, unhappy kind. If you do believe, mother,
that God is the good Father you say He is--if you do think He has led
millions to His own heavenly city--I wonder at you always fearing that
He is going to forget you and let you lose your way and get into all
kinds of danger and sorrow."

"There, then! You be right for once, my dear. Your father, he do serve
the Lord with gladness, but a wife's heart is nothing but a nest of
fear. And it be true that I do not think so much of serving the Lord
as of having the Lord serve me; and when it is me and always me, and
your heart be top-full of your dismal old self, how can you serve God
with gladness? You be right to give me a set-down, Denas. Come, now,
what is Mrs. Burrell's letter about? I be pleased and ready to hear it
now, my dear."

"This is what she says, mother:

  "'DEAR DENAS:--I am troubled about Roland and you. I want very
  much to talk things over with you. If I offended you when you were
  at the Court, I am very sorry for it. Come and spend a day next
  week with me. I will send the carriage to Miss Mohun's.

  "'Your friend,

  "'ELIZABETH BURRELL.'"

"Why is she troubled about you and that young man? Is he not in London
now?"

"He is here, and there, and everywhere. Would you go to the Court
again, mother? I told you how Elizabeth behaved to me."

"Aw, then she had the bride-fever, my dear. She will be come to her
senses by this time. Yes, yes, if you aren't very sure how to act,
take the kind way rather than the ill way; you will be mostly right,
my dear."

Of course Denas had no idea of taking either way, but the invitation
furnished her with a reason for wearing her best dress on Monday; and
she had been much exercised to find out a cause for this unusual
finery. She felt quite excited over this fortunate incident, and she
could not avoid a smile when she reflected that Elizabeth had so
opportunely furnished her with the very thing she wanted.

Then for an hour or two Joan quite controlled herself. She asked after
the news of the upper town, and listened with interest to her
daughter's description of the dresses she was helping to fashion. From
this topic they glided naturally to Christmas and its coming
festivities, and Joan talked a good deal of the new silver watch they
had decided to give John as a Christmas gift, and so for some time she
was as full of plans and happy hopes as a little child could be.

She did not notice that after a while Denas grew weary and constrained,
that speech seemed a trouble to her, that she lost herself frequently
in reverie, and was as nearly nervous as she had accused her mother of
being. But the conversation finally flagged so much that Joan began
to worry about the weather once more. The wind was now frightful, the
icy rain rattled against the windows, and at the open door Joan could
hear billow on billow, crash on crash, shrieking blast on shrieking
blast. She was unable to preserve her cheerfulness. Like all strong
hearts in anxiety, she became silent. The platitudes of Denas,
dropped without interest, annoyed her; she only moved her head in
reply.

Midnight came, and no boats. There was a pitifully frequent opening of
cottage doors, and the sudden flashes of fire and candle light that
followed revealed always some white, fearful face thrust out into the
black night, in the hope of hearing the shouts of the home-coming men.
Joan could not keep away from the door; and the yawning of Denas, her
shifting movements, her uncontrolled sleepiness, irritated Joan. In
great anxiety, companionship not perfectly sympathetic is irritating;
mere mortals quiver under its infliction. For Denas could not perceive
any special reason for unusual fear; she longed to go to bed and sleep,
as she had done many a time before under the same circumstances. She
laid the Bible on the table before Joan and said: "Won't you read a
psalm and lie down a bit, mother?"

"No. Read for yourself, and to bed then if you want to go."

Denas opened the book. Her father's mark was in the psalms, and she
began to read to herself.

Joan's face was beneath her blue apron. David's words did not
interpret her at this hour; only her own lips could speak for her own
sorrow and fear. There was a deep stillness in the house. Outside the
tempest raged wildly. It seemed to Joan as if hours passed in that
interval of heart-trembling; she was almost shocked when the old clock
gave its long whirring warning and then struck only _one_. Her first
look was to the fire. It wanted replenishing. Her next was at Denas.
The girl was fast asleep. Her hands were across the open Bible, her
face was dropped upon them. Joan touched her and said not unkindly:

"A little bit of Bible-reading do send people to sleep quick, don't
it, Denas?"

"I was so tired, mother."

"Aw, my dear, you be no worse than Christian in the 'Pilgrim's
Progress.' He did go to sleep, too, when he was reading his roll.
Come, my girl, it is your time for bed. Sitting up won't help you to
bear trouble."

"Mother, won't it be time enough to bear trouble when it is really
here to be borne?"

"It do seem as if it would. Love be a fearful looker-forward. Go to
bed, my girl; maybe you will sleep sorrow away."

So Denas went to bed and did not awake until the grey light of the
stormy morning was over everything. She could hear the murmur of
voices in the living-room, and she dressed quickly and went there.
John Penelles sat by the fire drinking hot tea. His hair had yet bits
of ice in it, his face still had the awful shadow that is cast by the
passing-by of death. Denas put her arms around his neck and kissed
him; she kissed him until she began to sob, and he drew her upon his
knee, and held her to his breast, and said in a whisper to her:

"Ten men drowned, my dear, and three frozen to death; but through
God's mercy father slipped away from an ugly fate."

"Oh, father, how could you bear it?"

"God help us, Denas, we must bear what is sent."

"What a night it has been! How did you live through it?"

"It's dogged as does it and lives through it. It's dogged as does
anything, my dear, all over the world. I stuck to the boat and the
boat stuck to me. God Almighty Himself can't help a coward."

