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 grandestportions of the Cornish coast, and on it there is always somewhere atossing sea, a stiff breeze above, and a sucking tide below. Greatcliffs hundreds of feet high guard it, and from the top of them theland rolls away in long ridges, brown and bare. These wild and rockymoors, full of pagan altars, stone crosses, and memorials of the Jew, the Phoenician, and the Cornu-British, are the land of our childhood'sfairy-folk--the home of Blunderbore and of Jack the Giant Killer, andthe 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 andhollows, checkered with purple rocks and elder-trees. Narrow footpathscurve in and out and up and down among the fields and farms, theorchards and the glimmering glades, and there the foxgloves grow sotall 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 delicateferns and small wild roses and the white heath, a flower peculiar tothe locality. And still lower--on the very shingle--are theamphibious-looking cottages of the fishermen. They are surroundedby nets and boats and lobster-pots. Noisy children paddle in theflowing tide, and large, brown, handsome women sit on the door-stepsknitting the blue guernsey shirts and stockings which their husbandswear. 

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

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

"But there, then, 'tis dreadful! dreadful! What foolishness a littlemaid will believe in!" he muttered. "I have never known but one womanwho 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 thispoint, but it still took him a few minutes to decide upon some actionand then put his great bulk into motion. For he was a large man, evenamong Cornish fishermen, and his feet were in his heavy fishing-boots, and his nature was slow and irresolute until his mind was fully madeup. Then nothing could move him or turn him, and he acted with thatirresistible celerity which springs from an invincible determination. 

His cottage was not far off, and he went there. As he approached, awoman rose from the steps and, with her knitting in her hand, wentinside. She was putting the kettle on the fire as he entered, and sheturned her head to smile upon him. It was a delightful smile, full oflove and pleasure, and she accompanied it with a little nod of herhead 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 toolong away. "

"She do have a long walk, John dear. St. Penfer isn't at thedoor-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 greatscholar, and can speak langwidges; and aw, my dear, if rich and poordo ride together the poor must ride behind, and a wayless way theytake 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 doknow her place and her right, and she isn't one to be put down belowit. 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 tofind 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 ofthemselves! 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 allthe world over as much as their lines and boats do. I think we couldfind all those Galilean fishers among the fishers of Penfer. I do, really--plenty of Peters and sons of Zebedee, I'll warrant. Are notJohn and Jacob Tenager always looking to be high up in the chapel? Andpoor Cruffs and Kestal, how they do deny all the week through whatthey say on Sunday! And I know one quiet, modest Andrew who nevergrumbles, but is alway content and happy when his brothers arefavoured above him. " And she looked and smiled at her husband withsuch loving admiration that the big fisherman felt the glow of thelook and smile warm his heart and flush his cheeks, and he hastened tothe tea-table, and was glad to be silent and enjoy the compliment hisdear 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 inher eyes, light upon her face, strength and mature grace in her tallfigure--the grace of a woman who has grown up like a forest tree infresh air and winds and liberty--the physical grace that never comesby the dancing-master. And her print dress and white kerchief andneatly braided hair seemed as much a part of her charm as the thatchedroof, the yellow stone-wort, and the dainty little mother of millionscreeping over the roof and walls were a part of the picturesquecottage. The beauty of Joan Penelles was the beauty of fitness inevery part, of health, of good temper, of a certain spiritualperception. Penelles loved her with a sure affection; he trusted inher. 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 quitedifferent in kind. Denas was his only living child. Denas loved thesea. Penelles could remember her small pink feet in the tide, whenthey were baby feet scarce able to stand alone. As she grew older sheoften begged to go to sea with the fishers, and on warm summer nightsshe had lain in the boat, and talked to him and his mates, and sungthem such wild, sweet songs that the men vowed she charmed the fishinto the nets. For they had always wondrous takes when Denas leanedover the gunwale, and in sweet, piercing notes sang the oldfishing-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 minglingwith the wash of the waves, and watched the child's long yellow haircatching the glory of the moonlight, they let her lead them as shewould. She did not fear storms. It was her father who feared them forher, though never after one night when she was twelve years old. 

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

"Well, then, " the little maid answered with decision, "the contrarywind be God's wind. 'Twas whist poor speed the fishers were oncemaking--toiling and rowing--and the wind contrary, when He camewalking on the water and into the boat, and then, to be sure, all wasquiet enough. "

There were no words to dispute this position, and Denas went with thefishers, and sat singing like a spirit while the boat kissed the windin her teeth. And anon the tide turned, and the wind changed, andthere was a lull, and so the nets were well shot, and they came backto harbour before the breeze just at cock-light--that is, when thecocks 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 thatwere in the world, her father and mother were quite thrilled by hergreat ambition. But she had her desire, and for three years she wentto the private school at St. Penfer, and among the girls gatheredthere made many friends. Chief among these was Elizabeth Tresham, thedaughter of a gentleman who had bought, with the salvage of a largefortune, the small Cornish estate on which he lived, or rather frettedaway life in vain regrets over an irrevocable past. Elizabeth was hisonly daughter, but he had a son who was much older than Elizabeth--ahandsome, gay young man about whom little was known in St. Penfer. 

That little was not altogether favourable. It was understood that hepainted pictures and played very finely on the piano, and every onecould see that he dressed in the most fashionable manner and that hewas handsome and light-hearted. But it could not be hid that he oftencame for money, which old Mr. Tresham had sometimes to borrow in St. Penfer for him. And business men noted the fact that his visits wereso erratic and frequently so long in duration that it was hardlylikely he had regular employment. And if a man had no private steadyincome, then for him to be without steady daily labour was consideredin St. Penfer suspicious and not at all respectable. So in generalRoland Tresham was treated with a shy courtesy, which at first heresented, 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 amhere, Elizabeth, " he said one night to his sister. "Phyllis is wellenough, but she has not a shilling, and pray who would marry ClaraPeverall with only a paltry twenty thousand?"

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

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

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

"You are very foolish. Why carry care? I do not. I let the men to whomI 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'sand your inability to be happy, or for the antiquated notions of suchan antiquated town as St. Penfer? I am only twenty-nine, and thepleasures 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 oflinen she was stitching and looked up at the handsome fellow who wasleaning against the open window and puffing his cigar smoke out of it. She had the English girl's adoration of the eldest son, and likewiseher natural submission to the masculine element. Besides which, sheloved Roland with all her simple faith and affection. She loved himfor his handsome self and his charming ways. She loved him because hehad been her mother's idol, and she had promised her mother never todesert Roland. She loved him because he loved her in his own perfectlyselfish way. She was just as willing to bear his troubles, and planfor their relief, and deny herself for his pleasure, as Roland waswilling to accept the sacrifice. Of course she was foolish, perhapssinfully foolish, and it is no excuse for her folly to admit thatthere are thousands of women in the same transgression. 

In one of his visits to St. Penfer, about two years previous to thisEaster Eve, Roland Tresham had met Denas Penelles. At that time he hadbeen much interested in her. The little fisher-girl with her piquantface, her strange haunting voice, and her singular self-possession wasa 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 toher and Elizabeth of the wonderful London life which Elizabeth couldpartly remember, but which was like a fairy-tale to Denas. 

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

She liked Denas, and she did not wish to be the means of giving her aheartache or a disappointment. But she liked her as a friend andcompanion, not as a probable sister. Mr. Tresham in the days of hiscommercial glory had once been Lord Mayor of London. Mrs. Tresham hadbeen "presented, " and the grand house and magnificent entertainmentsof the Treshams were chronicled in newspapers, which Elizabeth highlyvalued and carefully treasured. She had also her full share of thatall-pervading spirit of caste which divides English society intoinnumerable circles, and though she did not dislike the tacit offenceshe gave to the St. Penfer young ladies by selecting a companion notin their ranks, she was always ready to defend her friendship forDenas by an exaggerated description of her many fine qualities. Onthis subject she could air the extreme social views which she heardfrom Roland, and which she always passionately opposed when Rolandadvocated them; but she was not any more ready to put her ideas of anequality based on personal desert into practice than was the mostbigoted 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. JohnPenelles, though only a fisher, was a man who had influence and whohad saved money. Once when Mr. Tresham had been in a great strait forcash, Penelles, remembering Denas, had cheerfully loaned him a hundredpounds. Elizabeth recollected her father's anxiety and his relief andgratitude, and a friend who will open, not his heart or his house, buthis purse, is a rare good friend, one not to be lightly wronged orlost. Besides these reasons, there were many smaller ones, arising outof petty social likes and dislikes and jealousies, which made MissTresham determined to keep Denas Penelles precisely in the position towhich 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 andtheir relationship, but with Denas herself she never thought of suchqualification. Denas had all the native independence of her class--thefisher class, who neither sow nor reap, but take their living directfrom the hand of God. She was proud of her father, and proud of hisboats, and proud of his skill in managing them. She said, whenever shespoke of him: "My father is an upright man. He is a fine sailor and alucky fisher. Every one trusts my father. Every one honours him. "

Of course Denas recognised the differences in her friend's life andher own. Mr. Tresham's old stone mansion was large and lofty. It hadfine gardens, and it had been well furnished from the wreck of theLondon house. Elizabeth played on the harp and piano in a pretty, fashionable way, and she had jewelry, and silk dresses, and manyadornments quite outside of the power of Denas to obtain. But Denasnever envied her these things. She looked on them as the accidentalsof a certain station, and God had not put her in that station. In herown she had the very best of all that belonged to it. And as far aspersonal adornment went, she was neither vain nor envious. Herdark-blue merino dress and her wide straw hat satisfied her ideas ofpropriety and beauty. A shell comb in her fair hair and a few whitehyacinths at her throat were all the ornaments she desired. So dressedthat Easter Eve, she had stood a moment with her hat in her handbefore her mother, and asked, with a merry little movement of her eyesand head, "what she thought of her?" and Joan Penelles had told herchild promptly:

"You be sweet as blossoms, Denas. "

There was an engagement between her and Elizabeth to adorn the altarfor the Resurrection Service, and it was mainly this duty which haddelayed 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 RolandTresham and felt a shiver of apprehension. He was not accustomed toreason about his feelings, it was so much easier to go to Joan withthem. But this evening Joan did not quite satisfy him. He drank histea and ate plentifully of his favourite pie, of fresh fish and creamand young parsley, and then said:

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

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

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

He said the words so sternly that they seemed to make a gloom in thecottage, but Joan's cheerful laugh cleared it away. "You be such adear, good, careful father, John, " she said, as she tucked in with acaressing movement the long ends of his kerchief. "I was only thinkingthat 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 rightenough, 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 tohim:

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

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

There was nothing else she could think of, and she knit her brows andturned in to her house duties. Joan did not want any meeting betweenher husband and Roland Tresham. She did not want anything to occurwhich would interfere with Denas visiting Miss Tresham, for thesevisits were a source of great pleasure to Denas and great pride toherself. And Joan could not believe that there was any danger to befeared from Roland; Denas had known him for two years and nothing evilhad yet happened. If Roland had said one wrong word to Denas, Joan wassure her child would have told her. 

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

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

"Hello, Penelles! How do you do? And what's the news? And how is thefishing? 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 benone, and the fishing be plenty. "

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

"St. Penfer be a hard little place, but it do give us a living, sir; ahonest 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 wascompelled to accept the dismissal, but it deeply offended him, and theunreasonable anger opened the door for evil thoughts; and evilthoughts--having a cursed and powerful vitality--immediately began totake form and to make plans for their active gratification. Denaswalked silently down the narrow path before her father. He could seeby the way she carried herself and by the swing of the little basketin her hand that she was vexed, and he had a sense of injustice in herattitude which he could not define, but which wounded his great lovingheart deeply. At last they reached the shingle, and he strode to herside. 

"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 ofhis girl and wrong of others who meant no wrong. "

"Then I be sorry enough, Denas. Come, my dear, we won't quarrel for abad 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 youto-night? 'Twas some devil's miracle, I'll warrant. "

"No, then, it was not. He came from London on the afternoon train, andMiss Tresham had a bad headache and could not set me home as shealways 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 forRoland 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 lookswords. "

"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 himlooking at you to-night--bold and free, and sure and laughing to hisown heart for the clever he was, and the devil in his eyes and on histongue. 'Twas all wrong, my dear, or I wouldn't be feeling so hot andangry about it. I wouldn't be feeling as if my heart was cut loosefrom its moorings and sinking down and down as deep as fear can sendit. "

"You might trust me, father. "

"Aw, my sweet girl, there's times an angel can't be trusted, or somany wouldn't have lost themselves. It takes a man to know men and allthe 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 facebeaming and shining with love and pride. But she was immediatelysensitive to the troubled, angry atmosphere in which her husband andchild walked, and she looked into John's face with the inquiry in hereyes. 

"Denas is vexed about Roland Tresham, mother. "

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

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

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

 "When quiet in my house I sit. "

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

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

"David wasn't a St. Penfer fisherman, Joan, and the wicked men of hisday were a different kind of wicked men--they just thought of a badthing and went and did it. They didn't plot and plan how to makeothers 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. Itnever hurt me yet. But I see the devil in his eyes and in the lift ofhis feet and the toss of his horns and the switch of his tail, and Iknow 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 inthe glinting of his eyes and the mock of his smile, and I wouldn'thave been more sick frightened to-night if I'd seen a tiger purringaround Denas than I was when I got the first glimpse of Treshambending 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 Iknow the long dead roll of the waves and the white creeping mist--likea 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. Iwouldn't hear tell of it. If Denas would only listen a bit to TrisPenrose, he'd be the man for her--a good man, a good sailor, and he dolove the very stones Denas steps on, he do for sure. "

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

"'Tis dreadful! dreadful! Why did God Almighty make women so? Here begood love going a-begging to them and getting nothing but a frown anda 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 toclean it out, and then quickly turned his head, for an inner dooropened and Denas peeped out and then came forward and put her armaround his neck and said:

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

 "'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 fretyourself, father, for Denas loves you and mother first of all and bestof all. " And she slipped on to his knee and stretched out her hand toher mother, and so, kissing the tears off her father's face and thesmiles off her mother's lips, she went happily to her sleep. 

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

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 reallyhappened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quiteunexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unableto keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth's ownlove-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacyand decision. 

Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of mostwomen--the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and theeligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. Thefirst was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabethascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthlygoods had not been well considered by the church he served. The livingof St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itselfwas early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old. Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under suchconditions; and at nineteen years of age poverty has a romanticcolouring if only love paint it. 

Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, noteven 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 fromArnold and Morris. Burrell's tastes were for social science andstatistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent;small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, onthe contrary, was tall and fair, and so exceedingly handsome thatwomen especially never perceived that the portal to all his senses wassmall and low and that he was incapable of receiving a great idea. 

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

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

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

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

"He has made love to you, called you the fairest girl on earth, madeyou 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 youhad any fortune. Oh, I know his kind and their ways!"

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

"You think he would? I am sure he would not--but here the gentlemancomes. 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 myannuity. When I die you will be penniless. "

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

Mr. Tresham had the same opinion in a more positive form, and he wasquite willing to test it. He met the rector with more effusion thanwas 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. Ibelieve you are in love with Elizabeth?"

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

"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 keepshonest men outside, and I would be obliged to you, sir--in fact, sir, I require you at once to make Miss Tresham understand that yourprotestations are lies--simple and straightforward lies, sir. I insiston your telling her that your love-making is your amusement andgirls' hearts the pawns with which you play. You will tell her thatyou are a scoundrel, sir! And when you have explained yourself to MissTresham, you had better give the same information to Miss Trelawny, and to Miss Rose Trefuses, and to that poor little sewing-girl youpractise your recitations on. Sir, I have the greatest contempt foryou, and when you have spoken to Miss Tresham, you will leave my houseand 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 ahurried, angry mood sought Elizabeth in her usual sitting-room. 

She opened her eyes as he opened the door and looked at him. Then sherose 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 Ishall ever feel lovingly to you again. Why did you tell your fatheranything? I thought our love was a secret, sacred affair. When I ambrought to catechism about my heart matters, I shut my heart close. Iam 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 andfulness 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 ifto 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 isas weak as a bent flax-stalk, and to be weak is to be wicked. Buryyour disappointment in your heart, do not even tell Denas--girls talkto their mothers and mothers talk to all and sundry. Turn your face toBurrell 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 oftensalvation for a man. Write to Mr. Burrell at once, and send the letterby the gardener. "

That was an easy direction to give, but Elizabeth did not find it easyto carry out. She wrote half-a-dozen letters, and none of them wassatisfactory. So she finally asked her lover to call and see her atseven o'clock that evening. And it was very natural that, in thestress of such an important decision, the visit of Denas and theirintention of dressing the altar should be forgotten. It was a kind ofunpleasant surprise to her when Denas came and she remembered theobligation. Of course she could not now refuse to fulfil it. Theoffering was surely to God, and no relation between herself and therector could interfere with it. But it was a great trial. She said shehad a headache, and perhaps that complaint as well as any otherdefined the hurt and shock she had received. 

Denas wondered at Elizabeth's want of interest. She did notsuperintend as usual the cutting of the flowers, so carefully nursedand saved for this occasion; and though she went to the church withDenas and really did her best to make a heart offering with her Easterwreaths, the effort was evident. Her work lacked the joyous enthusiasmwhich had always distinguished Elizabeth's church duties. 

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

Now, Denas was not more prudent than young girls usually are. She sawthat there was trouble, and she spoke of it. She saw Elizabeth wasslighted, and she resented it. It was but natural under suchcircumstances that the church duty was made as short as possible; andit was just as natural that Elizabeth should endeavour to restore herself-respect by a confidential revelation of the great matrimonialoffer she had received. And perhaps she did nothing unwomanly inleaving Denas freedom to suppose the rector's insolent indifferencethe fruit of his jealousy and disappointment. 

In the midst of these pleasant confidences Roland unexpectedlyentered. He had written positively that he was not coming. And thenhere he was. "I thought I could not borrow for the trip, but I managedit, " he said with the bland satisfaction of a man who feels that hehas accomplished a praiseworthy action. For once Elizabeth was notquite pleased at his visit. She would rather it had not occurred atsuch an important crisis of her life. She was somewhat afraid ofRoland's enthusiasms and rapid friendships, and it was not unlikelythat his first conception of Mr. Burrell's alliance would be "a goodperson to borrow money from. "

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

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

Roland was delighted, and Denas was no more afraid of the gay fellowthan the moth is of the candle. She was pleasantly excited by the ideaof a walk all alone with Roland. She wondered what he would say toher: if he would venture to give voice to the inarticulate love-makingof the last two years--to all that he had looked when she sang tohim--to all that he meant by the soft, prolonged pressure of her handand 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 theglades of the cliff-breast. Then, suddenly, without word or warning, Roland took Denas in his arms and kissed her. "Denas! sweet Denas!" hecried, and the wrong was so quickly, so impulsively committed that fora moment Denas was passive under it. Then with flaming cheeks shefreed herself from his embrace. "Mr. Tresham, you must go back, " shesaid. "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 yearsfor this opportunity, do you think I will give it up? And I will notlet you call me Mr. Tresham. To you I am Roland. Say it here in myarms, dear, lovely Denas! Do not turn away from me. You cannot go backwithout telling Elizabeth, and I swear you shall not go forward untilyou forgive me. Come, Denas, sweet, forgive me!" He held her hands, hekissed her hands, and would not release the girl, who, as she listenedto his rapid, eager pleading, became more and more disposed totenderness. He was telling the story no one could better tell thanRoland Tresham. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his caressingattitudes, 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 mysticaltwilight, the mellow flutings of the blackbirds and the vesperthrushes piping nothing new or strange, only the sweet old tune oflove, the lift of the hills, the soft trinkling of hidden brooks, thescent of violets at their feet and of the fresh leaves above them--allthe magic of the young year and of young love made the delicious storyRoland had been longing to tell and the innocent heart of Denasfearing and longing to hear very easy to interpret--very easy tounderstand. 

Listening, and then refusing to listen; yielding a little, and thendrawing back again, Denas nevertheless heard Roland's whole sweetconfession. She was taught to believe that he had loved her from theirfirst meeting; taught to believe and half-made to acknowledge that shehad not been indifferent to him. She was under almost irresistibleinfluences, and she did not think of others which might havecounteracted them. Even Elizabeth's revelation to her of her ownsplendid matrimonial hopes was favourable to Roland's arguments; forif it was a thing for congratulating and rejoicing that Elizabethshould marry a man so much richer than herself, where was it wrong forDenas to love one supposed to be socially and financially hersuperior?

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 womendelight to acknowledge; the sweet dictation, the loving tyranny thatclaims every thought of the beloved. Roland told Denas she must notdare to remember anyone but him; he would feel it and know it if shedid. She promised this readily. She must not tell Elizabeth. Elizabethwas unreasonable, she was even jealous of everything concerning herbrother; she would have a hundred objections; she would influence hisfather unfavourably; she would do all she could to prevent theirseeing each other, etc. , etc. And where a man pleads, one woman isreadily persuaded against another. But Denas was much harder topersuade where the article of secrecy touched her father and mother. Her conscience, uneasy for some time, told her positively at thispoint that deception was wicked and dangerous. Roland could not winfrom her a promise in this direction. But he was not afraid--he wassure 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 intangles and hidden ways; that it teaches and practises deceit from itsfirst inception; that its earliest efforts are toward destroying allolder and more sacred attachments. Roland was not willing to take thehand of Denas in the face of the world and say: "This is my belovedwife. " Yet for the secret pleasure of his secret love, he expectedDenas to wrong father-love and mother-love and to deceive day by daythe friend and the companion who had been so kind and so fairly loyalto her. 

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

He was glad that he had obeyed the spiritual order; whatever power hadwarned him had done him service. It is true the fond assurances ofDenas had somewhat pacified his suspicions, but he was not altogethersatisfied. When Denas declared that Roland had not made love to her, John felt certain that the girl was in some measure deceivinghim--perhaps deceiving herself; for he could not imagine her to beguilty of a deliberate lie. Alas! lying is the vital air of secretlove, and a girl must needs lie who hides from her parents the objectand the course of her affections. Still, when he thought of her armsaround 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 akind of disloyalty to his child to altogether doubt her. He believedthat Denas believed in herself. Well, then, he must try and trust heras far and as long as it was possible. 

And Joan trusted her daughter--she scouted the idea of Denas doinganything that was outside her mother's approval. She told John thathis fear was nothing but the natural conceit of men; they thought awoman could not be with one of their sex and not be ready to sacrificeher own life and the lives of all her kinsfolk for him. "It be suchpuddling folly to start with, " she said indignantly; "talking aboutDenas 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 notseen Roland and Denas as he had seen them; no one had troubled Joan ashe had been troubled. For something often gives to a loving heart akind of prescience, when it may be used for wise and saving ends; andJohn Penelles divined the angry trend of Roland's thoughts, though itwas impossible for him to anticipate the special form that trend wouldtake. 

Roland had indeed been made furiously angry at the interferencebetween himself and Denas. "I spoke pleasantly to the old fisher, andhe was as rude as could be. Rude to me! Jove! I'll teach him the valueof 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 castetrod upon. He, a banker's son, had been snubbed by a commonfisherman! "He took Denas from me as if I was going to kill her, bodyand soul. He deserves all he suspected me of. " And as these andsimilar thoughts passed through Roland's mind he was not at allhandsome; his face looked dark and drawn and marked all over with thecharacters sin writes through long late hours of selfish revelry andriot. 

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

Roland's first impulse was to make Denas pay her father's debt. "Iwill never speak to her again. Common little fisher-girl! I will teachher that gentlemen are to be used like gentlemen. Why did she notspeak up to her father? She stood there without a word and let himsnub me. The idea!" These exclamations were, however, only the quick, unreasoning passion of the animal; when Roland had calmed himself withtobacco, he felt how primitive and foolish they were. His reflectionswere then of a different character; they began to flow steadily into achannel they had often wandered in, though hitherto without distinctpurpose. 

"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 andher sea-songs go down to the bottom of a man's heart and into everycorner of it. Now, if I could get her to London and have her taughthow to manage her voice and face and person, if I had her taught howto dance--Jove! there is a fortune in it! Dressed in a fancy fishercostume, singing the casting songs and the boat songs--the calls andtakes she knows so well--why, she would make a gas-lit theatre seemlike the great ocean, and men would see the white-sailed ships gomarching by, and the fishing cobbles, and the wide nets full ofgleaming 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 wouldsing full pockets empty. I should have all my desires, and now I haveso few of them. What a prospect! But I'll reach it--I'll reach it, andall the fishers in St. Penfer's shall not hinder me!"

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

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

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

He reached home late, but in exuberant spirits. Elizabeth was waitingfor him. She was beautifully dressed, and in a moment he saw upon herhand the flash of large and perfect diamonds. "They were mother's, Isuppose, and I have as much right--yes, more right--to them than shehas. " This was his first thought, but he did not express it. There wasan air about Elizabeth that was quite new to him; he was curious andfull of expectation as he seated himself beside her. She shook herhead 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 wayup 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 forthat. "

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

"The same. "

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

"He was waiting for me. Destiny, Roland. But he is a noble-heartedman, and he loves me and I intend to be a good wife to him. I doindeed. He is going to make a great settlement on me, and I shall havean 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 inthe world. You will not forget me now, will you, dear?"

"Why, Roland, I thought of you when I accepted Mr. Burrell. When I ammarried, Roland, I shall manage things for you as you wish them, Idaresay. The man loves me so much that I could get not the half, butthe 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 asmyself. Now, Roland, there is something you must not do, and that is, have any love nonsense with Denas Penelles. At Burrell Court you willmeet rich girls and girls of good birth, and your only chance is in arich 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? IfMr. Burrell gave you a desk in his bank to-morrow, you would hand backits key before my wedding-day. "

"Perhaps; but there are other ways. "

"None for you but a rich marriage. Every other way supposes work, andyou 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 youoffend John Penelles or wrong him in the least, you offend and wrongevery man in St. Penfer fishing quarter. Do not snap your fingers soscornfully, Roland; you would be no match for a banded enmity likethat. "

"All this about Denas?"

"Yes; all this about Denas. The girl is a vain little thing, but I donot want to see her breaking her heart about your handsome face. "

She drew the handsome face down to her lips and kissed it; and Rolandused every charm he possessed in order to deepen his influence overhis going-to-be-rich sister. He was already making plain and straighthis paths for a certain supremacy at Burrell Court. He was alreadyfeeling that a good deal of Robert Burrell's money would come, throughElizabeth's hands, into his pocket. That would be a perfectlylegitimate course for it to take. Why should not a loving sister helpa loving brother?

And oh, the pity of it! While brother and sister talked only ofthemselves, Robert Burrell sat silent and happy in his study, planningmagnificent generosities for his bride; thinking of her youth, of herinnocence, her ignorance of fashionable society, of her affection forand her loyalty to her father and brother, and loving her with all hisgreat honest heart for these very things. And Denas lay dreaming ofRoland. And Roland, even while he was talking with Elizabeth aboutBurrell Court, was holding fast to his intention to degrade Denas. Forthe singing, dancing, fiddling life which he was to lead with hersuited his tastes exactly; he felt it would be the absolutelynecessary alterative to the wealthy decorum of Burrell Court. 

O Love! what cruelties are done in thy name! We think of thee ascoming with a rose, and a song, and a smile. Nay, but the CalydonianMaidens were right when they cried bitterly: "Death should have risenwith Love, and Grief, and visible Fear; and there should have beenheard 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 mindsno questions disturb, whose spiritual aspirations are never put out ofbreath. He had not yet been a yoke-fellow with sorrow. Hard work, thecruelty of the elements, the self-denials of poverty, these things hehad known; but love had never smitten him across the heart. 

When he rose that Easter Sunday he rose singing. He sang as he put onhis chapel broadcloth; he was trying over the different metres and theEaster anthem as he walked about the sanded floor of his cottage, andthought over the heads of his sermon. For he was to preach that nightin the little chapel of St. Swer, a fishing hamlet four miles to thenorthward; indeed, John preached very often, being a local preacherin the circuit of St. Penfer, and rather famous for his ready, shortsermons, full of the breath of the sea and of the savour of thefisher's life upon it. 

Denas had gone to a neighbouring farm for milk. He heard her quickstep on the shingle, and he stood still in the middle of the floor tomeet her. She had on a short dress of pink calico and a square ofblue-and-white-plaided flannel thrown over her head. She came in likethe breath of the spring Sabbath. Her face was rosy, her lovely lipsslightly apart, her blue eyes dewy and soft and bright and brimmingwith love. She lifted her face to her father's face, and he forgot ina 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 theywere all put out of memory. 

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

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

"Aw, John, it may be a sight better, for we be promised 'there shallbe no sea there, ' thank God! no freezing, drowning men and no weepingwives. 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 therehe 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, notsomething taken away, and the good thing added will make both the seaand the 'bounds of the everlasting hills' to be blessed. "

"John, who told you that? And if the cruel, hungry, awful sea is notto be taken away, nor yet the 'everlasting hills, ' what will make it anew earth?"

"God's tabernacle will be in it. Aw, my dear, that will makeeverything new--sea and land, men and women; and then there will be nomore tears. My dear, when I think of that I love this old world, notonly for what it is, but also for what it is going to be. "

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

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

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

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

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

As she stood over the breadths of damask, with the water-can makingmimic rain upon them, she was well aware that all her surroundingsadded charm to her charm. The soft winds blowing her hair and her pinkskirt; the green leaves whispering above and around her; the ripplingof the brook running down the hillside--all these things belonged asmuch to her as the frame belongs to the picture. Why did not Rolandcome 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 teachher 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 themorning insufferably long and tedious. Her father, who had been on thesea all night, dozed in his big chair on the hearthstone. Joan wassilent, and went about her duties in a tiptoeing way that was veryfretful to the impatience of Denas. Denas herself was knitting aguernsey, and as she sat counting the stitches Tristram Penrose cameto the door and, after a moment's pause, spoke to her. He was a fineyoung fellow with an open-air look on his brown face and an open-lovelook 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 asleepby the fireside. "

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

She shrugged her shoulders petulantly, and yet could not resist themerry up-glance which she knew went straight to the big fellow'sheart. Then she began to fold up her knitting. While Tris was talkingto 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 liketo give them. 

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

John was not insensible to her charming. He hesitated, and Denas feltthe hesitation and met it with a bribe: "You could come up the cliffto 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 youwill stay at home, Denas; it rains--it blows. "

"Miss Tresham was expecting me all through yesterday, but it was sofine I took the linen to bleach. She will be so disappointed if I donot come to-day. We have a secret, father--a very particular secret. "

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

"My dear girl, " he answered, "if Miss Tresham be longing to talk hersecrets to you, she can come to you. There be nothing in the world tohinder 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 thefire 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 yourknitting and sit down to your own work. "

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

"My father has insulted me before Tris Penrose, " she said, "and I willnever 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 isgoing to be married, and she wants me to help in getting her thingsready. Mother, let me go; it is cruel hard to refuse me!"

The news of an approaching marriage can never be heard by any womanwith indifference. Joan stayed her needle and looked at Denas with aneager 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. Itwas too much for him to speak to Miss Tresham on Saturday afternoon atthe church. But won't he be sorry for his disknowledging her when heknows 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. PenferI will tell you. "

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

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

"Your father is afraid of that young jackanapes, Roland Tresham, andgood 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 foryou. You be a fisher's daughter, and you must choose a husband ofyour own sort--none better, thank God! The robin would go to theeagle's nest, and a poor sad time it had there. Gentlemen marrygentlemen's daughters, Denas, and if they don't, all sides do be sorryenough. "

"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 fromSt. Penfer. "

Joan rose with these words and went out of the room, and Denas knewthat for this day also there was no hope of seeing Roland. Her heartwas hot with anger, and she began to lay some of the blame upon herlover. He was a man. He could have braved the storm. And there was noopen quarrel between her father and himself; it would have been easyenough to make an excuse for calling. Elizabeth might have written aletter to her. Roland might have brought it. Sitting there, she couldthink of half-a-dozen things which Roland might have accomplished. Howlong the hours were! How would she ever get the days over? Her mothersinging in the curing-shed made her angry. The ticking of the bigclock accentuated her nervous irritability, and when John returnedsilent and with that air about him which indicated the master of thehouse, Denas felt surely that all was over for the present between herand Roland Tresham. 

The night became blustery after John and the men had gone to thefishing, and by midnight there was a storm. Joan's white, anxiousface was peering through the windows or out of the open door into theblack night continually. And the presence of Denas did not comforther, as it usually did; the mother felt that her child's thoughts werewith 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 alittle harbour some miles off, and glad to make it, and had beencompelled to lay there until daybreak. He was weary and silent. Hesaid it would have gone hard with him had not Tris been at his righthand. Then he looked anxiously at Denas, and when she did not give hima smile or a word, he sat down by the fire much depressed andexhausted. For he saw that his child had a hard, angry heart towardhim, and he felt how useless it was to try and explain or justify hisdealings with her. 

It was now Wednesday, and Denas burned with shame when she thoughthow readily she had listened to so careless a lover. No word of anykind came from Elizabeth, who indeed was not to blame under thecircumstances. Mr. Burrell was much with her; they had a hundreddelightful arrangements to make about their marriage and their futurehousekeeping. And if in these days Elizabeth was a little proud andimportant and very much interested in her own affairs, she wasinnocently so. She was only exhibiting the natural parade of alovely 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 herassistance in all the preparations for her marriage. And Roland hadintroduced the subject quite as frequently as he felt it to beprudent. Finally Elizabeth had plainly told him that she did notintend to have Denas with her until he returned to London. "I see youso seldom, Roland, " she said, "and we will not have any strangerintermeddling when you are at home. "

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

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

"Do you want Denas here?"

"I shall be glad to have her here. I have a great deal of sewing todo, 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. Youwere my only pleasure at St. Penfer, and I do not care to share yoursociety with Robert Burrell. "

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

But as Denas did not know of this intention, that weary Wednesdaydragged itself away amid rain and storm and household dissatisfaction;but by Thursday morning the elements had blustered their passion awayand the world was clear-skied and sunshiny. Not so Denas; she sat in adark corner of the room, cross and silent, and answering her fatherand mother only in monosyllables. John's heart was greatly troubled byher attitude. He stood leaning against the lintel of the door, watching his boat rocking upon the tide, for he was thinking thatuntil 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;" andwith this unsatisfactory thought John turned to his daughter and saidsoftly: "Denas, my dear, 'tis a bright day. Will you have a walk? Butthere--here be Miss Tresham, I do know it is her. "

Denas rose quickly and looked a moment at the tall, handsome girlpicking her way across the pebbly path. Then she threw down herknitting and went to meet her, and Elizabeth was pleased and flatteredby her protégée's complaints and welcomes. "I thought you would neversend me a message or a letter, " almost sobbed Denas. "I never hopedyou would come. O Elizabeth, how I have longed to see you! Life is sostupid 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 tobe about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I donot think he will come back here until near the wedding-day. "

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

"I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, andDenas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if shemay 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--forher 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, heknew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answeredwith a candour which brushed away all pretences:

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

"I think, Mr. Penelles, that you are quite right. I have felt all yousay for two years, and have shielded the honour and the happiness ofDenas as if she was in very deed my sister. Can you not trust herwith 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, forwrong-doing is often a matter of a few moments, though the repentancefor it may last a lifetime. "

"Roland is in London. He went yesterday. I do not expect him to cometo 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 gota shot in my backbone; 'twould be as bad for her mother, likewise forpoor Tris Penrose. "

Elizabeth smiled. "I am glad to hear there is a lover; Denas nevertold me of him. Is he good and brave, and handsome and young, andwell-to-do?"

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

Denas was in her room putting on her blue merino and her hat, andwhile 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 andpalpable for John's honest heart to realize them. And Miss Tresham'sopen face, her frank assurances, her straightforward understanding ofthe position were a pledge John never doubted. 

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

Her expectations in this respect were more than gratified. Every hourof the day brought something to discuss, to exclaim over, to wonderabout, to select, to try on. Notes and flowers, and sweetmeats, andpresents of all kinds were continually reminding Elizabeth of herlover; and she grew beautiful and generous in the sunshine of such amagnificent love. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed like a happydream. On Saturday evening Denas was to return home until after theSabbath. For Saturday night and Sunday were John's holiday, and a poorone indeed it would be to him without his daughter. Nor was Denasaverse to go home. She looked forward to the pleasure of telling hermother everything she had seen and done; she looked forward to goingto chapel with her father, and showing a pretty hat and collar and apair of kid gloves which Elizabeth had given her. 

About five o'clock she started down the cliff. Her heart was light inspite of Roland's silence. Indeed, she had begun to feel a contemptfor him and greater contempt for herself because she had for a momentbelieved in a man so light of love and so false of heart. Elizabeth'saffairs were full of interest to her. Elizabeth had been so sisterlyand kind. She had paid her well and promised her many things that madelife seem full of hope to the ambitious fisher-girl. How the birds didsing! How still the green glades were! In that one week of rain andsunshine, how the leaves had grown!

She went gayly forward, humming softly to herself--none of the songsRoland sang with her, but a little love-song Elizabeth had learnedfrom Robert Burrell. Her foot had that spring to its lift and fallthat shows there is a young innocent heart above it. In and out amongthe glades she went, almost as brightly and musically as the brookwhose sparkling and darkling course she followed. When but a fewhundred yards down the path, someone called her. She thought it was afancy and went onward, nevertheless feeling a sudden silence andtrouble. Immediately she heard footsteps and the rustling swish ofparting leaves and branches. 

Then she stood still and looked toward the place of disturbance. Amoment afterward Roland Tresham was at her side. He took her hand; hesaid softly, "This way, darling!" and before she could make theslightest resistance he had drawn her into a little glade shut in bylarge boulders and lofty trees. Then he had his arms around her, andwas 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 hadforgotten you?"

"You were very cruel. "

"Cruel to be kind, Denas. My love! they think I am in London. Everyonethinks so. I did go to London last Wednesday. I left London thismorning very early. I got off the train at St. Claire and walkedacross the cliff, and found out this pretty hiding-place. And I amgoing to be here every Saturday night--every Saturday night, wet orfine, and if you do not come here to see me, I will go to Australiaand never see St. Penfer again. "

He would talk nothing but the most extravagant nonsense, and finallyDenas believed him. He gave her a ring that looked very likeElizabeth's betrothal ring, and was even larger than Elizabeth's, andhe told her to wear it in her breast until she could wear it on herhand. And for this night, and for many other Saturday nights, he nevernamed the plot in his shallow head and selfish heart; he devotedhimself to winning completely the girl's absorbing love--not a verydifficult thing to do, for the air of romance and mystery, at once socharming and so dangerous, enthralled her fancy; his eager, masterful, caressing wooing made her tremble with a delicious fear and hope; andin the week's silence and dreaming, the folly of every meeting grewmarvellously. 

Nor was the loving, ignorant girl unaffected by the apparently richgifts her lover brought her--brooch and locket and bracelet, manybright and sparkling ornaments, which poor Denas hid away with joy andalmost childish delight and prideful expectations. And if herconscience troubled her, she assured it that "if it was right forElizabeth to receive such offerings of affection, it could not bewrong for her to do likewise. "

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

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, andElizabeth would not have been satisfied if hers had varied greatlyfrom the highest normal standard. Her dress was of the most exquisiteivory-white satin and Honiton lace. Her bridesmaids wore the orthodoxpink and blue of palest shades. There was the usual elaboratebreakfast; the cake and favours, the flowers and music, and the finelydressed company filling the old rooms with subdued laughter andconversation. All things were managed with that consummate taste andorder which money without stint can always command; and Elizabeth feltthat she had inaugurated a standard of perfection which cast allprevious affairs into oblivion, and demanded too much for any futureone to easily attain unto. 

In the arrangements for this completely satisfactory function, theposition which Denas was to occupy caused some discussion. Mr. Treshamhad hitherto regarded her with an indifference which sometimes assumeda character of irritability. He was occasionally jealous of hisdaughter's liking for the girl; he knew men, and he was alwayssuspicious of her influence on his son Roland. Proud and touchy abouthis own social position, he never forgot that Denas was the child ofpoor fisher people, and he could not understand the tolerant affectionElizabeth gave to a girl so far beneath her own standing. 

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

"Mr. Burrell has two sisters, " said Elizabeth to her, "and if I do notask Cousin Flora I shall never be forgiven; and father insists uponGeorgia 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 sherelegated herself to a position that would interfere with no one'sclaims and offend no one's social ideas. 

"I am to be your real bridesmaid, Elizabeth, " she said. "MissBurrells, and your cousin Flora, and Miss Godolphin are for show. Ishall be really your maid. I shall lace your white satin boots, andfasten your white satin dress, and drape the lace, and clasp the gems, and make your bride-bouquet. I shall stay upstairs while you are atchurch and lay ready your travelling costume and see that Adèle packsyour 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 allfor me to do. "

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

And when the day drew near and they began to arrive, Denas shrank moreand more from their society. She saw that Elizabeth's manner withthem was quite different from her manner to herself, and in spite ofmuch kindness and generosity she felt humiliated, alone, outside, andapart. She wondered why it was. These rich girls came in littlecompanies to Elizabeth's room, and with soft laughter and exclamationsof delight examined the bride's pretty garments and presents. Theywere never haughty with her; on the contrary, they were exceedinglypleasant. They called her "Miss Denas" and carefully avoided anythinglike condescension in their intercourse. Yet Denas knew that betweenthem and herself there was a line impalpable as the equator and justas potent in its dividing power. 

It saddened her beyond reason, and when Roland arrived two days beforethe wedding and she saw him wandering in the garden, riding, driving, playing tennis, chatting and chaffing, singing and dancing with thesefour girls of his own circle, she divined a difference, which shecould 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 butof 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 ofdelicious things to eat was in the air. There was a constant tinklingof the piano and harp. Snatches of song, ripples of laughter, youngvoices calling through the house and garden, light footsteps goingeverywhere, the flutter of pink and blue and white dresses, the snowyribbons and massed roses in every room, the exciting atmosphere oflove and expectation--who could escape it? And who, when in the midstof it, was able to prevent or to deny its influence?

Denas gave herself freely to the moment. The presence of Roland madeall things easy to her. He contrived many an unseen meeting; her lipsnever lost the sense of his stolen kisses; her hands were constantlypink with the passing clasp or the momentary pressure. No one couldhave supposed he was planning anything, for he was continually withsomeone or with all of the four bridesmaids; yet there was not an hourin which he did not manage to give Denas her part, though it were butan upward glance at the open window where she sat sewing, or a kissflung backward to her; or a lifted hat, or a rose left where she alonecould find it; or a little love-letter crushed into her hand inpassing. 

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

Mr. Tresham took Roland with him to Burrell Court. He seemeddetermined to keep his son by his side, and the drive to Burrell wasan effectual way. No one thought of Denas. She had now no place noroffice in the house. But she remained until near sundown, for shetrusted that Roland would find out a way to meet her at their usualtrysting-place. And just when she had given him up he came. Then hetold her that he was going to London in the morning, because hisfather had suddenly resolved upon a short pleasure-trip, and he hadpromised to go with him as far as Paris. But he had provided for theircorrespondence. 

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

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

The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could seethe fishing-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. Sheknew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottageshe saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were foldedacross her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent oranxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart, though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. Shetried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almostangry 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, itbe long after nine now, Denas!"

"I had a lot to do after Mrs. Burrell left, mother--things she wouldnot trust anyone else to look to. "

"Hum-m! 'Tis no good way, to take such charge. Who knows what she maybe saying after-times? I do feel glad she be married at last, and donewith. 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, withoutheart 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 bethe lover I mean. "

"Who told you I was with Roland?"

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

"I suppose Tris Penrose has been spying me and telling tales to fatherand 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 thepleasure out of it--a mean thing to do! I say that. "

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

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

"My faith! I'd fling the twenty pound to the fishes. Aw, then, 'tis apoor price for my girl's love, and her innocent heart, and the proudcontent 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 coalstogether, and lit a lamp. For a moment she stood still, looking at theclosed door between her and her child; then she lifted a large bookfrom the window-sill, laid it on the small round table, opened itwide, 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 comfortsand 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, whatvirtue, there was in that movement! For she immediately covered herface with her other hand and tears began to fall, and anon mightywhispered words parted her lips--words that went from the mother'sheart to the heart of God! How can such prayer ever fail?