The storm continued all day, but began to slacken in intensity at
sunset. There was of course no service at Pendree. John, even if he
had not been so worn out, could not have reached the place in such a
storm, either by land or sea. But the neighbours, without seeming
premeditation, gathered in John's cottage at night, and he opened his
Bible and read aloud:

"Terrors take hold on him, as waters; a tempest stealeth him away in
the night. The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth; and as a
storm hurleth him out of his place."

And it was to these words, with their awful application to the wicked,
that Denas listened the last night she intended to spend under her
father's roof. John's discourses were nearly always like his nature,
tender and persuasive; and this terrible sermon wove itself in and out
of her wandering thoughts like a black scroll in a gay vesture. It
pained and troubled her, though she did not consider why it should do
so. After the meeting was over John was very weary; but he would not
go to bed until he had eaten supper. He "wanted his little maid to sit
near him for half-an-hour," he said. And he held her hand in his own
hand, and gave her such looks of perfect love and blessed her so
solemnly and sweetly when at length he left her that she began to sob
again and to stand on tiptoe that she might throw her arms around his
neck and touch his lips with hers once more.

Her kisses were wet with her tears, and they made John's heart soft
and gentle as a baby's. "She be the fondest little maid," he said to
his wife. "She be the fondest little maid! I could take a whole year
to praise her, Joan, and then I could not say enough."

In reality, the last two days, with their excess of vital emotions,
had worn Denas out. Never before had the life into which she was born
looked so unlovely to her. She preferred the twitter and twaddle of
Priscilla's workroom to the intense realities of an existence always
verging on eternity. She dared to contrast those large, heroic
fishers, with their immovable principles and their constant fight with
all the elemental forces for their daily bread, with Roland Tresham;
and to decide that Roland's delicate beauty, pretty, persuasive
manners, and fashionable clothing were vastly superior attributes. So
she was glad when the morning came, for she was weary of enduring what
need no longer be endured.

It still rained, but she put on her best clothing, and Joan was not
pleased at her for doing so. She thought she might come home some
night when the rain was over and change her dress for the visit to
Burrell Court. This difference of opinion made their last meal
together a silent one; for John was in a deep sleep and Joan would not
have him disturbed. Denas just opened the door and stood a moment
looking at the large, placid face on the white pillow. As she turned
away, it seemed as if she cut a piece out of her heart; she had a
momentary spasm of real physical pain.

Joan had not yet recovered from her night of terror. Her face was
grey, her eyes heavy, her heart still beating and aching with some
unintelligible sense of wrong or grief. And she looked at her child
with such a dumb, sorrowful inquiry that Denas sat down near her and
put her head on her mother's breast and asked: "What is it, mother?
Have I done anything to grieve you?"

"Not as I know by, dear. I wish you hadn't worn your best dress--dresses
do cost money, don't they now?"

"Yes, they do, mother. There then! Shall I take it off? I will, to
please you, mother."

"No, no! The will be as good as the deed from my little girl. Maybe
you are right, too. Dress do go a long way to pleasing."

"Then good-bye. Kiss me, mother! Kiss me twice! Kiss me again, for
father!"

So Joan kissed her child. She smoothed her hair, and straightened her
collar, and put in a missed button, and so held her close for a few
moments, and kissed her again; and when Denas had reached the foot of
the cliff, she was still watching her with the look on her face--the
look of a mother who feels as if she still held her child in her
arms.

O love! love! love! Is there any sorrow in life like loving?


FOOTNOTE:

  [3] Family, race.




CHAPTER VIII.

A SEA OF SORROW.

  "Time the shuttle drives; but we
  Give to every thread its hue
  And elect our destiny."
                       --BURLEIGH.

       "Life does not make us, we make life."

  "He gave me trust, and trust has given me means
  Once to be false for all."
                                        --DRYDEN.

                              "He at the news
  Heart-struck, with chilling gripe of sorrow, stood,
  That all his senses bound."
                                            --MILTON.


It had been raining a little when Denas bade her mother farewell, but
by the time she reached the top of the cliff the rain had become fog.
She stood still awhile and turned her face to the sea, and saw one
drift after another roll inland, veiling the beach, and the boats, and
the cottages, and leaving the whole scene a spectacle of desolation.

It affected her painfully. The love and hope in her heart did not
lift her above the depressing influence of that mournful last view
of her home. Was the thing that she was going to do worth while? Was
anything in life worth while? The little town had a half-awakened
Monday-morning look. Every one seemed to be beginning another week
with an "Oh, dear me!" sort of feeling. Miss Priscilla was just
dressing her shop window, and as cross as crossed sticks over her
employment. She said that Denas was late, and wondered "for
goodness' sake why she was so dressed up."

It gave Denas a kind of spiteful pleasure to answer: "She was dressed
to go to Burrell Court and spend a day with Mrs. Burrell. When she
sent Mr. Burrell word the day she would come the carriage would call
for her."

"If you mean the day I can spare you best, I cannot spare you at all
this week. There now!"

"I am not thinking of you sparing me, Priscilla. I am waiting for a
fine day."

"Upon my word! Am I your mistress or are you mine? And what is more,
that Roland Tresham is not coming here again. I have some conscience,
thank goodness! and I will not sanction such ways and such carryings
on any longer. He is a dishonourable young man."

"Has he not paid you, Priscilla?"

Before Priscilla could find the scathing words she required, an
hostler from the Black Lion entered the shop and put a letter into the
hand of Denas.

Priscilla turned angrily on the man and ordered him to leave her shop
directly. Then she said: "Denas Penelles, you are a bad girl! I am
going to write to Mrs. Burrell this day, and to your father and mother
also."

"I would not be a fool if I was you, Priscilla."

Denas was reading the letter, and soft

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