In the morning John Penelles met his daughter, not with the petulantanger of a wounded woman, but with a graver and more reasonablereproof. "Denas, my dear, " he said, and he gently stroked her hair ashe spoke, "Denas, you didn't do right yesterday; did you now? But youdo 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 forcorpse-waking, and as for the man who kept you out, let him ask God tokeep him from under my hand. That is all about it. Come and givefather his tea, and then we will mend the nets together; and ifSaturday be fair, Denas, we will go to St. Merryn and see your AuntAgnes. '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 yourmother and I. There, then! No more of it!"

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

But the utter hopelessness of her attitude, her refusal to eat, hersilence, her sighs, the unsuitableness of the dress she wore to thehumble duties of her station, her disinclination to talk of whattroubled her, or indeed to talk at all--both John and Joan felt thesethings to be a wrong, deliberate and perpetual, against their love andtheir home and their daily happiness. 

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

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

Then every wife in the hamlet had her hands full and busy from dawntill dark; and Joan went to the work with an exuberant alacrity andgood nature. In former years Denas had felt all the enthusiasm of thegreat sea harvest. This year she could not endure its clamour and itslabour. What had happened to her that the sight of the beautiful fishwas offensive and the smell of its curing intolerable? She shut hereyes from the silvery heaps and would gladly have closed her earsagainst the jubilant mirth, the shouting and laughing and singingaround 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 inbed and suffer in solitude than to put her arms to her white elbows infresh fish and bear the familiar jokes of the busy, merry workers inthe curing-sheds. Denas was not really responsible for this change. Ithad grown into her nature, day by day and week by week, while she wasunconscious of any transforming power. The little reluctances whichhad marked its first appearance had been of small note; her father andmother had only laughingly reproved them, telling her "not to nourishprideful notions. " She had not even been aware of nourishing anythingwrong. Was it wrong? She lay tossing on her bed in the small warmroom, and argued the question out while fever burned in her veins andgave to all things abnormal and extravagant aspects. 

She was really ill, and she almost wished she could be more ill. Noone quite believed she was suffering much. The headache and languorincident to her condition did not win much sympathy until theirravages became apparent. Then Joan honestly believed that a littleexercise in the fresh salt air would have cured, perhaps evenprevented, the illness. So that at this time Denas thought herselfvery unkindly used. 

This apparent lack of interest in her condition added greatly to thatdissatisfaction with her life which she now constantly dwelt upon. Shefelt that she must do something to escape from an existence whichrepelled her; and yet what could she do? Somehow she had suddenly lostfaith in Elizabeth. Elizabeth changed before she went away; who couldsay how much greater the change would be when she returned after fourmonths' travel?

Denas at this time pitied herself greatly, and taking women as theyare, and not as they ought to be, she deserved some pity. For thoughit may not be a lofty ambition to long after a finely appointed house, and delicate food delicately served, and elegant clothing and refinedsociety, and, with all and above all, a lover who fits into suchexternals, yet Denas did long for these things; and the circumstancesof 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 andhis tiresome devotion, what was Tris to Roland? Tris did not even knowhow to woo her. He never told her how beautiful she was, and how headored her, and longed for her, and thought all women wearisome buther. 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 aqueen; you sing like a nightingale and charm my soul out of me, andyou have hands and feet like a fairy. " Poor Tris! He was stupid andsilent. He could only look and sigh, or, if he did manage to speak, hewas sure to plunge into such final questions as, "Denas, will youmarry me? When will you marry me?" Or to tell her of his stonecottage, and his fine boat, and the money he had in the St. Merryn'sSavings Bank. 

For three weeks this silent conflict went on in the mind and heart ofDenas, an unsatisfactory fight in which no victory was gained. At theend she was no more mistress of her inclinations than at thebeginning, and her returning health only intensified her longings forthe things she had not. One morning she awoke with the conviction thatthere 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 takea walk. And Joan was glad and encouraged the idea. 

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

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

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

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

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

Then Joan went to the curing-sheds. She had a light heart, for Denaswas more like her old self, and after going a hundred yards she turnedto nod to her girl, and was glad that she was watching her and thatshe waved her kerchief in reply. Something heavy slipped from Joan'sheart 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 sheapproached it the boatman came to the door. He looked at her with agrave curiosity, and she went straight up to him and said: "Have you aletter 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 atrue man. Here be three letters. At first I thought these letters begoing to bring a deal of potter and bother--maybe something worse--andI 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 interfereand never volunteer. So here they be. But if you will take an oldman's advice, I do say to you, burn the letters. It will be better farthan to be reading them. "

"Why will it be better?"

"There be letters worse than death drugs. If you do buy a bottle ofarsenic, the man will put its character on the bottle. You see'poison' and you be warned. But young men do write poison, and worsethan poison, to young women, and no warning outside the letter. Itisn'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' littlegirl, and I thought mayhap she'd take a warning from me. Don't youread them letters, my dear. If you do, let the words go in at one earand 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 toman; no sail; no compass; no anchor; no anything for a woman to trustto! 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 andthere be any letters, you will find them under the turned boat--slipyour hand in--so. Dear me! You be fluttering and wuttering like abird. Poor dear! Step into my boat and I'll put you back home. Youlook as quailed as a faded flower. "

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

They were full of happiness--full of wonders--full of love. He wasgoing to Switzerland with his father. Elizabeth was there, and MissCaroline 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 ofhis pen. 

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

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

Why should she cure fish, and mend nets, and clean tables andtea-cups, if she possessed such a marvellous gift? Why should herfather go fishing with his life in his hand, and her mother work hardfrom dawn to dark, and she herself want all the beautiful things hersoul craved? And how would Elizabeth feel? Perhaps they might be gladenough yet if she married Roland. And as the possibility of returningsocial slights presented itself, she remembered many a debt of thiskind it would be a joy to satisfy. And then Roland! Roland! Roland! Hehad always believed in her; always loved her. She would repay histrust and love a thousand-fold. What a joy it would be!

So she permitted herself to grasp impossibilities, to possesseverything she desired. Well, in this life, what mortals know is butvery 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'sreturn was far enough away, Denas possessed it in anticipation. Thebelief that he would come, that he would give her sympathy andassistance, helped her through the long sameness of uneventful days bythe witching promise, "Anon--anon!"

There was little to vary life in that quiet hamlet. The pilchardseason went, as it had come, in a day; men counted their gains andreturned to their usual life. Denas tried to accept it cheerfully; shefelt that it would soon be a past life, and this conviction helped herto invest it with some of that tender charm which clings to whateverenters the pathetic realm of "Nevermore. "

Her parents were singularly kind to her, and John tried to give alittle excitement to her life by coaxing her to share with him thethings he considered quite stirring. But visits to her aunt at St. Merryn, and Sunday trips to hear some new preacher, and choirpractisings with Tris dangling after them wherever they went, were notinteresting to the wayward girl. She only endured them, as she enduredher daily duties by keeping steadily in view the hope Roland had setbefore her. However, as she sang nearly constantly, Joan's mind waseasy; she was sure Denas could not be very discontented, for it neverentered Joan's thought that people could sing unless there was melodyin their heart. And undoubtedly Denas was cheered by her own music, for if song is given half a chance it has the miraculous power ofturning 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 ofher visits and wilfully avoided her. The last of these letterscontained the startling intelligence of Mr. Tresham's death. He hadfoolishly insisted upon visiting Rome in the unhealthy season and hadfallen a victim to fever. Roland wrote in a very depressed mood. Hesaid that his father's death would make a great difference to him. Ina short time the news arrived by the regular sources. Lawyer Tremainehad been advised to take charge of Mr. Tresham's personal estate, andthe newspaper of the district had a long obituary of the deceasedgentleman. 

John said very little on the subject. He had not liked Mr. Treshamwhile living, but he was particularly careful to avoid speaking ill ofthe dead. He said only that he had heard that "the effects left wouldbarely cover outstanding debts, and that Mr. Tresham's income diedwith 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 unreasonableindifference to her former friend was one of the many mental changeswhich she could not account for. But she waited impatiently for someword about Roland. John appeared to have nothing to say. Joanhesitated with the question on her lips, and at last she almost threwit 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 goto honest work now. 'Twill do him no harm, I'm sure. "

"Honest work will be nothing strange to him, father. He has been in agreat 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 badtemper 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; itbe steady, patient, civil, quiet, hard-to-work temper, and the young manhas not got it. No, nor the shadow of it. If he was worth thousandsthis year he wouldn't have a farthing next year unless he had aguider and a withholder by his side constantly. "

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

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

For some weeks John's orders were carefully observed. Denas got nomore letters, and the summer weather became autumn weather; and thenthe leaves faded and began to fall, and the equinoctial storm set theseal of advancing winter on the cliff-breast. Yet through all thesechanges the clock ticked the monotonous days surely away, and onemorning when Denas was standing alone in the cottage door a little ladslipped up and put a letter into her hand. 

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

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

"Mother, it is going to storm soon, and then whole days to sit and sewand nothing to talk about. Priscilla Mohun promised me some prettypieces for my quilt, and Priscilla always knows everything that isgoing on. What do you think? Shall I go there this afternoon? I couldget the patches and hear the news and bring back a story paper, and sobe 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 thepatches, a few days' sewing and the quilt will be ready for you tocross-stitch; and a story paper is such a comfort when the storm isbeating you back to house every hour of the day. "

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

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

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

Denas was now very anxious to get off before her father came back fromhis afternoon gossip at the boats. With a gay heart she left her homeand hastened to St. Penfer to execute the things that had been herostensible reason for the visit. As it happened, Priscilla Mohun wasfull of news. The first thing she said to Denas related to the returnof the Burrells, and then followed all the gossip about the treasuresthey had brought with them and changes to be made in the domestic lifeof 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 silvertrimmings on their harness--that, and no less--and carriages of allkinds, and one kind finer than the other! I do suppose Mrs. Burrell'sgowns will be all London or Paris bought now; though to be sure poorPriscilla did make her wedding-dress--but there, then! what be the useof talking?"

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

"La! I thought if anybody knew that it would be you. I was just takinga walk last Wednesday, and I happened to see them driving through thetown; Mr. Burrell and his sister, and Mrs. Burrell and her handsomebrother--how happy they looked, and everyone lifting their hats ormaking 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 itselfin the fog from the sea, she started down the cliff. Roland waswaiting for her. He took her in his arms and kissed her with an eagerand delighted affection; and though the fog had changed to a softrain, neither of them appeared to be uncomfortably aware of the fact. Denas drew the hood of her waterproof over her head and Roland theheavy collar of his coat about his ears, and they sat close togetheron the damp rock, with Roland's umbrella over them. 

There was so much to say that they really said nothing. When they hadbut half finished repeating "Sweet Denas!" and "Dear Roland!" Denashad to go. It was only then she found courage to intimate, in ahalf-frightened way, that she had been thinking and wondering abouther voice, and if she really could learn to sing. Roland flushed withdelight to find the seed he had sown with so much doubt grown up tostrength 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 thatno 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 yearsince I was born for me, and I have put there all the money yoursister paid me. Father said it was to furnish my home when I gotmarried, but I would rather spend it on my voice. "

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

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

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

"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 Johnand Joan were beginning to be uneasy at her delay. The sight of herhappy face, the charming little fuss she made about her drippingwaterproof and her wet shoes, the perfectly winning way in which shetook possession of her father's knee and from it warmed her bare rosyfeet at the blaze scattered all shadows. She took their fears andnascent anger by storm; she exhibited her many-coloured bits of cloth, and showed John the pictures in the story paper, and coaxingly beggedher mother for a cup of tea, because she was cold and hungry. Andthen, as Joan made the tea and the toast, Denas related all thatPriscilla had told her. And Joan wondered and exclaimed, and Johnlistened with a pleased interest, though he thought it right to say aword about speaking ill of people, and was snubbed by Joan for doingso. 

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

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

"I do think Denas ought to call on the bride, " said Joan. "It wouldonly be friendly, and many will make a talk about it if she does notgo. "

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

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

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

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

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

"The day after-to-morrow, or Wednesday, father. To-morrow it will bestill raining, no doubt, and I have something to alter in my bestdress. 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 beas fitly pretty as blue-bells and daisies. I do think that, Denas; andit be the very same with women. Burrell Court is a matter of two milesbeyond St. Penfer; 'tis a long walk, my dear, and dress for the walkand the weather. Do, my dear!"

Then the subject was changed, and Denas, having won her way, wasreally grateful and disposed to make the evening happy for all. Sherecollected many a little bit of pleasantry; she mimicked Priscilla toadmiration, merrily and without ill-will, and then she took the storypaper and read a thrilling account of some great shipwrecks and a poemthat seemed to John and Joan's simple minds "the sweetest bit of wordmusic that could be. "

At the same hour Elizabeth and Roland were playing an identical rôleunder different circumstances. Roland had hoped to slip away to hisroom unobserved. He knew Miss Burrell had gone to a friend's housefor a day or two, and he thought Robert and Elizabeth would besufficiently occupied with each other. But some gentlemen were withRobert on parish business, and Elizabeth was alone and well inclinedto come to an understanding with her brother. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Where have you been, Roland?"

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

"Have you been with Denas?"

"I have been at the Black Lion and at Tremaine's. We will suppose thatI wished to see Denas--is this pouring rain a fit condition? Do thinkof 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. Whyhave 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 ofthe season of liking her. In the early spring we find the violetcharming, but when summer comes we forget the violet in the rose andthe lily and the garden full of richer flowers. The time for Denas haspassed--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 didnot think I would be unkind to any woman; but she was sure she couldnot trust me with her fortune, because I would waste it without anyintention of being wasteful. Caroline wants a financier, not alover. "

"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 Ishould spend any sum of money. What I need is a wife who can makemoney week by week, year by year--always something coming in; like anopera-singer, for instance. Do you understand?"

"Could you expect me to understand such nonsense? I asked Robertto-day about poor father's estate. He thinks there may be four or fivehundred pounds after paying all debts. Of course you will receive itall. Robert is very kind, but I can see that he would prefer that youwere 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 totell the truth, Roland, I fear you would give any woman lots ofheartache. I cannot tell what must be done. You have had so many goodbusiness chances, and yet never made anything of them. "

"That is true, Elizabeth. If I take to a business, it fails. If Idream of some fine prospect, the dream does not come true. In fact, mydear 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 theQueen's shilling and go in for glory. "

"Roland, you break my heart with your folly. Why will you not bereasonable? How could I ever show my face if you were a commonsoldier? 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, ofcourse. "

"Thanks! I do not think the army would agree with me; not, at anyrate, until I had played my last card. And if I have to make a hero ofmyself, I shall certainly prefer the position of a full private. It isthe privates that do the glory business. I would join the army asPrivate 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 notonly succumbed to his charm, but also wondered in her heart whyeveryone else did not. 

"You see, sweet sister, that wealth is not exactly the same thing asshining virtue, or else Caroline would have been generous. I am sure Ishould 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 towork for it and with it; to invest it and double it; to give anaccount of it; to sacrifice myself body and soul for it. But a dearlittle darling woman would never ask me questions and never worry meabout interest. She would take love and kisses as full valuereceived--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 tosay 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. Whenyou get to singing snatches of song I may as well be quiet. And yet Iam so unhappy about you. O Roland! Roland! my dear, dear brother, whatcan I do for you?"

She covered her face with her hands, and Roland took them away withgentle 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 Iget 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 beena knight-errant or a troubadour. But alas! in these days theknight-errants go to the Stock Exchange and the troubadours writefor the newspapers. I am not fitted to wrestle with the wild beasts ofthe money market; I would rather go to Spain and be a matador. "

"Roland, here comes Robert. Do try and talk like a man of ordinaryintelligence. Robert wants to like you--wants to help you if you willlet 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 foran hour Roland delighted his sister by his sensible consideration, byhis patient attention to some uninteresting details, by his prudencein speaking of the future; so that Robert said confidentially to hiswife that night:

"Roland is a delightful young man. There must be some niche he canfill 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 isvery 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 everypossible temptation and expense--that would not do. But he ought to beaway from this little town. He will be making mischief if he cannotfind it ready-made. "

"I am very uneasy about that girl from the fishing village, the girlwhom 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 unusualgift. I do not pretend to be able to define it. But I remember everyline of the first measure I heard her sing. Many a time since I havethought my soul was singing it for its own pleasure, without caringwhether I liked it or not; for when mentally reckoning up atransaction I have heard quite distinctly the rhythmical rollingcadence, 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 bejealous, my dear. "

"Not complimentary to Denas at all. I hardly remember what the girllooked like. And it is not worth while being jealous of a voice, for Ican assure you, Elizabeth, a haunting song is a most unwelcome visitorwhen your brain is full of figures. And somehow it generally managedto come at a time when the bank and the street were both in a tumultwith the sound of men's voices, the roll of wagons, and the tramp ofhorses' feet. "

"A song of the sea in the roar of the city! How strange! I am curiousto hear it: I have forgotten most of the songs Denas sang. "

"The roar of the city appeared to provoke it. When it was loudest Iusually 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 charmfulwords, she took a sudden dislike to Denas. But she said: "The song isa lovely song, and I must send for Denas to sing it again for us. " Inher heart she resolved never to send for Denas; "though if she doescome"--and at this point Elizabeth held herself in pause for a minuteere 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--onlyI must step between her and Roland--that is for the good of both;" andshe 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 chilland the crisping turf and the hardening road indicated a coming frost. There was nothing, however, to prevent the contemplated visit toBurrell Court, and a painful momentary shadow flitted over John's facewhen Denas came to breakfast in her new ruby-coloured merino dress. She was so pretty, so full of the importance of her trip, soaffectionate, that he could not say a word to dash her spirits or warnher carelessness, and yet he had a quick spasm of terror about thedanger she was going so gayly into. Of what use, alas! are ourpremonitions if they do not bring with them the inexorable moralcourage necessary to enforce their warnings?

Denas had been accustomed to go to Elizabeth's very early in themorning, and it did not come into her mind to make any change in thisrespect because of Elizabeth's marriage. So after she had taken herbreakfast she put on her hat and ulster and her warm wool gloves andtook the cliff road. John, with his pipe in his mouth, leaned againstthe door lintel and watched her. Joan stood by his side for a moment, following with her eyes the graceful figure of her child, but shequickly went back to her work. John's work was over for the day; hehad come in on the dawn tide with a good take. So he stood at thedoor, in spite of the frosty air, and watched his little maid climbthe hilly road with the elastic step and untiring breath of happyyouth. 

It was then only eight o'clock. No one at her home had thought thehour too early. But when she reached Burrell Court Elizabeth had notcome downstairs and breakfast was not yet served. She was much annoyedand embarrassed by the attitude of the servants. She had novisiting-card, and the footman declined to disturb Mrs. Burrell at hertoilet. "Miss could wait, " he said with an air of familiarity whichgreatly offended Denas. For she considered herself, as the child of afisherman owning his own cottage and boat and lord of all the leaguesof ocean where he chose to cast his nets, immeasurably the superior ofany servant, no matter how fine his livery might be. 

She sat down in the small reception-room into which she had been shownand waited. She heard Elizabeth and her husband go through the halltogether, and the pleasant odours of coffee and broiled meatscertified to the serving of breakfast. But no one came near her. Asthe minutes slipped away her wonder became anger; and she wasresolving to leave the inhospitable house when she heard Roland'sstep. He came slowly down the polished oak stairs, went to the frontdoor, opened it and looked out into the frosty day; then turningrapidly in from the cold, he went whistling softly through the hall tothe breakfast-room. 

Just as he entered the footman was saying: "A young person, ma'am. Shehad 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 isperhaps 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 afew moments Frederick returned and said, "Miss Penelles is the name. "

Then Robert Burrell and Roland both looked at Elizabeth. She had amomentary struggle with herself; she hesitated, her brows madethemselves into a point, her colour heightened, and the dead silencegave her a most eloquent chance to listen to her own heart. She rosewith leisurely composure and left the room. Mr. Burrell and Rolandtook no notice of the movement. Mr. Burrell had his watch in hishand; Roland was directing Frederick as to the particular piece offowl he wanted. Then there was a little laugh and the sound of voices, and Elizabeth and Denas entered together. Elizabeth had made Denasremove her hat and cloak, and the girl was exceedingly pretty. Rolandleaped to his feet and imperatively motioned Frederick to place achair beside his own, and Robert Burrell met her with a frank kindnesswhich was pleasantly reassuring. 

Denas had been feeling wronged and humiliated, but Elizabeth by a fewkind words of apology had caused a reaction which affected herinexperienced guest with a kind of mental intoxication. Hercountenance glowed, her eyes sparkled, her hair appeared to throw offlight; her ruby-coloured dress with its edges of white laceaccentuated the marvellous colouring of her cheeks and lips, thesnow-white of her wide brows and slender throat, and the intense blueof eyes that had caught the brightest tone of sea and sky. 

She talked well, she was witty without being ill-natured, and shedescribed all that had happened in the little town since Elizabeth'swedding-day with a subdued and charming mimicry that made the roomring with laughter. Also, she ate her breakfast with such evidentenjoyment that she gave an appetite to the others. All took an extracup of coffee with her, and it seemed only a part of the generalconversation and delightful intercourse. 

After breakfast Robert Burrell said he would delay his visit to Londonfor a train if Denas would sing for him once more; and they wenttogether to the parlour, and Roland fell at once into the rockingmeasure of Robert's favourite, and in the middle of a bar Denas joinedher voice to it, and they went together as the wind goes through thetrees or the song of the water through its limpid flow. 

As she finished, Roland looked at her with a certain intelligence inhis eyes, and then struck a few wild, startling chords. They proved tobe the basis of a sea-chant. Denas heard them with a quick movement ofher head and an involuntary though slight movement of the hands, asshe 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 alook on Elizabeth's face, not intended for her to see, which took themusic out of her heart. Yet she had sung enough, for she had neverbefore sung so well. She was astonished at her own power, and RobertBurrell 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 theshingle, and feeling the blowing winds, and hearing the plash of thewaves, 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 withDenas. A great gulf suddenly opened between them. There was no subjectto talk about. Elizabeth had sent Roland away on the double pretenceof wanting him to take a message to Caroline and of wanting to haveDenas all to herself. And she watched Roland so cleverly that he hadno opportunity to say a word to Denas; and yet he had, for in biddingher good-bye he managed, by the quick lift of his brows and thewide-open look in his eyes, to give her assurance that he would be attheir usual place of meeting. Elizabeth was a clever woman, but nomatch for a man who has love in his heart and his eyes to speak forhim. 

So she had Denas all to herself, and then, in spite of everything shecould do, her manner became indifferent and icy. She asked after Johnand Joan and more pointedly after Tris. And Denas thought there couldbe no harm in talking of Tris and his affection for her. She chatteredaway until she felt she was not being listened to. Then she tried totalk of the past; Elizabeth said it was so associated with poor papashe would rather not talk of it. It was very painful to her, and shehad promised Mr. Burrell not to indulge in painful thoughts. So Denasfelt that the past was a shut and clasped book between them for ever. 

Nothing remained but to ask Elizabeth about her wedding-trip. Sheanswered her, but not as she would have answered an acquaintance ofher 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? Herconscience had continually to urge her to justice, and she felt thestrife of feeling to be very uncomfortable. 

Denas had hoped to be shown all the pretty dresses and cloaks andknick-knacks of fine wearing apparel that Elizabeth had bought inLondon, Paris, and other European capitals. These things had been muchtalked of in the town, and it would have been a little distinction toDenas to have seen and handled them. Perhaps, also, there had been, inher deepest consciousness, a hope that Elizabeth had brought her somespecial gift--some trinket that she could be proud of all her life andkeep in memory of their early friendship. 

But Elizabeth showed her nothing and gave her nothing; moreover, whenDenas spoke of the beautiful morning robe she wore, Elizabeth frownedslightly and answered with an evident disinclination to discuss thesubject, "Yes, it is beautiful. " For though Elizabeth did not analysethe feeling, she was annoyed at even a verbal return to a time whengowns of every kind had been a consideration worth while discussingwith one whose taste and skill would help to fashion them. Povertycasts only shadows on memory, and few people like to stand voluntarilyagain in them. 

About noon there was a visitor, and Elizabeth received her in anotherroom. She made an apology to Denas, but the girl, left to herself, began to be angry with herself. She could hear Elizabeth and hercaller merrily discussing the affairs of their own set, and Elizabethhad quite a different voice; it was sympathetic, ready to break intolaughter, full of confidential tones. Denas remembered this voicewell. 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 excessivecivility; her hardly concealed weariness; the real coldness of feelingwhich no pleasant words could warm. There was no longer any sympathybetween them; there was not even any interest which could take theplace of sympathy. Elizabeth did not really care whether Denas wasoffended or not, but she had a conscience, and it urged her to be kindand just. And she did try to obey the order, but when ordersperversely go against inclination they do not obtain a cheerfulservice. 

Denas felt and thought quickly: "I am not wanted here. I ought togo away, and I will go. " These resolutions were arrived at byapprehension, not by any definable process of reasoning. She toucheda 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 beenwounded to-day, " she sobbed, "just as really as if Elizabeth had flunga stone at me or stabbed me with a knife. I am heart-hurt. I am sorryI went to see her. Why did I go? She is afraid of Roland! Good! Ishall 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 hadsaid about her voice and her face was illumined by the thought, andshe lifted her head and stepped loftily to it. "She may be proudenough 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 inher ability to add the four letters which spelled the word fair to hername. If she had been strikingly ugly and dull, instead of strikinglypretty and bright, Elizabeth would have found it easier to be kind andgenerous 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 herill-treatment to Priscilla and found her full of sympathy. Priscillahad her own little slights to relate, and if all was true she toldDenas, then Elizabeth had managed in a week's time to offend many ofher old acquaintances irreconcilably. 

Denas remained with Priscilla until three o'clock; then she walkeddown the cliff to the little glade where she hoped to find Roland. Hewas not there. She calculated the distance he had to ride, she madeallowance for his taking lunch with Caroline Burrell, and sheconcluded that he ought to have been at the trysting-place before shewas. She waited until four o'clock, growing more angry every moment, then she hastened away. "I am right served, " she muttered. "I will letRoland Tresham and Elizabeth Burrell alone for the future. " The tideof anger rose swiftly in her heart, and she stepped homeward to itsflow. 

She had gone but a little way when she heard Roland calling her. Shewould not answer him. She heard his rapid footsteps behind, but shewould not turn her head. When he reached her he was already vexed ather perverse mood. "I could not get here sooner, Denas, " he saidcrossly. "Do be reasonable. "

"You need not have come at all. "

"Denas, stop: Listen to me. If you walk so quickly we shall be seenfrom 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-daythe difference between us. I am glad there is a difference--I intendto 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 waitfor 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 otherscan. "

"You are an absurd little thing. Come, darling! Come back with me! Iwant to tell you a very particular secret. "

"Do you think you can pet, or coax, or tell me tales like a crosschild? I am a woman, and I have been hurt in every place a woman canbe hurt by your sister. I will not go back with you. "

"Very well, Denas. You will repent this temper, I can tell you, mydear. "

"No, I shall not repent it. I will go to my father and mother. I willtell them how bad I have been and ask them to forgive me. I shallnever 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 fewmoments, and then with a dark countenance turned homeward. "This isElizabeth's doing, " he muttered. "Elizabeth is too, too detestablyrespectable for anything. I saw and felt her sugared patronage ofDenas through all her soft phrases; she treats me in the same waysometimes. When women get a husband they are conceited enough, butwhen they get a husband and money also they are--the devil only knowswhat they are. "

He entered Elizabeth's presence very sulkily. Robert was in London andthere 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 thefuture. Caroline kept me waiting until she returned from a lunch atColonel Prynne's. And then she hurried me away because there was to bea 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 theirguest. But Lord and Lady Avonmere were to be present, and of coursethey did not want any of us. "

"Any of us? Pray, why not?"

"Father's bankruptcy is not forgotten. We were nobodies until youmarried Robert Burrell, and even Robert's money is all trade money. "

"You are purposely trying to say disagreeable things, Roland. Whatfresh snub has Caroline been giving you?"

"Snubs are common to all. Big people are snubbed by lesser people, andthese by still smaller ones, and so _ad infinitum_. You are a bitbigger than Denas, so you snub her, and Denas, of course, passes onthe snub. Why should she not? Where is Denas?"

"She has gone home, and I do hope she will never come here again. Shebehaved 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 andill-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 theirlittle nests agree, but brothers and sisters do not; in fact, theycannot. For instance, I should be a brute if I agreed with you aboutDenas. "

"I say that Denas behaved very rudely. She went away without myknowledge and without bidding me good-bye. I shall decline to haveany 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. Butgracious! how she did sing this morning! I'll bet you fifty pounds ifRobert Burrell had heard her sing a year ago you would not have beenmistress of Burrell Court to-day. "

"Either you or I must leave the room, Roland. I will not listen anylonger to you. "

"Sit still. I am very glad to go. I shall take a room at the BlackLion to-morrow. The atmosphere of the Court is so exquisitely rarefiedand refined that I am choking in it. I only hope you may not smotherRobert in it. Good-night! I notice Robert goes to London pretty oftenlately. Good-night. "

Then he closed the door sharply and went smiling to his room. "I thinkI have made madame quite as uncomfortable as she has made me, " hemuttered, "and I will go to the Black Lion to-morrow. From there I canreach Denas without being watched at both ends. John Penelles to theright and Elizabeth Burrell to the left of me are too much and toomany. For Denas I must see. I must see her if I have to dress myselfin blue flannels and oil-skins to manage it. "

In the morning Elizabeth ate her breakfast alone. She had determinedto have a good quarrel with Roland, and make him ashamed of his speechand behaviour on the previous evening. But before she rose Roland hadgone to the Black Lion, and moreover he had left orders for his packedtraps and trunks to be sent after him. He had a distinct object inthis move. At the Court he was constantly under surveillance, and hewas also very much at Elizabeth's commands. He had little time to giveto the pursuit of Denas, and that little at hours unsuitable for thepurpose. But at the Black Lion his time was all his own. He couldbreakfast and dine at whatever hour suited his occupation; he couldwatch the movements of Denas without being constantly suspected andbrought to book. 

Her temper the previous evening, while it seriously annoyed, did notdishearten him. He really liked her better for its display. He neversupposed 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 forher; she would be sure of it. 

But Denas did not visit St. Penfer that week, and Roland grewdesperate. On Saturday night he went down the cliff after dark andhung around John's cottage, hoping that for some reason or other Denaswould come to the door. He had a note in his hand ready to put intoher hand if she did so. He could see her plainly, for the only screento the windows was some flowering plants inside and a wooden shutteron the outside, never closed but in extreme bad weather. Joan wasmaking the evening meal, John sat upon the hearth, and Denas, with herknitting in her hands, was by his side. Once or twice he saw her riseand help her mother with some homely duty, and finally she laid downher work, and, kneeling on the rug at her father's feet, she began totoast the bread for their tea. Her unstudied grace, the charm of herbeauty and kindness, the very simplicity of her dress, fascinated himafresh. 

"That is the costume--the very costume--she ought to sing in, " hethought. "With some fishing nets at her feet and the mesh in herhands, how that dark petticoat and that little scarlet josey wouldtell; the scarlet josey cut away just so at the neck. What a ravishingthroat she has! How white and round!"

At this point in his reverie he heard footsteps, and he walkedleisurely aside. His big ulster in the darkness was a sufficientdisguise; he had no fear of being known by any passer-by. But thesefootsteps stopped at John's door and then went inside the cottage. That circumstance roused in Roland's heart a tremor he had never knownbefore. He cautiously returned to his point of observation. Thevisitor was a young and handsome fisherman. It was Tris Penrose. Roland saw with envy his welcome and his familiarity. He saw that Joanhad placed for him a chair on the hearth opposite John; Denas, therefore, was at his feet also. Tris could feed his eyes upon hernear loveliness. He could speak to her. He did speak to her, and Denaslooked up with a smile to answer him. When the toast was made Trishelped Denas to her feet; he put her chair to the table, he put hisown beside it. He waited upon her with such delight and tenderadmiration that Roland was made furiously angry and miserable by hisrival's happiness. The poor ape jealousy began meddling in all hisbetter feelings. 

He hung around the cottage until he was freezing with cold and burningwith rage. "And this is Elizabeth's doing, " he kept muttering as heclimbed the cliff to the upper town. He could not sleep all night. Hethought of everything that could add to his despairing uncertainty. The next day was the Sabbath. Denas would go to chapel with her fatherand mother. Tris would be sure to meet her there, to return home withher, to sit again at her side on that bright, homelike hearthstone. 

"I wish I were a fisher, " he cried passionately. "They know what it isto live, for their boats make their cottages like heaven. " He couldnot deny to himself that Tris was a very handsome fellow and thatDenas smiled pleasantly at him. "But she never smiled once as shesmiles at me. He never once drew her soul into her face, as I can drawit. She does not love him as she loves me. " With such assertions heconsoled his heart, the while he was trying to form some plan whichwould give him an opportunity to get Denas once more under hisinfluence. 

On Monday morning he went to see Priscilla Mohun. He had a longconversation with the dressmaker, and that afternoon Priscilla walkeddown to John's cottage and made a proposal to Denas. It was so bluntand business-like, so tight in regard to money matters, that John andJoan, and Denas also, were completely deceived. She said she hadheard that Denas and Tris Penrose were to be married, and she thoughtDenas might like to make some steady money to help the furnishing. Shewould 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 toofew 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 tobe ten pounds. Joan remembered how much there was to see and hear atMiss Priscilla's, and Denas was so dull at home! Why should shenot have a good change when it was well paid for? And then sheremembered the happy week-ends there would be, with so much to telland to talk over. 

She asked Priscilla to stay and have a cup of tea with them, and sosettle the subject. And the result was that Denas went back to St. Penfer with Priscilla and began her duties on the next day. Thatevening she had a letter from Roland. It was a letter well adapted totouch her heart. Roland was really miserable, and he knew well how tocry out for comfort. He told her he had left his sister's home becauseElizabeth had insulted her there. He led her to believe that Elizabethwas in great distress at his anger, but that nothing she could say ordo would make him forgive her until Denas herself was satisfied. 

And Denas was glad that Elizabeth should suffer. She hoped Rolandwould make her suffer a great deal. For Denas had not yet reached thatdivine condition in which it is possible to love one's enemies. Shewas happy to think that Roland was at the Black Lion with all hispossessions; for she knew how the gossip on this occurrence wouldannoy all the proprieties in Mrs. Burrell's social code. 

Her anger served Roland's purpose quite as much as her love. After thethird letter she wrote a reply. Then she agreed to meet him; then shewas quite under his influence again, much more so, indeed, than shehad ever been before. In a week or two he got into the habit ofdropping into Priscilla's shop for a pair of gloves, for writingpaper, for the _Daily News_, for a bottle of cologne--in short, therewere plenty of occasions for a visit, and he took them. And asPriscilla's was near the Black Lion and the only news depot in town, and as other gentlemen went frequently there also for the supply oftheir small wants, no one was surprised at Roland's purchases. Hisintercourse with Priscilla was obviously of the most formal character;she treated him with the same short courtesy she gave to all andsundry, and Denas was so rarely seen behind the counter that she wasnot in any way associated with the customers. This indeed had been thestipulation on which John had specially insisted. 

One morning Roland came hurriedly into the shop. "My sister iscoming here, I am sure, Miss Mohun, " he said. "Tell Denas, if youplease, she said she wished to meet her again. Tell her I willremain here and stand by her. " There was no time to deliberate, andDenas, acting upon the feeling of the moment, came quickly to Roland, and was talking to him when Mrs. Burrell entered. They remained inconversation a moment or two, as if loth to part; then Denasadvanced to the customer with an air of courtesy, but also ofperfect 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 beunconscious of his sister's presence. Elizabeth glanced at herbrother; then, without waiting for Priscilla, left the shop. Thelovely face of Denas was like a flame. "Thank you, Roland!" she saidwith effusion. "You have paid my account in full for me. "

"Then, darling, let me come here to-night and say something veryimportant to us both. Priscilla will give me house-room for an hour, Iknow she will. Here she comes. Let me ask her. "

Priscilla affected reluctance, but really she was prepared for therequest. She had expected it before and had been uneasy at its delay. She was beginning to fear Roland's visits might be noticed, might betalked about, might injure her custom. It pleased her much toanticipate an end to a risky situation. She managed, without urgingDenas, to make the girl feel that her relations with Roland oughteither to be better understood or else entirely broken off. 

So Roland went back to his inn with a promise that made himlight-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 ascan be--to-morrow night if possible. Sixth, my own money fromTremaine. I should have about four hundred pounds. Heigho! I wish itwas eight o'clock. And what an old cat Priscilla is! I do not think Ishall give her the fifty pounds I promised her. She does not deserveit--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 hisown world to turn to his love. The self-denying, forbearing, loyalaffection Elizabeth had shown him all her life was now of no value, since she did not sympathize with his love for Denas. John and JoanPenelles were the objects of his dislike and scorn because they couldnot see their daughter's future as he saw it. He thought it only rightthat Priscilla Mohun should risk her business and her reputation forthe furtherance of his romantic love affair. He had easily persuadedhimself that it was utterly contemptible in her to expect anyfinancial reward for a service of love. 

Denas had more force of character. She was offended at Elizabethbecause Elizabeth had wounded her self-respect and put her into a mosthumiliating position. She was too truthful not to admit that Elizabethhad from the first hour of their acquaintance openly opposed anythinglike love-making between Roland and herself. She understood andacknowledged the rights of her parents. In trampling on them she knewthat she was sinning with her eyes open. And if Roland spent the dayin arranging his plans for the future, she spent it in facing squarelythe thing she had determined to do. 

For she was aware that Roland was coming that night to urge her to goto London and become a public singer. She did not know how much moneywould be required, but she knew that whatever the sum was it must comefrom Roland. Then, of course, she must marry Roland at once. Under noother relationship could she take money from him. Yet on carefullyquestioning her memory she was sure that the subject of marriage hadbeen avoided, or, at any rate, not spoken of in any discussion of herfuture. 

"But, " she said, with a swift motion of determination, "that is thefirst subject, and the one on which all others depend. "

At eight o'clock Roland was with her. He came with his mostirresistible manner, came prepared to carry his own desires in anenthusiasm 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. Youmust have read of the enormous sums singers receive, but we will bemodest at first and suppose you only make a few hundreds a year. Inthe long run that will be nothing; and you will be a very richwoman. "

"You have often said such things to me, Roland. But perhaps you do notjudge me severely enough. I must see a great teacher, and he will tellme 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 onehundred 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 todesert my parents; I will not rob them also. "

"You must not look at things in such extreme ways. You are going tospend 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 Ihave is yours. I only live for you. "

"To say such things, Roland, is the way to marry me--if you mean tomarry me--is it not? Among the fishermen it is so, only they would sayfirst of all, 'I do wish to be your husband. '"

"I am not a fisherman, Denas. And it would really be very dishonourableto bind your fortune irrevocably to mine. In a couple of years youwould be apt to say: 'Roland played me a mean trick, for he made mehis wife only that he might have all the money I earn. ' Don't yousee what a dreadful position I should be in? I should be ashamed toshow my face. Really, dearest, I must look after my honour. Mymoney--that is nothing. "

"Roland, if honour and money cannot go together, there is somethingwrong. If I went to London alone and you were also in London andpaying 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 grandfuture before you?"

"I do care. I care for myself. I care a thousand times more for fatherand mother. A word against my good name would kill them. They wouldnever hold up their heads any more. And then, however bad a name thepublic 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 thislife and go to your own place'--and you know where that would be. "

"You silly, bigoted little Methodist! People do not die of grief inthese days, they have too much to do. You would soon be able to sendthem a great deal of money, and that would put all right. "

"For shame, Roland! Little you know of St. Penfer fishermen, nothingat all you know of John and Joan Penelles, if you think a city full ofgold would atone to them for my dishonour. What is the use of goingaround about our words when there are straight ones enough to say? Iwill go to London as your wife, or I will not go at all. "

There was a momentary expression on Roland's face which might haveterrified Denas if she had seen it, but her gaze was far outward; shewas looking down on the waves and the boats of St. Penfer and on onelittle cottage on its shingle. And Roland's hasty glance into herresolute face convinced him that all parleying was useless. He wasangry and could not quite control himself. His voice showed decidedpique as he answered:

"Very well, Denas. Take care of your own honour, by all means; mine isof no value, of course. "

"If you think marrying me makes it of no value, take care of your ownhonour, Roland. I will not be your wife; no, indeed. And as forLondon, I will not go near it. And as for my voice, it may be worthmoney, but it is not worth my honour, and my good name, and myfather's and mother's life. Why should I sing for strangers? I willsing for my father and the fishers on the sea; and I will sing in thechapel--and there is an end of the matter. "

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

Then the subject of their marriage was frankly discussed. Rolandwas now honest and earnest enough, and yet Denas felt that thecharm of the great question and answer had been lost in consideringit. Spontaneity--that subtle element of all that is lovely andenchanting--had flown away at the first suspicion of constraint. Somesweet illusion that had always hung like a halo over this granddecision evaded her consciousness; the glorious ideal had become areality and lost all its enchantments in the change. 

After a long discussion, it was finally arranged that Roland shouldmeet Denas at a small way-station about four miles distant on thefollowing Monday evening. From there they could take a train toPlymouth, and at Plymouth there was a Wesleyan minister whom Denas hadseen and who she felt sure would marry them. From Plymouth to Exeter, Salisbury, and London was a straight road, and yet one which had manyasides and not too easy to follow; though as to any fear ofinterruptions, they were hardly worth considering. Denas would leaveher home as usual on Monday morning, and her parents would have noexpectation of seeing her until the following Friday night. By thattime she would be settled in London--she would have been Roland's wifefor nearly four days. 

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

And when a girl has set her face toward a wrong road, nothing issadder in life than the general certainty there is that every smallevent will urge her forward on it. Usually the home-coming of Denaswas watched for and seen afar off, and some special dainty wassimmering on the hob for her refreshment. There was all the pleasantflurry that belongs to love's warm welcome. But she had delayed herreturn in order to spend the evening with Roland, and the environmentsof the morning had not the same air of easy happiness that attachesitself to the evening hours. 

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

Then she bid Denas hurry up and get her father's heavy guernsey mendedand his bottle of water filled, ready for the boat. "They be going outon the noon ebb, " she said, "and back with the midnight tide, and sotake thought for the Sabbath; for your father, he do have to preachover to Pendree to-morrow, and the sermon more on his mind than thefishing--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 seenyou are neither fatherish or motherish these days. "

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

"That be a bit of nonsense! Your father has had a taking to the seaall his life; and he never could abide to be boxed up on land. Aw, mydear, John Penelles is a busker of a fisherman! The storm never yetdid blow that down-daunted him! Tris says it is a great thing to seeyour father stand smiling by the wheel when the lightning be flyingall across the elements and the big waves be threatening moment bymoment to make a mouthful of the boat. That be the Penelles' way, mydear; they come from a good old _haveage_;[3] but there, then, it bewhist 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'tdo it, Denas; I do for sure. "

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

"The gulls do fly high, and that do mean a breeze; but there be nodanger 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 oldways again. "

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

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

"Not it, Denas. What was it you read me in that story paper? Someverses 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 canhold to--'tis enough. Good-bye, and God's keeping. "

He drank his warm milk, buttoned close his pilot coat, and went offtoward the boats. Denas had no fear for him, but Joan had not learnedtrust from her husband's trust; the iron ring of the wind, the blacksea, the wild sky with its tattered remnants of clouds, made her fullof apprehension. She hurried her work and was silent over it; whileDenas sat in the little window sewing, and occasionally letting hereyes 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 winterday; and life inside those tiny houses was restricted and full oflimitations. Denas thought of them all, but she weighed and measuredthe life without taking into account the love that sat on eachhearthstone--the love that turned the simple houses into homes and theplain, hard-working men into husbands and sons and brothers and loversand saw that they were good men and brave heroes in spite of theirpoverty. Love would have altered her estimate, but she did not asklove to count with her. She only thought: "If I did not know of abetter life, of a life full of pleasure and change, I might go andlive with Tris and dree my days out with him; but I am now too wise tobe so easily satisfied. I want a house finer than Elizabeth's; I wantgrand dresses, and plenty of servants, and a carriage; and Rolandsays all these things are in my voice. Besides, I am far too pretty tobe a fisherman's wife and mend guernseys, and make nets, and bakefish-pies every day in the year. "

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

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

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

At first she had refused to tolerate the idea; she could not imagineherself dancing to amuse a crowd of strangers--dancing for money. Shethought of Herodias dancing the Baptist's head off, and she saidsolemnly to Roland, and with the utmost sincerity, that she dared notdance. It was the broad road to perdition. Roland had not cared toargue with such a prejudice. He knew well that the dancing wouldfollow the public singing, as naturally as the singing followed theprofessional orchestra. But he said then, as he said frequentlyafterward: "It is such a pity, Denas, you have not a mother you canadvise with and who could help and encourage you. It just locks a girlup in a box to be born a Methodist!"

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

"But they will not, " she thought angrily. "They want me to settle downand be content with Tris Penrose. I dare not tell them that Rolandloves me. Roland dare not tell them either. I cannot say a word tothem about my voice and the money it may make. Roland says anyreasonable father and mother would be quite excited at the prospectand 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 istoo bad! Any sensible person would feel sorry for me. "

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

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

Then Denas with trembling hands lifted the loaf, which she hadinadvertently laid down wrong side upward, and placed it, with a "Godsave the ship and all in her, " in the proper position. But Joan wasthoroughly unnerved by the ominous incident, and she sat down with herapron 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 apparentlyforgotten. 

Into this scene stepped a young man in the Burrell Court livery. Hegave 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 catchthe cliff-top before it caught him. "

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

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

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

"And where will the fishers be who do take no risks? Fish be plentyjust 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 knewwhat fear was before. I've gone down-daunted--that be the trouble, Denas. I've had such dreams lately--such creepy-like, ghastly olddreams of wandering in wayless ways covered with water; of seeing thehearth-place full of cold ashes and the lights put out; and ofcarrying the 'Grief Child' in my breast, a puny, wailing bit of a babythat I could not be rid of, nor yet get away from--sights and soundsafter me night and day that do give me a turn to think of; and whatthey do mean I haven't mind-light for to see. God help us! But I dofear they be signs of trouble. And who goes into the way of troublebut 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 abouttrusting 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 ledmillions to His own heavenly city--I wonder at you always fearing thatHe is going to forget you and let you lose your way and get into allkinds of danger and sorrow. "

"There, then! You be right for once, my dear. Your father, he do servethe Lord with gladness, but a wife's heart is nothing but a nest offear. And it be true that I do not think so much of serving the Lordas of having the Lord serve me; and when it is me and always me, andyour heart be top-full of your dismal old self, how can you serve Godwith 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 itnow, 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 Londonnow?"

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

"Aw, then she had the bride-fever, my dear. She will be come to hersenses 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 invitationfurnished her with a reason for wearing her best dress on Monday; andshe had been much exercised to find out a cause for this unusualfinery. She felt quite excited over this fortunate incident, and shecould not avoid a smile when she reflected that Elizabeth had soopportunely furnished her with the very thing she wanted. 

Then for an hour or two Joan quite controlled herself. She asked afterthe news of the upper town, and listened with interest to herdaughter's description of the dresses she was helping to fashion. Fromthis topic they glided naturally to Christmas and its comingfestivities, and Joan talked a good deal of the new silver watch theyhad decided to give John as a Christmas gift, and so for some time shewas 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 frequentlyin reverie, and was as nearly nervous as she had accused her mother ofbeing. But the conversation finally flagged so much that Joan beganto worry about the weather once more. The wind was now frightful, theicy rain rattled against the windows, and at the open door Joan couldhear billow on billow, crash on crash, shrieking blast on shriekingblast. She was unable to preserve her cheerfulness. Like all stronghearts in anxiety, she became silent. The platitudes of Denas, dropped without interest, annoyed her; she only moved her head inreply. 

Midnight came, and no boats. There was a pitifully frequent opening ofcottage doors, and the sudden flashes of fire and candle light thatfollowed revealed always some white, fearful face thrust out into theblack 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, hershifting movements, her uncontrolled sleepiness, irritated Joan. Ingreat anxiety, companionship not perfectly sympathetic is irritating;mere mortals quiver under its infliction. For Denas could not perceiveany 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. Shelaid the Bible on the table before Joan and said: "Won't you read apsalm 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 shebegan to read to herself. 

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

"A little bit of Bible-reading do send people to sleep quick, don'tit, Denas?"

"I was so tired, mother. "

"Aw, my dear, you be no worse than Christian in the 'Pilgrim'sProgress. ' 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 tobear trouble. "

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

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

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

"Ten men drowned, my dear, and three frozen to death; but throughGod'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 doesanything, my dear, all over the world. I stuck to the boat and theboat stuck to me. God Almighty Himself can't help a coward. "

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

"Terrors take hold on him, as waters; a tempest stealeth him away inthe night. The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth; and as astorm 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 herfather's roof. John's discourses were nearly always like his nature, tender and persuasive; and this terrible sermon wove itself in and outof her wandering thoughts like a black scroll in a gay vesture. Itpained and troubled her, though she did not consider why it should doso. After the meeting was over John was very weary; but he would notgo to bed until he had eaten supper. He "wanted his little maid to sitnear him for half-an-hour, " he said. And he held her hand in his ownhand, and gave her such looks of perfect love and blessed her sosolemnly and sweetly when at length he left her that she began to sobagain and to stand on tiptoe that she might throw her arms around hisneck and touch his lips with hers once more. 

Her kisses were wet with her tears, and they made John's heart softand gentle as a baby's. "She be the fondest little maid, " he said tohis wife. "She be the fondest little maid! I could take a whole yearto 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 bornlooked so unlovely to her. She preferred the twitter and twaddle ofPriscilla's workroom to the intense realities of an existence alwaysverging on eternity. She dared to contrast those large, heroicfishers, with their immovable principles and their constant fight withall the elemental forces for their daily bread, with Roland Tresham;and to decide that Roland's delicate beauty, pretty, persuasivemanners, and fashionable clothing were vastly superior attributes. Soshe was glad when the morning came, for she was weary of enduring whatneed no longer be endured. 

It still rained, but she put on her best clothing, and Joan was notpleased at her for doing so. She thought she might come home somenight when the rain was over and change her dress for the visit toBurrell Court. This difference of opinion made their last mealtogether a silent one; for John was in a deep sleep and Joan would nothave him disturbed. Denas just opened the door and stood a momentlooking at the large, placid face on the white pillow. As she turnedaway, it seemed as if she cut a piece out of her heart; she had amomentary spasm of real physical pain. 

Joan had not yet recovered from her night of terror. Her face wasgrey, her eyes heavy, her heart still beating and aching with someunintelligible sense of wrong or grief. And she looked at her childwith such a dumb, sorrowful inquiry that Denas sat down near her andput 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--dressesdo cost money, don't they now?"

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

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

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

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

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, butby 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 onedrift after another roll inland, veiling the beach, and the boats, andthe cottages, and leaving the whole scene a spectacle of desolation. 

It affected her painfully. The love and hope in her heart did notlift her above the depressing influence of that mournful last viewof her home. Was the thing that she was going to do worth while? Wasanything in life worth while? The little town had a half-awakenedMonday-morning look. Every one seemed to be beginning another weekwith an "Oh, dear me!" sort of feeling. Miss Priscilla was justdressing her shop window, and as cross as crossed sticks over heremployment. She said that Denas was late, and wondered "forgoodness' sake why she was so dressed up. "

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

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

"I am not thinking of you sparing me, Priscilla. I am waiting for afine 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 carryingson any longer. He is a dishonourable young man. "

"Has he not paid you, Priscilla?"

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

Priscilla turned angrily on the man and ordered him to leave her shopdirectly. Then she said: "Denas Penelles, you are a bad girl! I amgoing to write to Mrs. Burrell this day, and to your father and motheralso. "

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

Denas was reading the letter, and softly smiling as she uttered thecareless words. For indeed affairs were at a point now wherePriscilla's interference would hurt herself more than others. The notewas, of course, from Roland. It told her that all was ready, and thatthe weather being so bad as to render walking very tiresome andmiserable, he had engaged a carriage which would be waiting for her onthe west side of the parish church at seven o'clock that night; andher lover would be waiting with it, and if Roland was to be believed, everything joyful and marvellous was waiting also. 

This letter was the only sunshine throughout the day. Priscilla's badtemper was in the ascendant, both in the shop and in the workroom. Shescolded Denas for working so slowly, she made her unrip whatever shedid. She talked at Denas in talking to the other girls, and the girlsall echoed and shadowed their mistress' opinions and conduct. Denassmiled, and her smile had in it a mysterious satisfaction which allfelt to be offensive. But for the certain advent of seven o'clock, theday would have been intolerable. 

About half-past six she put on her hat and cloak, and Miss Priscillaordered her to take them off. "You are not going outside my houseto-night, Denas Penelles, " she said. "If you sew until ten o'clock, you will not have done a day's work. "

"I am going home, Priscilla. I will work for you no more. You havebehaved shamefully to me all day, and I am going home. "

Priscilla had not calculated on such a result, and it was inconvenientto her. She began to talk more reasonably, but Denas would listen tono apology. It suited her plans precisely to leave Priscilla in anger, for if Priscilla thought she had gone home she would not of coursesend any word to her parents. So she left the workroom in a pretendedpassion, and shut the shop door after her with a clash that made MissPriscilla give a little scream and the forewoman ejaculate:

"Well, there then! A good riddance of such a bad piece! I do say thatfor sure. "

Very little did Denas care for the opinions of Priscilla and herwork-maidens. She knew that the word of any girl there could be boughtfor a day's wage; she was as willing they should speak evil as well ofher. Yet it was with a heart full of anger at the day's petty slightsand wrongs that she hastened to the place mentioned by Roland. As sheturned into the street at one end the carriage entered it at theother. It came to meet her; it stopped, and Roland leaped to her side. In another moment she was in the carriage. Roland's arm was aroundher; he was telling her how grateful he was; how happy! how proud! Hewas promising her a thousand pleasures, giving her hope after hope;vowing an unalterable and never-ending love. 

And Denas surrendered herself to his charm. After the last threedreadful days, it did seem a kind of heaven to be taken right out of alife so hard and unlovely and so full of painful emotions; to bekissed and flattered and to be treated like a lady. The four miles shehad expected to walk went like a happy dream; she was sorry when theywere passed and the bare railway station was reached. It was but asmall place lit by a single lamp, but Roland improvised a kind ofcouch, and told her to sleep while he watched and smoked a cigar. 

In a short time he returned, and said that there was no train toPlymouth until midnight; but an express for London would pass in halfan hour, and they had better take it. Denas thought a moment, andanswered with a decision that made Roland look curiously at her: "No. I will not go to London to be married. I know the preacher atPlymouth. We will wait for the Plymouth train. " It was not a verypleasant wait. It was cold and damp and inexpressibly dreary, andRoland could not avoid showing that he was disappointed in not takingthe London train. 

But the hours go by, no matter to what measure, and midnight came, andthe train came, and the comfort and privacy of a first-class carriagerestored the lover-like attitude of the runaways. Early in the morningthey reached Plymouth, and as soon as possible they sought the houseof the Wesleyan preacher. It stood close to the chapel and was readilyfound. A written message on Roland's card brought him at once to theparlour. He looked with interest and curiosity and some disapproval atthe couple. 

"Mr. Tresham, " he said, glancing at the card which he held in hishand, "you wish me to marry you. I think----" He was going to makesome inquiries or objections, but he caught the expression of anxietyin the face of Denas, and then he looked carefully at her and asked:

"Have I not seen you before?"

"Yes, sir, when you preached at St. Penfer last summer. I am thedaughter of John Penelles. "

"The fisher Penelles?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Oh! Yes, Mr. Tresham, I will marry you at once. It will be the bestthing, under the circumstances, I am sure. Follow me, sir. " As theywent along a narrow covered way, he called a servant and gave her anorder, and then opening a door ushered the would-be bride andbridegroom into the chapel, and straight to the communion rail. 

Denas knelt down there, and for a few moments lost herself in sincereprayer. After all, in great emotion prayer was her native tongue. Whenshe stood up and lifted her eyes, the preacher's wife and twodaughters were at her side, and the preacher himself was at thecommunion table, with the open book in his hand. The bare chapel inthe grey daylight; the strange tones of the preacher's voice in theempty place; the strange women at her side--it was all like a dream. She felt afraid to move or to look up. She answered as she was told, and she heard Roland answer also. But his voice did not sound real andhappy, and when he took the plain gold ring from the preacher's handand said after him, "With this ring I thee wed, " she raised her eyesto her husband's face. It was pale and sombre. No answering flash oflove met hers, and she felt it difficult to restrain her tears. 

In truth, Roland was smitten with a sudden irresolution that wasalmost regret. As Denas knelt praying, there had come to his mind manya dream he had had of his own wedding. He had always thought of it insome old church that would be made to glow with bride-roses and ringwith bride-music. Young maidens and men of high degree were to treadthe wedding march with him. Dancing and feasting, gay company and richpresents, were to add glory to some fair girl wife, whom he wouldchoose because, of all others, she was the loveliest; and thewealthiest, and the most to be desired. 

And then his eyes fell upon the girl at his feet, in her plain darkdress crushed and disordered with a night's travel; the bare, emptychapel; the utter want of music, flowers, company, or social supportof any kind; the small, rigid-looking preacher without surplice orinsignia of holy office; the half-expressed disapproval on thecountenances of the three women present as witnesses--it was not thusElizabeth was married; it was not thus he himself ought to have beenmarried. How the surroundings might affect Denas he did not eventhink; and yet the poor girl also had had her dreams, which this cold, dreary reality in no measure redeemed. 

But the ring was on her finger; she was Roland's wife. Nothing couldever make her less. She heard the preacher say: "Come into the vestry, Mrs. Tresham, and sign the register. " And then Roland gave her his armand kissed her, and she went with the little company, and took the penfrom her husband's hand, and wrote boldly for the last time hermaiden name:

"Denasia Penelles. "

Roland looked inquiringly at her, and she smiled and answered: "Thatis right, dear. I was christened Denasia. "

Very small things pleased Roland, and the new name delighted him. Allthe way to London he spoke frequently of it. "You are now Denasia, mydarling, " he said. "Let the old name slip with the old life. Besides, Denasia is an excellent public name. You can sing under it splendidly. Such a noble name! Why did you let everyone spoil it?"

"Everyone thought Denas was my name. Father and mother always calledme Denas, and people forgot that it was only part of my name. Fisher-folk have short names, or nicknames. "

"But, really, Denasia Penelles is a very distinguished name. Asplendid one for the public. "

"Why not Denasia Tresham?"

"Because, my dear, there are Treshams living in London who would bevery angry at me if I put their name on a bill-board. The Treshams area very proud family. "

"Roland, it would kill my father if I put his name on anything thatrefers to a theatre. You don't know how he feels on that subject. Itis a thing of life and death--I mean the soul's life or death--tohim. "

A painful discussion, in which both felt hurt and angry and both spokein very affectionate terms, followed. It lasted until they reached thegreat city which stretches out her hands to every other city. Rolandhad secured rooms in a very dull, respectable house in Queen's Square, Bloomsbury. He had often stayed there when his finances did not admitof West End luxuries, and the place was suitable for many otherreasons. 

Then followed two perfectly happy weeks for Denas. She had written afew lines to her parents while waiting for a train at Exeter, and shethen resolved not to permit herself to grieve about their grief, because it could do them no good and it would seriously worry andannoy Roland. And Roland was so loving and generous. At his commandmodistes and milliners turned his plebeian bride into a fashionable, and certainly into a very lovely lady. She had more pretty costumesthan she had ever dreamed of; she had walking-hats and dress-hats, andexpensive furs, and she grew more beautiful with each new garment. They went to theatres and operas; they went riding and walking; theyhad cosey little dinners at handsome restaurants; and Roland neveronce named money, or singing, or anything likely to spoil the charm ofthe life they were leading. 

During this happy interval Denas did not quite forget her parents. Shewrote to them once, and she very often wondered through whom and inwhat manner they received the news of their loss. It was her own handwhich dealt the blow. Miss Priscilla really thought Denas had goneback to her home, and she resolved on the following Sunday afternoonto walk down to the fishing village and "make it up" with her. AboutWednesday, however, there began to be floating rumours of the truth. Several people called on Priscilla and asked after the whereabouts ofDenas; and the landlord of the Black Lion was talking freely of thelarge bill Roland had left unsettled there. But none of these rumoursreached the ears of the fisher-folk, nor were they likely to do sountil the St. Penfer _Weekly News_ appeared. The first three days ofthe week had been so foggy that no boat had cared to risk a sail overthe bar; but on Thursday morning all was clear, and the men were eagerto get out to sea. John Penelles was hastening toward his boat, whenhe heard a voice calling him. It was the postman, and he turned andwent to meet him. 

"Here be a letter for you, John Penelles. Exeter postmark. I came abit out of my way with it. I thought you would be looking for news. "

The man was thinking of Denas and the reports about her flight; butJohn's unconcern puzzled him, and he did not care to say anything moredefinite to the big fisherman. And, as it happened, a letter wasexpected from Plymouth, on chapel business; for the very preacher whohad married Roland and Denas had been asked to come to St. Penfer andpreach the yearly missionary sermon. John had no doubt this letterfrom Exeter referred to the matter. He said so to the postman, andwith the unconscious messenger of sorrow in his hand went back to hiscottage. 

For letters were unusual events with John. If this referred to themissionary service, he would have to read it in public next Sunday, and he was much pleased and astonished that it should have been sentto him. He felt a certain importance in the event, and was anxious toshare his little triumph with his "old dear. " Joan did not quiteappreciate his consideration. She had her hands in the dough, and herthoughts were upon the pipeclaying which she was going to give to theflagged floor of her cottage. She had hoped men-folks with their bigboots would keep away until her work was dry and snow-white. 

"Here be a letter from Exeter, Joan, to me. 'Twill be about themissionary service. I thought you would like to know, my dear. "

"_Hum-m-m!_" answered Joan. "I could have done without the news, John, till the bread was baked and the floor was whitened. " She had her backto John, but, as he did not speak again, she turned her face over hershoulder and looked at him. The next moment she was at his side. 

"What is it, John? John Penelles, speak to me. "

John stood on the hearth with his left arm outstretched and holding anopen letter. His eyes were fixed on it. His face had the rigid, stubborn look of a man who on the very point of unconsciousnessarrests his soul by a peremptory act of will. He stood erect, stiff, speechless, with the miserable slip of white paper at the end of hisoutstretched arm. 

Joan gently forced him back into his chair; she untied his manyneckcloths; she bared his broad, hairy chest; she brought him water todrink; and at length her tears and entreaties melted the stone-likerigour; his head fell forward, his eyes closed, his hand unclasped, and the letter fell to the floor. It did not interest Joan; nothing onearth was of interest to her while her husband was in that horror ofstubborn suffering. 

"John, " she whispered, with her face against his face--"John! MyJohn! My good heart, be yourself and tell Joan what is the matter. Is it sickness of your body, John? Is it trouble of your mind, John?Be a man, and speak to God and to me. God is our refuge and ourstrength--think o' that. A very present help in trouble--present, nota long way off, John, not in heaven; but here in your heart and onyour hearth. Oh, John! John! do speak to me. "

"To be sure, Joan! The letter, dear; read it--read it aloud--I may bemistaken--it isn't possible, I'm sure. God help us both!"

Joan lifted the letter and read aloud the words written so hastily ina few moments of time, but which brought to two loving hearts years ofanxious sorrow:

 "'DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have just been married to Roland Tresham, and we are on our way to London. I love Roland so much, I hope you will forgive me. I will write more from London. Your loving child, "'DENAS TRESHAM. '"

"Oh, Joan, my dear! My heart be broken! My heart be broken! My heartbe broken!"

"Now, John, don't you be saying such wisht dismal, ugly words. A heartlike yours is hard to break. Not even a bad daughter can do it. Oh, mydear, don't you talk like that there! Don't, John. "

"'Tis the Lord's will, Joan--I do know that. "

"It be nothing of the kind, John. It be the devil's will when a childdo wrong such love as yours and mine. And there, now! Will you breakyour brave old heart, that has faced death a hundred times, for thedevil? No, 'tis not like to be, I'm sure. Look at the worst of it. Denas does say she be married. She does write her name with his name. What then? Many a poor father and mother have drunk the cup we bedrinking--nothing strange have come to us. "

"I do not believe she be the man's wife. "

"Aw, my dear, I do believe it. And Denas be my daughter, and I willnot let you or any other man say but that she be all of an honestwoman. 'Tis slander against your awn flesh and blood to say different, John. " And Joan spoke so warmly that her temper had a good effect uponher husband. It was like a fresh sea-breeze. He roused himself and satupright, and began to listen to his wife's words. 

"Denas be gone away--gone away for ever from us--never more our littlemaid--never more! All this be true. But, John, her heart was gone along time ago. Our poor ways were her scorn; she have gone to her awn, my dear, and we could not keep her. 'Tis like the young gull youbrought home one day, and, when it was grown, no love kept it fromthe sea. You gave it of your best, and it left you; it lay in yourbreast, John, and it left you. My dear! my dear! she be the man'swife. Say that and feel that and stick to that. He be no son to us, that be sure; but Denas is our daughter. And maybe, John, things aregoing to turn out better than you think for. Denas be no fool. "

"Oh, Joan, how could she?"

At this point Joan broke down and began to sob passionately, and Johnhad to turn comforter. And thus the painful hours went by, and thebread was not baked, and the boats went to sea without John; and thetwo sorrowful hearts sat together on their lonely hearth and talked ofthe child who had run away from their love. They were uncertain whatto say to their neighbours, uncertain what their neighbours would sayto them. John thought he ought to go to Exeter and see all theclergymen there, and so find out if Denas had been lawfully married. Joan thought it "a wisht poor business to go looking for bad news. Sitat your fireside, old man, or go far out to sea if you like it better, and if bad news be for you it will find you out, do be sure of that. "

The next day it did find them out. The St. Penfer _News_, published onThursday, which was market-day, contained the following item: "OnMonday night the daughter of John Penelles, fisher, ran off with Mr. Roland Tresham. The guilty pair went direct to London. Great sympathyis felt for the girl's father, who is a thoroughly upright man and aWesleyan local preacher of the St. Penfer circuit. "

One of the brethren thought it his duty to show this paragraph toJohn. And the "old man" in John gained the mastery, and with agreat oath he swore the words were a lie. Then, being sneeringlycontradicted, he felled "the man of duty" prone upon the shingle. Then he went home and thoroughly terrified Joan. The repressed animalpassion of a lifetime raged in him like a wild beast. He used wordswhich horrified his wife, he kicked chairs and tables out of his waylike a man drunk with strong liquor. He said he would go to St. Merryn's and get his money, and follow Roland and Denas to the endof the world; and if they were not married, they should marry ordie--both of them. He walked his cottage floor the night through, and all the powers of darkness tortured and tempted him. 

For the first time in all their wedded life Joan dared not approachher husband. He was like a giant in the power of his enemies, and hisstruggles were terrible. But she knew well that he must fight andconquer alone. Hour after hour his ceaseless tramp, tramp, tramp wenton; and she could hear him breathing inwardly like one who hasbusiness of life and death in hand. 

Toward dawn she lost hold of herself and fell asleep. When she awokeit was broad daylight, and all was still in the miserable house. Softly she opened the door and looked into the living-room. John wason his knees; she heard his voice--a far-off, awful voice--the voiceof the soul and not of the body. So she went back, and with bowedhead sat down on the edge of her bed and waited. Very cold was thewinter morning, but she feared to make a movement. She knew it waslong past the breakfast hour; she heard footsteps passing, the shoutsof the fishers, the cries of the sea-birds; she believed it to be atleast ten o'clock. 

But she sat breathlessly still. John was wrestling as Jacob wrestled;a movement, a whisper might delay the victory or the blessing. Shealmost held her breath as the muttered pleading grew more and morerapid, more and more urgent. Then there was a dead silence, a pause, along deep sigh, a slow movement--and John opened the door and saidsoftly, "Joan. " There was the light of victory on his face; the coldstrong light of a lifted sword. Then he sat down by her side; but whathe told her and how she comforted him belong to those sacred, secretthings which it is a sacrilege against love to speak of. 

They went together to the cold hearth, and kindled the fire, and madethe meal both urgently needed, and, as they ate it, John spoke of theduty before him. He had sworn at Jacob Trenager and knocked him down;he had let loose all the devils within him; he had failed in the hourof his trial, and he must resign his offices of class leader and localpreacher. 

It was a bitter personal humiliation. How his enemies would rejoice!Where he had been first, he must be last. After he had eaten, he tookthe plan out of the Bible and looked at it. As he already knew, he wasappointed to preach at St. Clair the following evening. He hadprepared his sermon on those three foggy days that began the week. Hethen thought he had never been so ready for a preaching, and he hadthe desire of a natural orator for his occasion. But how could hepreach to others when he had failed himself? The flight of hisdaughter was in every mouth, and in some measure he would be heldresponsible for her sin. Was not Eli punished for his son'stransgressions? The duty before him was a terrible one. It made hisbrown face blanch and his strong, stern mouth quiver with mentalanguish. 

But he laid the plan on the table and crossed out carefully all thefigures which represented John Penelles. Then he wrote a few lines tothe superintendent and enclosed his self-degradation. Joan wonderedwhat he would do about the St. Clair appointment, for he had asked noone to take his place, and early in the afternoon he told her to getthe lantern ready, as he was going there. She divined what he purposedto do, and she refused to go with him. He did not oppose her decision;perhaps he was glad she felt able to spare herself and him the extrahumiliation. 

Never had the little chapel been so crowded. All his mates from theneighbouring villages were present; for everyone had some share ofthat itching curiosity that likes to see how a soul suffers. A few ofthe leaders spoke to him; a great many appeared to be lost in thosedivine meditations suitable to the house of worship. John's firstaction awakened everyone present to a sense of something unusual. Herefused to ascend the pulpit. He passed within the rails that enclosedthe narrow sacred spot below the pulpit, drew the small table forward, and, without the preface of hymn or prayer, plunged at once into hisown confession of unworthiness to minister to them. He read aloud theletter which he had received from his daughter, and averred his beliefin its truthfulness. He told, with the minutest veracity, every wordof his quarrel with Jacob Trenager. He confessed his shameful andviolent temper in his own home; his hatred and his desire and purposesof revenge; and he asked the pardon of Trenager and of every member ofthe church which had been scandalized by the action of his daughterand by his own sinfulness. 

His voice, sad and visibly restrained by a powerful will, throbbedwith the burning emotions which made the man quiver from head to feet. It was impossible not to feel something of the anguish that looked outof his large patient eyes and trembled on his lips. Women began to sobhysterically, men bent their heads low or covered their faces withtheir hands; an irresistible wave of sorrow and sympathy was carryingevery soul with it. 

But, even while John was speaking, a man rose and walked up the aisleto the table at which John stood. He turned his face to thecongregation, and, lifting up his big hand, cried out:

"Be quiet, John Penelles. I be to blame in this matter. I be thevillain! There isn't a Cornishman living that be such a Judas as I be. 'Twas under my old boat Denas Penelles found the love-letters thatcouldn't have come to her own home. Why did I lend my boat and myselffor such a cruel bad end? Was it because I liked the young man? No, Ihated him. What for, then?" He put his hand in his pocket, took out apiece of gold, and, in the sight of all, dashed it down on the table. 

"That's what I did it for. One pound! A wisht beggarly bit of money!Judas asked thirty pieces. I sold Paul Pyn for one piece, and it wastoo much--too much for such a ghastly, mean old rascal. I be cruelsorry--but there then! where be the good of 'sorry' now? That bit ofgold have burnt my soul blacker than a coal! dreadful! aw, dreadful! Iwouldn't touch it again to save my mean old life. And if there be aman or a woman in Cornwall that will touch it, they be as uncommon badas I be! that is sure. "

"Paul, I forgive you, and there is my hand upon it. A man can only be'sorry. ' 'Sorry' be all that God asks, " said John Penelles in a lowvoice. 

"I be no man, John. I be just a cruel bad fellow. I never had a childto love me or one to love. No woman would be my wife. I be kind offorsaken--no kith or kin to care about me, " and, with his brown, rugged face cast down, he began to walk toward the door. Then Ann Buderose in the sight of all. She went to his side; she took his hand andpassed out of the chapel with him. And everyone looked at the other, for Paul had loved Ann for twenty years and twenty times at least Annhad refused to be his wife. But now, in this hour of his shame andsorrow, she had gone to his side, and a sigh and a smile passed fromheart to heart and from face to face. 

John stood still, with his eyes fixed on the piece of gold. It lay onthe table like a guilty thing. All Pyn's sin seemed to have passedinto it. Men and women stood up to look at it where it lay--thewretched tool of a bad man. It was a relief when Jacob Trenager gaveout a hymn, a greater relief that John Penelles went out while theywere singing it. Brothers and sisters all wished to talk about Johnand John's trouble, but to talk to him in his grief and humiliationwas a different thing. Only the old chapel-keeper watched him goingalong the rocky coast at a dangerous speed, his lantern swingingwildly to his big strides. 

But a five-minutes' walk brought John to a place where he was alonewith God and the sea. Oh, then, how he cried out for pity! forcomfort! for help! for forgiveness! His voice was not the inaudiblepleading of a man praying in his chamber; it was like the despairingcall of a strong swimmer in the death-billows. It went out over theocean; it went out beyond time and space; it touched the heart of theDivinity who pitieth the sufferers, "even as a father pitieth hischildren. "

There was a glow of firelight through his cottage window, but nocandle. Joan was bending sorrowfully over the red coals. John was gladof the dim light, glad of the quiet, glad of the solitude, for Joanwas only his other self--his sweeter and more hopeful self. He toldher all that had passed. She stood up beside him, she held his headagainst her breast and let him sob away there the weight of grief andshame that almost choked him. Then she spoke bravely to thebroken-down, weary man:

"John, my old dear, don't you sit on the ash-heap like Job, and bemoanyourself and your birthday, and go on as if the devil had more to dowith you than with other Christians. Speak up to your Heavenly Father, and ask Him 'why, ' and answer Him like a man; do now! And go to Exeterin the morning, and make yourself sure that Denas be a honest woman. I, her mother, be sure of it; but there then! men do be so badthemselves, they can't trust their own hearts, nor their own ears andeyes. 'I believe' will make a woman happy; but a man, God knows, theymust go to the law and the testimony, or they are not satisfied. It'sdreadful! dreadful!"

They talked the night away, and early in the morning John went toExeter. With the proofs of his daughter's marriage in his hand, hefelt as if he could face his enemies. Joan was equal to them withoutit. She knew they would find her out, and they found her singing ather work. Her placid face and cheery words of welcome nonplussed themost spiteful; the majority who came to triumph over her went awaywithout being able to say one of the many evil thoughts in theirhearts; and not a few found themselves hoping and wishing good thingsfor the bride. 

But it was a great effort, and many times that day Joan went intothe inner room, and buried her face in her pillow, and had her cryout. Only she confidently expected John to bring back the proofs ofher child's marriage, and in that expectation she bore withoutweakening the slant eye, and the shrugged shoulder, and the denyinglooks of her neighbours. And of course John found no minister inExeter who had married Denas Penelles and Roland Tresham; and itnever once struck him that Denas had been married in Plymouth andfound no time to write until she reached Exeter. Neither did Joanthink of such a possibility; yet when her husband came in without aword and sat down with a black, stubborn face, she knew that he hadbeen disappointed. 

That night John held his peace, even from good; and Joan felt that foronce she must do the same. So they sat together without candle, without speech, bowed to the earth with shame, feeling with bitteranguish that their old age had been beggared of love, and honour, andhope, and happiness; and, alas! so beggared by the child who had beenthe joy and the pride of their lives. 

At the same hour Denas sat with Roland in one of the fine restaurantsto be found in High Holborn. They had eaten of the richest viands, thesparkle of the champagne cup was in both their eyes, and they weregoing anon to the opera. Denas had a silk robe on and a little pinkopera cloak. Her long pale gloves and her bouquet of white roses wereby her side. Roland was in full evening dress. Their eyes flashed;their cheeks flamed with pleasant anticipations. They rose from theirdinner with smiles and whispered love-words; and Roland ordered withthe air of a lord, "A carriage for the opera. "

From John and Joan these events were mercifully hidden. It is only Godwho can bear the awful light of omniscience and of omnipresence. Thethings we cannot see! The things we never know! Let us be unspeakablygrateful for this blessed ignorance! For many a heart would break thatlives on if it only knew--if it only saw--how unnecessary was its loveto those it loves so fondly!

CHAPTER IX. 

A PIECE OF MONEY AND A SONG. 

 "Tis but a Judas coin, though it be gold; The price of love forsworn, 'tis full of fears And griefs for those who dare to hold; And leaves a stain, only washed clean with tears. "

 "Behold and listen while the fair Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air; She raised her voice so high, and sang so clear, At every close she made the attending throng Replied, and bore the burthen of the song; So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note, It seemed the music melted in the throat. " --DRYDEN. 

The piece of money left by Pyn might have been a curse; no one wouldtouch it. While the women stood in groups talking of poor JohnPenelles and Denas, the men held an informal meeting around the tableon which it lay. 

"This be the communion table, " said Jacob Trenager; "some one ought totake the money off it. And I think it be best to carry the gold to thesuperintendent; he will tell us what to do with it;" and, after someobjections, Jacob took charge of the sinful coin, and the next morninghe went up the cliff to St. Penfer with it. 

The preacher heard the story with an intense interest. "Jacob, " heanswered, "I suppose there be none so poor in your village as to feelit might do them good?"

"Man, nor woman, nor child, would buy a loaf with it, sir; none of usmen would let them. If Denas Penelles have gone out of the way, sir, she be a fisher's daughter, and the man and the money that beguiledher be hateful to all of us. "

"Your chapel--is it not very poor?"

"Not poor enough to take the devil's coin, sir. "

"Well, Jacob, I cannot say that I feel any more disposed to use itthan you do. We know it was the wage of sin, and neither the serviceof God nor the poor will be the better for it. I think we will give itback to the young man. It may help to show him how his fellows regardthe thing he did. "

"That be the best way of all, sir. But he be in London, and hard tofind no doubt. "

"I will take it to his sister. I do not hold her quite guiltless. "

So Jacob threw the sovereign on the preacher's desk, and it lay on thegreen baize, a yellow, evil-looking thing. For men love to make theirthoughts palpable to their senses, and this bit of gold was visiblesin--part of the price of a desolated home. 

It was singular to see this same personification troubling theeducated preacher as well as the unlearned fisherman. The Rev. WilliamFarrar, when left alone with the unwelcome coin, looked askance at it. He did not like to see it on his desk, he had a repugnance to touchit. Then he forced himself to lift the sovereign, and by an elaboratefingering of the coin convince his intellect that he had no foolishsuperstition on the subject. Anon he took out his purse for its safekeeping, but suddenly, after a moment's hesitation, he snapped theclasp tight, and threw the bit of money on the chimney-piece. For amomentary flash of thought had brought vividly before him the sinfulBabylonish garment which troubled the camp of Israel. Perhaps thatsinful money might be equally malign to his own household. 

He had resolved to take it to Mrs. Burrell in the afternoon, for themorning was his time for study and writing. But he found it impossibleto think of his sermon. That sovereign on the mantelpiece was in allhis thoughts. His back was to it, and yet he saw the dull shiningdisc. In spite of his reason and his faith, in spite of a very strongwill and of a practiced command over himself, he felt the presence ofthe rejected coin to be a weight and an influence he could not pretendto ignore. 

So he resolved to leave every other duty and go to Burrell Court, though it was a long walk, and the thick misty Cornish rain had begunto fall. Indeed, there was nothing but a vapourish shroud, a dim, greychaos, as far as his eye could reach. The strip of road on which hetrod was apparently the only land left to tread on--all the rest ofcreation had disappeared in a spectral mist. But above the mist thelark was singing joyously, singing for the song's sake, and the melodywent down into his heart and preached him a better sermon than he wasever likely to write. 

Listening to it, he reached, before he was aware, the great gates ofthe Court. Mrs. Burrell was at home, and he sent a request for aninterview. Elizabeth instantly suspected that he had come on someaffair relating to that wretched business. She was in trouble enoughabout it, but she was also proud and reticent, and not inclined todiscuss Roland with a stranger. 

Quite intentionally she gave to her manner a good deal of thathaughtiness which young wives think dignity, but which is in realitythe offensive freshness of new-made honour. The preacher offered herhis hand, but she did not see it, being fully occupied in arrangingthe long train of cashmere, silk, and lace which, in those days, mademorning dresses a misnomer. 

"I am the Wesleyan preacher from St. Penfer, Mrs. Burrell. "

"Can I do anything for you, sir? though really, if yours is acharitable visit, I must remind you that my own church looks to me forall I can possibly afford. "

"I do not come, Mrs. Burrell, to ask for money. I bring you thissovereign, which belongs to Mr. Roland Tresham. "

The gold fell from his fingers, spun round a few times, and, droppingupon the polished mahogany table, made a distinct clink. 

"I do not understand you, Mr. Farrar. "

The preacher hastened to make the circumstance more intelligible. Herelated the scene at the St. Clair chapel with a dramatic force thatsprang from intense feeling, and Elizabeth listened to his solemnwords with angry uneasiness. Yet she made an effort to treat theaffair with unconcern. 

"What have I to do with the sovereign, sir?" she asked. "I am notresponsible for Mr. Tresham's acts. I did my best to prevent thedisgrace that has befallen the fisherman's daughter. "

"I think you are to blame in a great measure. "

"Sir!"

"Yes. I am sure you are. You made a companion of the girl--I may say afriend. "

"No, sir, not a friend. She was not my equal in any respect. "

"Say a companion then. You taught her how to dress, how to converse, how to carry herself above her own class. You permitted her to wanderabout the garden with your brother. "

"I always watched them. "

"You let her talk to him--you let her sing with him. "

"Never but when I was present. From the first I told her what Rolandwas--told her to mind nothing at all he said. "

"If you had put a glass of cold water before a man dying of thirst, would you have been justified in telling him not to drink? You mighteven have added that the water contained poison; all the same, hewould have drunk it, and your blame it would be for putting it withinhis reach. "

"Indeed, Mr. Farrar, I will not take the blame of the creature'swickedness. It is a strange thing to be told that educating a girl andtrying to lift her a step or two higher is a sin. "

"It is a sin, madam, unless you persevere in it. God does not permitthe rich, for their own temporary glory or convenience, to makeexperiments with an immortal soul, and then abandon it like a soiledglove or a game of which they have grown weary. What you began youought in common justice to have carried on to such perfection as waspossible. No circumstances could justify you in beguiling a girl fromher natural protectors and then leaving her in the midst of dangeralone. "

"Sir, this is my affair, not yours. I beg leave to say that you knownothing whatever of the circumstances. "

"Indeed, I know a great deal about them, and I can reasonably deduce agreat deal more. "

"And pray, sir, what do you deduce?"

"The right of Denas Penelles to have been retained as your companion. Having made a certain refinement of life necessary to her, you oughtin common justice to have supplied the want you created. "

"All this trouble arose when I was on my wedding-trip. "

"I think you ought to have taken her with you. "

"Sir!"

"I think so. It was hard to be suddenly deprived of every socialpleasure and refinement and sent back to a fisher's cottage to curefish, and knot nets, and knit fishing-shirts. How could you have borneit?"

"Mr. Farrar, such a comparison is an insult. "

"I mean no insult; far from it. Even my office would give me no rightto insult you. I only wish to awaken your conscience. Even yet it maytake up your abandoned duty. "

"Perhaps you do not know that I endeavoured last week to see Denas. Iwrote to her. I asked her to come and see me. I told her I wanted totalk with her about Mr. Tresham. She did not even answer my letter. Iconsider myself clear of the ungrateful girl--and as I am busy thismorning I will be obliged to you, sir, to excuse my furtherattendance. Take the sovereign with you; give it to the poor. "

"God will feed His poor, madam. "

She made a little scornful laugh and asked: "Do you really inquireinto the character of all the money your church receives?"

"No further, madam, than you inquire into the character of thevisitors you receive. Plenty of thieves and seducers are in everysociety, but it is not until a man is publicly known to be a thief ora seducer that we are justified in refusing him a courteous reception. A great deal of money is the wages of sin, and it passes through ourhands and we are not stained by its contact; but if I give you a pieceof gold and say, 'It is the price of a slain soul, or a slain body, ora slain reputation, ' would you like to put it in your purse, or buybread for your children with it, or take it to church and offer it toGod? I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. "

And Elizabeth bowed and stood watching him until the door was closedand she was alone with the coin. It offended her. It had been thecause of a most humiliating visit. She looked at it with scorn andloathing. A servant entered with a card; she took it eagerly, andpointing to the money said, "Carry it to Mr. Tresham's room and lay itupon the dressing-table. " She was grateful to get it out of her sight, and very glad indeed to see the visitor who had given her such aprompt opportunity for ridding her eyes of its gleaming presence. 

Thus it is that not only present but absent personalities rule us. In St. Penfer, Paul Pyn and Ann Bude, John and Joan Penelles, theRev. Mr. Farrar and Mrs. Burrell, were all that morning governed insome degree by Roland's evilly spent sovereign; and he far off inLondon was in the hey-day of his honeymoon with Denas. They were sogay, so thoughtless and happy that people turned to look at them asthey wandered through the bazars or stood laughing before thesplendid windows in Regent Street. Many an old man and womansmiled sympathetically at them; for all the world loves a lover, andnone could tell that these lovers had forfeited their right tosympathy by stealing their pleasure from those who ought to haveshared it with them. 

But as yet the world was only an accident of their love, and there wasa whole week before them of unbroken and unsatiated delight--a wholeweek in which neither of them thought of the past or the future; inwhich every hour brought a fresh pleasure, something new to wear, orto see, or to hear. If it could only have lasted! Alas! the ability toenjoy went first. Amusements of every kind grew a little--a verylittle--tiresome. The first glory was dimmed; the charm of freshnesswas duller; the unreasoning delight of ignorance a little lessenthusiastic every day; and about the close of the third week Rolandsaid one morning, "You look weary, Denasia, my darling. "

"I am tired, Roland--tired of going a-pleasuring. I never thoughtanything like that could possibly happen. Ought I not to be takinglessons, learning something, doing something about my voice?"

"It is high time, love. Money melts in London like ice in summer. Suppose we go and see Signor Maria this morning. "

"I would like to go very much. "

"Then make yourself very fine and very pretty, and let me hear if yourvoice is in good order to-day. " He went to the piano and struck a fewchords, and throughout the still, decorous house, people in every roomheard the sweet voice chanting:

 "I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men--the sea"--

heard it again in the weird, startling incantation:

 "Weave me the nets for the gray, gray fish"--

and up and down stairs doors were softly opened, and through everyheart there went a breath of the salt sea and a longing for the widestretches of rippled sands and tossing blue waters. 

Roland perceived the effect of the music and was satisfied. He had nofear of their future. What if the gold was low in his purse? Thatcharmful voice was an unfailing bank from which to draw more. He wasso proud of his darling, so full of praises and admiration, thatDenas really put on an access of genius as she robed herself to hisflattering words. Pleasure, and hope, and a pretty pride in herhusband's eulogies lent her new physical graces. She was consciousthat there were eyes at every window watching Roland and herself leavethe house, and she felt certain that their owners were saying: "What ahandsome couple! How fond they are of each other! What a wonderfulvoice she has!"

It is easy to be gay, and even beautiful, to such thoughts; and Rolandand Denas reached Signor Maria's in a glow of good-humour and goodhope. The Signor was at home and ready to receive them. He was asmall, thin, dark man with long, curling black hair and bright blackeyes. He bowed to Roland and looked with marked interest into thefair, sparkling face of Denas. He was much pleased with her appearanceand quite interested in her ambitions. Then he opened the piano andsaid, "Will monsieur play, or madame?"

Roland played and Denas sang her very best. The Signor listenedattentively, and Roland was sure of an enthusiastic verdict; on thecontrary, it was one of depressing qualifications. The Signoracknowledged the quality of the voice, its charmful, hauntingtones--but for the opera! oh, much more--very, very much more wasneeded. Madame must go to Italy for three years and study. She mustlearn the Italian language; the French; the German. Ah! then there wasthe acting also! Had madame histrionic power? That was indispensablefor the grand opera. But in three years--perhaps four--with fineteachers her voice might be very rich, very charming. _Now_ it washarsh, crude, unformed. Yes, it wanted the soft, mellowing airs ofItaly. Where had madame been living--what was called "brought up?"

Denas answered she had always lived by the sea, and the Signor noddedintelligently and said: "Yes! yes! that was what he heard in hervoice; the fresh wild winds--yes, wild and salt! It is airs from therose gardens, velvety languors off the vineyards, heat and passions ofthe sunshine madame wants. Indeed, monsieur may take madame to Italyfor two, three, perhaps four years, and then expect her to sing. Yes, then, even in grand opera. "

This was undoubtedly the Signor's honest opinion, but Roland and Denaswere greatly depressed by it; Denas especially so, for she had aninward conviction that he was right; she had heard the truth. It wasalmost two different beings that left Signor Maria's house. SilentlyRoland handed Denas into the waiting cab, silently he seated himselfbeside her. 

"I am afraid I have disappointed you, Roland. "

"Yes, a little. But we are going now to Mr. Harrison's. There isnothing foreign about him. He is English, and he knows what Englishpeople like. I shall wait for his verdict, Denas. "

"It was a long ride to Mr. Harrison's, and Roland did not speak untilthey were at his door. This professor was a blond, effusive, large manof enthusiastic temperament. He was delighted to listen to Mrs. Tresham, and he saw possibilities for her that Signor Maria neverwould have contemplated; though when Roland told him what Maria hadsaid he endorsed his opinion so far as to admit the excellence of sucha training for a great prima donna. 

"But Mrs. Tresham may learn just as well by experience as by method, "he averred. "She sings as the people enjoy singing. She sings theirsongs. She has a powerful voice, which will grow stronger with use. Ithink Mr. Willis will give her an immediate engagement. Suppose we goand see. Willis is at the hall, I should say, about this time. "

This seemed a practical and flattering offer, and Roland gladlyaccepted it. Willis Hall was soon reached. It was used only forpopular concerts and very slight dramas in which there was a greatdeal of singing and dancing. It had a well-appointed stage andscenery, but the arrangement of the seats showed a general democracyand a great freedom of movement for the audience. 

"Willis is always on the lookout for novelties, " said ProfessorHarrison, "and I am sure these fishing songs will 'fetch' such anaudience as he has. "

As he was speaking Mr. Willis approached. He listened to ProfessorHarrison's opinion and kept his eyes on Denas while he did so. Hethought her appearance taking, and was pleased to give her voice atrial. The hall was empty and very dull, but a piano was pulledforward to the front of the stage and Roland took his seat before it. Denas was told to step to the front and sing to the two gentlemen inthe gallery. They applauded her first song enthusiastically, and Denassang each one better. But it was not their applause she listenedto--it was the soft praises of Roland, his assurances of her success, which stimulated her even beyond her natural power. 

At the conclusion of the trial Mr. Willis offered Denas twelve poundsa week, and if she proved a favourite the sum was to be graduallyincreased. The sum, though but a pittance of Roland's dreams, was atleast a livelihood and an earnest of advance, and it was readilyaccepted. Then the little company sat down upon the empty stage anddiscussed the special songs and costumes in which Denas was to makeher début. 

Never before in all his life had Roland found business so interesting. He said to Denas, as they talked over the affair at their ownfireside, that he thought he also had found his vocation. He felt athome on the stage. He never had felt at home in a bank or in abusiness office. He was determined to study, and create a few greatcharacters, and become an actor. He felt the power; it was in him, hesaid complacently. "Now, " he added, "Denas, if you become a greatsinger and I a great actor, we shall have the world at our feet. And Ilike actors and those kind of people. I feel at home with them. I likethe life they lead--the jolly, come-day go-day, wandering kind oflife. I never was meant for a respectable man of business. No: thestage! the stage! That is my real life. I am certain of it. I wonder Inever thought of it before. "

It had been arranged that Denas was to open with Neil Gow's matchlesssong of "_Caller Herrin'!_" and her dress was of course that of anidealized Newhaven fisher-girl. Her short, many-coloured skirts, hertrig latched shoon, her open throat, and beautiful bare arms lifted tothe basket upon her head was a costume which suited her to admiration. When she came stepping down the stage to the immortal notes, and hervoice thrilled the house with the ringing musical "cry" that none hearand ever forget:

 Cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'!

the assembly broke into rapturous delight. It was a song not abovetheir comprehension and their feeling. It was interpreted by one towhom the interpretation was as natural as breathing. She was recalledagain, and again, and again, and the uproar of approval only ceasedwhen the next singer advanced with a roll of music in his hand. He wasa pale, sentimental young man whose forte was despairing love-songs, but

 "The last links are broken That bound me to thee"

had little interest after Mademoiselle Denasia's unique melody. Forit was by this name Denas had consented to be known, the French prefixhaving but a very indefinite significance to her mind. Roland hadtold her that it meant a lady, and that all singers were eithermademoiselle or madame, and that she was too young for madame, andthe explanation had been satisfactory. 

Certainly, if signs could be trusted Mademoiselle Denasia was likelyto be a name in many mouths; for her second and third songs were evenmore startling in their success than "Caller Herrin', " and Mr. Williswould permit no further recalls. 

"We must give them Denasia in small doses, " he said, laughing; "she istoo precious to make common, " and Roland winced a moment at thefamiliar tone in which his wife's name was spoken. But both alike wereunder a spell. The intoxicating cup of public applause was at theirlips. Their brains were full of the wildest dreams, their hearts fullof the wildest hopes. No consideration at that time could have turnedtheir feet aside from the flower-covered, treacherous path they wereso gayly treading. 

Such a life would have simply been beyond the power of John and JoanPenelles to imagine. Its riot of dress and emotions and its sinfulextravagance in every direction would have been to them an astoundingrevelation of the possibilities of life. As it was, their anxiety tookmainly one direction: the uncertainty attending the marriage of theirdaughter. Denas had indeed said she was Roland's wife, but the St. Penfer _News_ implied a very different relationship; and John had allthat superstitious belief in a newspaper which is so often anattribute of ignorance. 

At any rate, the want of authentic data about the marriage humiliatedand made him miserable. Two more weeks had passed since that eventfulSunday night service at St. Clair, and yet John had no assurance of amore certain character to rely on. Three or four illustrated papershad been received with "love from your daughter, Denas Tresham, "written on the title-page; but the claim thus made satisfied no onebut Joan. Joan believed in the validity of the name, and handed aroundthe sheets with a confidence few cared to in any degree dispute. 

The third Sunday was an important one to the fisher-folk. There was tobe a missionary sermon preached in the St. Clair chapel, and John andJoan went there. The chapel was crowded. Joan got a seat, but Johnlingered in the small vestibule within the door among the few brethrenwaiting for the strange preacher. It was the same person who hadmarried Roland and Denas, and after he had shaken himself free fromhis dripping cloak he looked at the men around him, and his eyes fellupon John. And probably all the circumstances of that marriage wereeither well known or accurately divined, for he took the big fishermanby the hand and said cheerfully:

"John Penelles, I am glad, very glad indeed to meet you. I suppose youknow that it was I who married your daughter?"

If a fixed star had fallen at John's feet he could not have been moreamazed. His large face lightened from within, he clasped firmly thepreacher's hand, but was so slow in forcing speech from his swellingheart that the preacher continued:

"Yes, they came to me, and I remembered your pretty child. I tiedthem true and fast, you may be sure of that, John. "

"Where, sir?"

"In Plymouth Wesleyan chapel, to be sure. "

"Thank God! Thank you too, sir! You might say so--some people here beslow to believe, sir, and it be breaking my heart, it be indeed, sir. "

There was only a nod and smile in reply, but John was extremelyhappy. He tried to get near to Joan and tell her; but the aisles werefull and the service was beginning. John held his own service, andthe singing, and the prayer, and preaching were just a joyfulaccompaniment to the thanksgiving in his heart. At length theservice was over, and the preacher lifted a number of slips of paperand began to read aloud the announcements made on them. Missionarymeetings, tea meetings for missions, a bazaar at St. Penfer formissions, a Bible meeting, a class meeting, and the service for thatevening. Then, while the congregation were still expectant, he saidin a clear, pleasant voice:

"I am requested also to say that on December the 17th, on Tuesdaymorning at nine o'clock, I united in the holy bands of marriageDenasia, the daughter of John Penelles, fisher of St. Penfer, toRoland Tresham, gentleman of that place. The ceremony was performed byme in the Wesleyan chapel at Plymouth; myself, my wife, and twodaughters being witnesses to it. We will now sing the 444th hymn:

 "'Lord over all, if Thou hast made, Hast ransomed every soul of man. '"

And all the congregation rose, and in the rising the conscious glancethat passed through the chapel was lost in a more general purpose. Itwas presumed, at least, that everyone was singing a prayer for theheathen. Only Joan Penelles made no effort to think of India orAfrica. Her face, full of radiant assurance, looked confidently overthe crowd, seeking her husband's mutual glance of pleasure. Her faithhad been justified. Her girl was an honourable wife--the wife of agentleman well known to all. She had no longer any need to hide thewounding look or doubtful word in a protesting attitude, as painful toher as it was offensive to others. 

Well, it is a very hard thing to rejoice with those that do rejoice;evidently in that little chapel it was easier for the worshippers tobe sorry for the heathen than to be glad for their brother and sisterPenelles. Never had John and Joan felt themselves so far away from thesympathy of their fellows. Only a few rough men who handled the netswith John, and who knew how hard the duty had been to him since hislittle girl went away, said a word of congratulation. But one andanother of these, as they passed John and Joan on their way home, saida hearty "Praise God, brother John, " or a "God bless you both, 'twasgood news for you this morning. " But, with or without sympathy, thehappy father and mother walked to their house that day up-head andbravely. Their hearts had been miraculously lightened, and it was notuntil the burden had rolled away that they knew how woefully heavy ithad been. 

The next afternoon, when the wind was blowing inland too fiercely topermit boats to leave the harbour, a man who had been up the cliffbrought back with him a letter for the Penelles. It was evidently fromDenas. John looked at the postmark, "London, " and turned it around andaround till Joan was nervous. "Aw, then, John, do open it, and readwhat be inside--do, my dear!" And John read:

 "DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have been intending to write to you every day, but I have been so happy that the days went away like a dream. I wish you knew my dear Roland as I do. He is the kindest of men, the most generous, the dearest in the whole world. He does nothing but try how to give me pleasure. He has bought me such lovely dresses, and rings, and bracelets, and he takes me everywhere. I never, never did think life could be so happy. I am going to have lessons too. I am to be taught how to sing and to do other things right, and your little Denas is the very happiest girl in the world. London is such a grand place, the very streets are all shows. Your loving daughter, "DENAS TRESHAM. 

 "P. S. --Perhaps you may wonder where we were married. It was at Plymouth, by the Wesleyan preacher. Father knows him, I think. D. T. "

A dead silence followed the reading of the letter. Joan sat uprightwith a troubled face. She had been washing the dinner dishes; thetowel lay across her lap, and her fingers pleated and unpleated thebit of coarse linen. John laid his arms across his knees and droppeda stern face toward them. The bit of white paper was in his big brownfingers. He did not speak a word; his heart was full, his eyes werefull, his tongue was heavy and dumb. Joan grew restless and hot withanger, for she was wounded in every sense. 

"Aw, my dear, she be so happy with that man she do forget the days shewas happy with you and me, John. She do forget all and everything. Aw, then, 'tis a cruel, thoughtless letter. Cruel beyond words totell--dreadful! aw, dreadful! God help us! And I do wish I couldforget her! And I do be sorry she was ever born. "

"Whist! whist! my old dear. She has gone into the wilderness. Our onelittle ewe lamb has gone into the wilderness, and aw, my dear, 'twillkeep us busy all night and day to send love and prayer enough afterher. There be wolves there, Joan; wolves, my dear, ready todevour--and the man she loves, he be one of them. Poor little Denas!"

Then Joan went on with her housework, but John sat silent, bendingdown toward the letter. And by and by his white face glowed with adull red colour, and he tore the letter up, tore it very slowly intonarrow ribbon-like strips, and let them fall, one by one, at his feet. He was in a mood Joan did not care to trouble. It reminded her of theday when he had felled Jacob Trenager. She was glad to see him riseand go to the inner room, glad to hear that he bolted the door afterhim. For in that temper it was better that John should complain to Godthan talk with any human being. 

CHAPTER X. 

A VISIT TO ST. PENFER. 

 "Oh, waly waly, but love be bonny A little while while it is new; But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld And fades away like morning dew. " --OLD SONG. 

 "Oh, and is all forgot-- All school days' friendship, childhood's innocence?

 . . . . . . . . . . 

 Our sex as well as I may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. " --SHAKESPEARE. 

Denasia made her _début_ in the last ten days of January, and sheretained the favour of that public which frequented Willis Hall forthree months. Then her reputation was a little worn; people whistledand sang her songs and were pleased with their own performance ofthem. And Roland, also, had tired a little of the life--of itsregularity and its obligations. He was now often willing to let anyother performer who desired to do so take his place at the piano. Hebegan to have occasional lookings-backward to Burrell Court and therespectability it represented. 

Then at the close of April Denasia fell ill. The poor girl fretted atthe decline of enthusiasm in her audience. She made stupendous effortsto regain her place in the popular favour, and she failed because ofthe natural law which few are strong enough to defy--that change is asnecessary to amusement as fidelity is to duty. Denasia did not indeedreason about the event; the simple fact that she had no recalls and noclamorous approval made her miserable, and then sickness followed. 

She was very ill indeed, and for four weeks confined to her room; andwhen she was able to consider a return to the hall, Roland found thather place had been taken by a Spanish singer with a mandolin and awonderful dance. That was really a serious disappointment to the youngcouple, for during the month money had been going out and none comingin. For even when Denasia had been making twenty-five pounds a week, they had lived and dressed up to the last shilling; so that a month'senforced idleness and illness placed them deeply in debt anduncomfortably pressed for the wherewithal to meet debt. 

Denasia also had been much weakened by her illness. Her fine form andcolour were impaired, she was nervous and despondent; and asuffering, sickly wife was quite out of Roland's calculations andvery much out of his sympathies. Poverty had a bad effect upon him. Tobe without money to buy the finest brand of cigars, to be annoyed byboarding-house keepers, tailors, and costumers, to have to buymedicines with cash when he was without his usual luxuries, was acondition of affairs that struck Roland as extremely improper for ayoung man of his family and education. 

And he disliked now to interview managers. Mademoiselle Denasia was arecognised member of the profession which more than any other demandsthat everyone stand upon their merits; and Denasia had not been a verypronounced success. She remained just about where she had begun, andmanagers naturally thought that she had done the best of which she wascapable. That best was not a phenomenal one, and Roland, as herhusband and business agent, received no extraordinary amount ofrespect. He was offended where he had no reason for offence--offendedoften because everyone did not recognise him as a member of an oldCornish family and the son of an ex-lord mayor of London. Often hefelt obliged, in order to satisfy his own self-respect, to make thefact known; and the chaff, or indifference, or incredulity, with whichhis claims were received made him change his opinions regarding the"jolly company of actors. " In fact, he was undoubtedly at this periodof Denasia's career her very worst enemy; for whatever Denasia mightbe, Roland and his pretensions were usually regarded as a great bore. 

One afternoon in May he became thoroughly disgusted with the life hehad chosen for himself. The bright sunshine made the shabby carpet andtawdry furniture and soiled mirrors intolerably vulgar. They had justfinished a badly cooked, crossly served, untidy dinner, and Roland hadno cigar to mend it. Denasia had not eaten at all; she lay on thebright blue sofa with shut eyes, and her faded beauty and faded dresswere offensive to the fastidious young man. 

She was thinking of her father's cottage, of the love at its hearth, and of the fresh salt winds blowing all around it. Roland half-divinedher thoughts, and his own wandered to Burrell Court and hislong-neglected sister. 

Suddenly he resolved to go and see her. Elizabeth had always plentyof money, then why should he be without it? And the desire havingentered his heart, he was as imperative as a spoiled child for itsgratification. Denasia's physical condition did not appeal to him inany degree; he could not help her weakness and suffering, andcertainly it was very inconvenient for him. He felt at that hour asif Denasia had broken her part of their mutual compact, which hadnot included illness or loss of prestige and beauty. He turnedsharply to her and said:

"Denasia, I am going to St. Penfer. I shall have to sell a ring orsomething valuable in order to get the fare, but I see no other way. Elizabeth never disappointed my expectations; she will give me money, I am sure. "

"Don't leave me, Roland. I will get well, I will indeed, dear. I ambetter this afternoon. In a few days--in a week, Roland, I can findsome place to sing. Please have a little patience. Oh, do, my dear!"

"Little patience! What are you saying, Denasia? You are veryungrateful! Have I not had patience for a whole month? Have I notspent even my cigar-money for you? Patience, indeed!"

"Is there nowhere but St. Penfer? No person but Elizabeth?"

"I can go to St. Merryn's, if you like. Give me an order for the moneyin your name at St. Merryn's Bank. "

She turned sullen in a moment. "I have told you a thousand times, Roland, I would rather die of hunger than rob my father. "

"Very well, then, why do you complain if I go to my own people? I hopewhen I return you will be better. "

"Roland! Roland! You are surely not going to leave me--in amoment--without anything?"

Her cry so full of anguish brought him back to her side; but hispurpose had taken full possession of him; only he left her with thosekisses and promises which women somehow manage to live upon. He stillloved her in his way of loving, but his way demanded so many pleasantaccidentals that it was impossible for Denasia always to provide them. And yet, having once realised, in a great measure, his ideal of hervalue to his happiness, he did feel that her sudden break-down inhealth was a failure he ought to show disapproval of. 

However, there was method even in Roland's selfish plans. He did notwish to find Mr. Burrell at St. Penfer, so he went to the bank andascertained his whereabouts. He was told that Mr. Burrell had justleft for Berlin, and was likely to be a week or ten days away. Thisinformation quite elated Roland. He sold his watch and took the firsttrain to Cornwall. And as he was certain that Elizabeth would havesettled his bill at the Black Lion, he went there with all his oldswaggering good-humour and thoroughly refreshed himself before goingout to Burrell Court. 

Elizabeth gave him a hearty welcome; she was indeed particularly gladto see him just then. She was lonely in the absence of her husband;she had just had a slight disagreement with the ladies at a churchmeeting; she was feeling her isolation and her want of family support;and she had met, for the first time since their interview, the Rev. Mr. Farrar, who had presumed to arrest her coachman and, in thepresence of her servants, congratulate her on the marriage of herbrother and her friend. Under the circumstances, she had judged itbest to make no remarks; but she was very angry, and not sorry to havethe culprit in her presence and tell him exactly what she thought ofhis folly and disgrace. 

She kept the lecture, however, until they had dined and were alone;then, as he sat serenely smoking one of Mr. Burrell's finest cigars, she said:

"I hope you are come back to me, Roland. I hope you have left thatwoman for ever. "

"Who do you mean by 'that woman, ' Elizabeth?"

"De--You know who I mean. "

"Denas! Left Denas! Left my wife! That is absurd, Elizabeth! I wantedto see you. I could not bear to be 'out' with you any longer. Youknow, dear, that you are my only blood relative. Denas is my relativeby marriage. Blood is thicker than--everything. "

"Roland, you know how I love you. You are the first person I remember. All my life long you have been first in my heart. How do you think Iliked to be put aside for--that fisher-girl? It nearly broke my heartwith shame and sorrow. "

"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I did behave badly to you. I amashamed of myself. Forgive me, darling sister. " And he pulled hischair to her side, and put his arm around her neck, and kissed herwith no simulated affection. For he would indeed have been heartlesshad he been insensible to the true love which softened every tone inElizabeth's voice and made her handsome face shine with tenderinterest and unselfish solicitude. 

"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I believe you are noble enoughto have accepted Denas for my sake. "

"I am not, Roland. Nothing could have made me accept her. I have takena personal dislike to her. I am sure that I cannot even do herjustice. "

"She has been very ill. She is still very weak. I have been unable toget her all the comforts she ought to have had--unable to take her tothe sea-side, though the doctor told me it was an imperativenecessity. We have been very poor, but not unhappy. "

"I understood she was making a great deal of money with her trashy, vulgar little songs. "

"She was until she fell ill. And whatever her songs are, they havebeen very much admired. "

"By her own class. And you let her sing for your living! I am amazedat you, Roland!"

"I do not see why. You wanted me to marry Caroline Burrell and let hersupport me out of the money old Burrell worked for. Denas loves me, and the money she gives me is given with love. Old Burrell never sawme, and if he had I am quite sure he would have hated me and despisedme as a fortune-hunter. Denas is a noble little darling. She has neverinferred, either by word or look, that she sang for my living. It tookyou to do that, Elizabeth. Besides, I help Denas to make money. Iarrange her business and I play her accompaniments, and, as I said, Ilove her and she loves me. Why, I have done without cigars to buymedicines for her; and if that isn't a proof of my devotion, I do notknow how to give one! I can tell you that Mademoiselle Denasia is agreat favourite with everyone. "

"Mademoiselle Denasia!" cried Elizabeth with the utmost scorn. "Mademoiselle! and Denasia! However, she might well change her name. "

"She did not change her name. She was baptised Denasia. "

"Robert went to hear her sing. He says it was in a fourth-rate place, and I can tell you he was burning with indignation to see hisbrother-in-law playing a piano there. "

"Then he ought to let his anger burn to some purpose. Signor Mariasays that if Denasia had proper masters and was sent to Italy for twoor three years she could sing in grand opera. Mind, Maria says that;not I. Suppose you get Robert to send Denas to Italy. "

"I will do nothing at all for Denas. And I think, Roland, that youought to do something for yourself. I hate to think of my own brothertaking his living from that fisherman's daughter. It is a shame!Father brought you up like a gentleman, sent you to college, gave youan opportunity----"

"If father had given me a profession of any kind, if he had put me inthe army or the navy, I should be to blame. If he had bought me a kitof carpenters' tools and had me taught how to use them, I should be noman at all if I looked to a woman for a living. But he did not. Hesent me to college, gave me expensive tastes, and then got me a deskin a bank, where the only prospect before me was to add figures forthe rest of my life for two pounds a week. Naturally I looked aroundfor something more to my liking. I found Denasia. I loved her. Sheloved me. I could play, she could sing, and we made twenty-five poundsa week. That is the true state of the case. "

"And do you intend to spend your life playing accompaniments tofishing-songs?"

"No. I am studying for the stage. "

"Roland Tresham! Roland Tresham!"

"I think I have a new conception of the character of Orlando and Iflatter myself the Romeo is yet to be played. I shall attempt it nextwinter. Now, Elizabeth, all the summer is before us. If you will notask us to Burrell Court, then do in sisterly kindness send us to somequiet sea-side place to study. We could, of course, come to Penelles'cottage----"

"No, you could not. John Penelles would not permit you to enter hisdoor. He says he will never forgive his daughter until she leaves youfor ever. I understand him. I cannot fully forgive you while youremain with that woman. "

"Who told you John Penelles said such a thing? I do not believe it. "

"Priscilla Mohun. He said it to her. "

"Ah! He would not say it to Denasia. And it would not be a bad placeto study. I should soon be a favourite with the fishers. I know how toget around that class of people, and I am fond of the sea and couldspend a month very comfortably there. Cigars make any placecomfortable. "

"You are talking simple nonsense, Roland. You know it, too. Penelleswould not endure your presence five minutes. "

"I have done his daughter no harm. "

"He believes that you have ruined her immortal soul. You are the devilincarnate to John Penelles. He would not let you put your foot in hiscottage. And he is not a man to trifle with. He knocked Jacob Trenagerdown, and the man goes lame ever since, they say. "

"I am not going in his way to be knocked down. It is absolutelynecessary, both for Denas and myself, to be near London. If we had themeans I would go to Broadstairs or perhaps Hastings. "

"Do you want to ask me for money, Roland? If so, be man enough to askme plainly. "

"Yes, I want money, Elizabeth. I want you to give it to me. I have nottroubled you for a long time, have I? All my life long I have come toyou for money, and you never yet refused me. My dear sister, Iremember that you once sold a brooch for me when we were bothchildren. " He kissed her and was silent, and Elizabeth's face was wetwith tears. 

"I could give the last shilling I had to you, Roland, " she said, "butit is hard to ask me to rob myself for that woman. "

"She is my wife. I want her to get strong and well. She is a comfortand a pleasure to me. You were always glad to give me money for mycomforts and pleasures. You never before asked me what they were orsaid: 'You cannot have money for such or such a purpose. ' You gave memoney for whatever I wanted. Now I want Denas. "

"Mademoiselle Denasia!"

"Well, then, Denasia. I want Denasia as I want my cigars or any otherpleasant thing in life. Does it matter to you, if the money makes mehappy, how I spend it?"

"If you put the question in that light I do not suppose it doesmatter. " Then after a moment's pause: "Every shilling will be a coalof fire upon Mademoiselle Denasia's head. There is nothing wrong inthat consideration--it is perfectly Christian. "

"I should say it was perfectly unchristian; but, then, I am only asinner. However, Elizabeth, if you can help me to get Denasia to thesea-side the action will be a good one, and we need not go about toquestion the motives for it. I think one hundred pounds will keep usuntil Denasia is able to sing again or I get an engagement as Romeo. Ishall make up splendidly as Romeo. You must come and see me, Elizabeth. "

"Not for anything in life! And one hundred pounds is a large sum ofmoney. I cannot afford it. "

"But, Elizabeth, I must have one hundred. I need every penny of it. Icannot do with less. Give me one hundred, Elizabeth. "

"I tell you it will trouble me very much to spare a hundred pounds. Itwill indeed, Roland. "

But Roland stuck to the idea of one hundred pounds, and finallyElizabeth gave way before his entreaties. She looked at the handsomefellow and sighed hopelessly. She said, "I will give it to you, and doas you wish with it. " Why should she now look for consideration fromher brother? He had never yet reached higher ground than "I want;" andto expect Roland to look beyond himself was to expect the greatmiracle that never comes. 

He remained with his sister ten days, and thoroughly enjoyed thechange of life. And indeed he found himself quite a little hero in St. Penfer. Miss Mohun met him with smiles; she asked sweetly after Mrs. Tresham and never once named the fifty pounds Roland had promised her. The landlady of the Black Lion made a great deal of him. She cameherself of fisher-folk, and she was pleased that the young gentlemanhad treated her caste honourably. The landlord gave him cigars andwine, and all the old companions of his pleasures and necessitiesshowed him that they approved his conduct. The Rev. Mr. Farrar made apoint of praising him. As he stood with the landlord of the Black Lionat the open door of the inn, he said to him:

"Mr. Tresham, I respect your strength of character. I know thatin certain circles of society it is considered a slight offencefor a young man to seduce a girl of the lower orders; but that a_mesalliance_ with her is a social crime almost unpardonable. You have said boldly to the whole community that it is moreungentlemanly to wrong a poor girl's honour than to marry a wifebelow your own station. Sir, such an example is worth all thesermons that could be preached on the subject. "

And Roland listened to all the spoken and unspoken praise given himwith a smiling appropriation. It really never struck him, orapparently anyone else, that Denas might have been the person who tookcare of her own honour; or that Roland had done right because he couldnot induce his companion to do wrong. And there was another popularview of this marriage which was singularly false--the generalassumption that Denas had been greatly honoured by it, and that Johnand Joan Penelles ought to be pleased and satisfied. Why not? Such adecision was the evident one, and how many people have the time or theinterest in any subject to go below or beyond the evident?

One morning when Roland had been put into a very good humour by thepublic approval of his conduct, he saw John Penelles and Tris Penroseand two other fishers go into the Ship Inn together. They had LawyerTremaine with them, and were doubtless met to complete the sale orpurchase of some fishing-craft. Roland knew that it would be an affairto occupy two or three hours, and he suddenly resolved to go down thecliff and interview his mother-in-law. It would please Denasia, and hewas himself in that reckless mood of self-complacency which delightsin testing its influence. 

Without further consideration he lit a fresh cigar and went down thefamiliar path. It was full of memories of his wooing of Denas, and hesmiled with a soft triumph to them. And the exquisite morning, thethrushes singing to the sun, the fluting of the blackbirds, the southwind swinging the blue-bells, the mystical murmur of the sea--allthese things set themselves unconsciously to his overweeningself-satisfaction. 

The door of the Penelles cottage was wide open, and he stood a momentlooking into it. The place had an Homeric simplicity and beauty whichtouched his sense of fitness. On the snow-white hearth there was ahandful of red fire, and the bright black hob held the shining kettle. A rug of knitted bits of many-coloured cloths was before it, and onthis rug stood John's big cushioned chair. The floor was white aspipeclay could make it; the walls covered with racks of showycrockery; the spotless windows quite shaded with blossoming flowers;and the deal furniture had been scrubbed with oatmeal until it hadthe colour and the beauty of ivory. 

Joan sat with her back to the door. She was perfectly still. At herfeet there was a pile of nets, and she was mending the broken meshes. When Roland tapped she let them fall and stood upright. She knew himat once. Her fine rosy face turned grey as ashes. She folded her armsacross her breast and stood looking at the intruder. For a moment theyremained thus--the gay, handsome, fashionably-dressed young mansmiling at the tall grave woman in her neat print gown and white linencap. Roland broke the silence. 

"I am Roland Tresham, " he said pleasantly. 

"I do know you. What be you come for? Is Denas--where be my child? Oh, man, why don't you say the words, whatever they be?"

"I am sorry if I frightened you. I thought you might like to know thatDenas was well and happy. "

Then Joan went back to her nets and sat down without a word. 

"I was in St. Penfer on business, and I thought you would like toknow--might like to know--you see, I was here on business--"

He was growing every moment more uncomfortable and embarrassed, forJoan bent busily over her work and her back was to him. 

"You see, I was here on business. I wanted to see my sister. I thoughtyou would like to know about Denas. "

She turned suddenly on him and asked: "Where be my child?"

"I left Denas in London. "

"You be a coward. You be a tenfold coward. Why didn' you bring yourwife home with you? Did Denas send me no letter--no word formyself--for my heart only? Speak then; I want my letter. "

"I left in a hurry. She had no time to write. "

"Aw, then, why did you come here without a word of comfort? You becruel as well as cowardly. No word! No letter! No time! There then!take yourself away from my door. 'Twas a wisht cruel thought broughtyou here. Aw, then, a thought out of your own heart. You be a bad man!dreadful! dreadful!"

"Come, my good woman, I wish to be kind. "

"Good woman! Sure enough! but I have my husband's name, thank God, andthere then! when you speak to me I be called by it--Joan Penelles. AndJoan Penelles do wish you would turn your back on this house; she dothat, for you do have a sight of ghastly mean old ways--more thaneither big or little devil means a young man to have. There then! Goafore John Penelles do find you here. For 'twill be a bad hour for youif he do--and so it will!"

"I did not expect such a reception, Mrs. Penelles. I have dealthonourably with your daughter. "

"You have made my daughter to sin. Aw, then, I will not talk about mydaughter with you. No indeed!"

"Have you no message to send to Denas?"

"Denas do know her mother's heart and her father's heart, and whenshe do find it in her own heart to leave that sinful place--thethe-a-tre--and dress herself like a decent wife and a good woman, andsing for God and not for the devil, and sing for love and not formoney, aw, then, who will love her as quick and as warm as I will? Butif you do want a message, tell her she have broken her good father'slife in two; and that I do blame myself I ever gave her suck!"

Roland listened to these words with a scoffing air of great amusement;he looked steadily at Joan with a smile that was intolerable to her, then he raised his hat with an elaborate flourish and said:

"Good-morning, Mrs. Penelles. "

No notice was taken of this salute, and he added with an offensivemirthfulness:

"Perhaps I ought to say, 'Good-morning, mother. '"

Then Joan leaped to her feet as if she had been struck in the face. She kicked the nets from her and strode to the open door in a flamingpassion. 

"Aw, then!" she cried, "not your mother, thank God! Not your mother, or you'd be in the boats making your awn living. You! you cruel, cowardly, lazy, lounging, bad lot! Living on my poor little girl, yoube! You vampire! Living on her body and soul. "

"Madam, where is Mr. Penelles?"

"Aw, to be sure. Well you knew he wasn' here, or you would never haveput foot this road. And no madam I be, but honest Joan Penelles. Go!The Pender men are near by. Go!--and the Trefy men, and JackPenhelick, and Reuben Trewillow. Go!--they are close by, I tell you. Go!--if I call they'll come. Go!--or they will know the reason why!"

Then, still smiling and knocking the end of his cigar against the endof his cane, Roland leisurely took the road to the cliff. But Joan, inher passionate sense of intolerable wrong, flung up her arms towardheaven, and with tears and sobs her cry went up:

"O my God! Look down and see what sin this Roland Tresham be doing!"

CHAPTER XI. 

FATHERLY AND MOTHERLY. 

 "In youth change appears to be certain gain; Age knows that it is generally certain loss. "

 "The worst wounds are those our own hands inflict. "

 "Like as a father pitieth his children. "

 "A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive. " --COLERIDGE. 

Ten days of the methodical serenity of Burrell Court wearied Roland, and with money in his pocket the thought of London was again atemptation. He was quickly satisfied with green gardens andsea-breezes; the pavements of Piccadilly and Regent Street were moreattractive. And for Roland, the last wish or the last plan held thequality of fascination. When he turned his back upon Burrell Court, Elizabeth faded from his thoughts and affections; it was Denasia whothen drew him through every side of his vivid imagination and recklessdesires. 

He had written to her as soon as Elizabeth promised him the money heneeded; for he believed when Denasia was free from care she wouldspeedily recover her health and strength. He pleased himself all theway home with the anticipation of his wife's smiles and welcome, andhe was a little frightened not to see her face at the window themoment his cab arrived. He expected her to be watching; he was sure, if she were able, she would not have disappointed him. He had alatch-key in his pocket, and he opened the door and went rapidly tothe room they occupied. It was empty; it was cleaned and renovated andevidently waiting for a new tenant. 

Full of trouble and amazement, he was going to seek his landlady, whenshe appeared. She was as severely polite as people who have got thelast penny they hope to get out of one can be. Mrs. Tresham had goneto the sea-side. She had left five days ago--gone to Broadstairs. Theaddress was in the letter which she gave him. Greatly to Roland'srelief she said nothing about money, and he certainly had no wish tointroduce the subject. 

But he was amazed beyond measure. Where had Denasia got money? How hadshe got it? Why had she said nothing to him? He had had a letter twodays before, and he took it out of his pocket and re-read it. Therewas no allusion to the change, but he saw that the postmark showed itto have been mailed on the way to the Chatham and Dover Railway. However, he was not anxious enough to pursue his journey that night. He went to a hotel, had a good dinner, slept off his fatigue, andstarted for Broadstairs at a comfortable hour in the morning. 

Nothing like jealousy troubled him. He had no more fear of Denasia'shonour and loyalty than he had of the sun rising; and with a hundredpounds in his pocket curiosity was a feeble feeling. "Some way all isright, and when a thing is right there is no need to worry about it. "This was his ultimate reflection, and he slept comfortably upon it. 

Broadstairs was a new place, and to Roland novelty of any kind had acharm. A fine morning, a good cigar, a change of scene, and Denasia atthe end, what more was necessary to a pleasant trip? His firstdisillusion was the house to which he was directed. It was but acottage, and in some peculiar way Roland had persuaded himself thatDenasia had not only got money, but also a large sum. The cottage inwhich he found her did not confirm his anticipations. And in the smallparlour Denasia was taking a dancing-lesson. An elderly lady wasplaying the violin and directing her steps. Of course the lessonceased at Roland's entrance; there was so much else to be talkedover. 

"Why did you come to this out-of-the-way place?" asked Roland with aslight tone of disapprobation. 

"Because both my singing and dancing teachers were here for the summermonths, and I longed for the salt air. I felt that it was the onlymedicine that would restore me. You see I am nearly well already. "

"But the money, Denasia? And do you know that old harpy in Londonnever named money. Is she paid?"

"Why do you say harpy? She only wanted what we really owed her. Andshe was good and patient when I was ill. Yes, I paid her ninepounds. "

"I have one hundred pounds, Denasia. "

"You wrote and told me so. "

"Elizabeth gave it to me; and I must say she gave it very kindly andpleasantly. "

"Of course Elizabeth gave you it. Why not? Is there any merit in herdoing a kindness to her own brother pleasantly? How else should she doit?"

"It was given as much for you as for me. "

"Decidedly not. If Elizabeth has the most ordinary amount of sense, she knows well I would not touch a farthing of her money; no, I wouldnot if I was dying of hunger. "

"That is absurd, Denasia. "

"Call it what you will. I hate Elizabeth and Elizabeth hates me, and Iwill not touch her money or anything that is bought with it. For youit is different. Elizabeth loves you. She is rich, and if she desiresto give you money I see no reason why you should refuse it--that is, if you see none. "

"And pray what are you going to do?"

"Have I suffered in your absence? You left me sick, nervous, without ashilling. I have made for myself a good engagement and received fiftypounds in advance. "

"A good engagement! Where? With whom?"

"I am learning to sing a part in 'Pinafore. ' I am engaged at theOlympic. "

"Denasia!"

She flushed proudly at his amazement, and when he took her in his armsand kissed her, she permitted him to see that her eyes were full ofhappy tears. 

"Yes, " she resumed in softer tones, "I went to see Colonel Moss, andhe was delighted with my voice. Mr. Harrison says I learn withextraordinary rapidity and have quite wonderful dramatic talent, andmadame has almost as much praise for my dancing. I had to pay somebills out of the fifty pounds; but I am sure I can live upon thebalance and pay for my lessons until September. As soon as I am strongenough to look after my costumes, my manager will advance money forthem. "

"Do you mean that you are to have fifty pounds a week?"

"I am to have thirty pounds a week. That is very good pay, indeed, fora novice. "

"For six nights and a matinée? You ought to have had far more; it isnot five pounds a performance. You ought to have ten pounds. I mustsee about this arrangement. Moss has taken advantage of you. "

"I have given my promise, Roland, and I intend to keep it. You mustnot interfere in this matter. "

"Oh, but I must!"

"It will be useless. I shall stand to my own arrangement. "

"It is a very poor one. "

"It is better than any you ever made for me. "

"Of course! I had all the preparatory work to do, getting youknown--getting a hearing for you, in fact. Now the harvest is ripe, itis easy enough to get offers. You had better let me have a talk withMoss. "

"I have signed all the necessary papers. I have accepted fifty poundsin advance. I will not--no--I will not break a letter of my promisefor anyone. "

"Then I shall have nothing to do with the affair. It is a swindle onMoss' part. "

"No, it is not. He made me a fair offer; I, of my own free will andjudgment, accepted it. "

"Thirty pounds a week! What is that for a first-class part?"

"It is a good salary. I can pay my expenses and buy my wardrobe outof it. You have Elizabeth's money. When it is done she willprobably give you more. She ought to, as you preferred trusting toher. " But though the words were laughingly said, they sprang from aroot of bitterness. 

In fact, Roland quickly discovered that those ten days he had so idlypassed at Burrell Court with his sister had been ten days of amazinggrowth in every direction to Denasia. She had wept when Roland sosuddenly left her; wept at his want of faith in her, at his want ofcare for her, at his indifference to her weakness and poverty. But tosit still and cry was not the way of her class. She had beenaccustomed to reflect, when trouble came, whether it could be helpedor could not be helped. If the former, then it was "up and about it;"if the latter, tears were useless, and to make the best of theirrevocable was the way of wisdom. 

In an hour she had conquered the physical weakness which spoke byweeping. A suspicion of cruelty gave her the salutary stimulus of alash; she sat upright and began to plan. The next day she went out, sold a bracelet, hired a cab, and went from one manager to anotheruntil she succeeded. Brought face to face with the question of workand wage, all the shrewd calculating instincts of a race of womenaccustomed to chaffer and bargain awoke within her. She sold her waresto good advantage, and she knew she had done so. Then a long-nascentdistrust of Roland's business tact and ability sprang suddenly tovigorous life. She realised in a moment all the financial mistakes ofthe past winter. She resolved not to have them repeated. 

The sea air soon restored all her vigour and her beauty. She gaveherself to study and to practice with an industry often irritating toRoland. It reproached his own idleness and it deprived him of hercompany. He did indeed rehearse his characters, and in a stealthy wayhe endeavoured to find a better engagement for Denasia. He was surethat if he were successful there would be no difficulty in inducing, or if necessary compelling, his wife to accept it. He could as easilyhave made Queen Victoria accept it. For with the inherited shrewdnessof her class she had also their integrity. She would have kept anyengagement she made even if it had ruined her. 

The winter was a profitable one, though not as happy as Denasia hadhoped it would be. They had no debts and were able to indulge in manyluxuries, and yet Roland was irritable, gloomy, and full of unpleasantreminiscences and comparisons. He thought it outrageous for Moss torefuse the payment of his wife's salary to him. And Denasia had adisagreeable habit of leaving a large portion of her income with thetreasurer of the company, and then sending her costumer and othercreditors to the theatre for payment. Indeed, she was developing anindependence in money matters that was extremely annoying to Roland. He felt that his applications to Elizabeth were perpetual offences toDenasia, and if he had been a thoughtful man he would have understoodthat this separation of their interests in financial matters was theprecursor of a much wider and more dangerous one. 

Roland had other unpleasant experiences to encounter. It seemedincredible that the handsome, witty, fascinating Mr. Tresham couldpossibly be a bore, and yet the authorities in various green-roomseither said so in plain English or made him aware of the fact throughevery other sense but hearing. He felt himself to be politely orsarcastically quizzed. Stars ignored him; meaner lights gave him abare tolerance. A few inquired if his grand relatives had yet forgivenhim. One or two affected to have heard he had an offer from HenryIrving, or some other histrionic luminary; in fact, he gradually wasmade to understand that Roland Tresham was by no means a name toconjure with. 

He did not tell Denasia of these humiliations, and she believed thathis chagrin and ill-temper arose from his continual disappointments. He could get no chance worthy of his efforts for a trial of his newShakespearian interpretations. He felt sure there was a coalitionagainst him. "Let a man have a little more beauty or talent than thecrowd, and the crowd are determined to ruin him, naturally, " he said, and he believed his own dictum thoroughly. Toward the end of theseason, however, he did obtain a hearing under what were undoubtedlyfavourable circumstances; and then the press was his enemy. And heknew positively that the adverse criticisms were the results ofvenality, or ignorance, or want of taste, or of that brutalconservatism which makes Englishmen suspicious of everything notendorsed by centuries of use and wont. 

It may be easily seen how these personal irritations made an unhappyatmosphere in which to dwell. And Roland had another disappointmentalso which he hardly liked to admit to himself--Denasia was changingso rapidly. The society into which he himself had brought her forcedthe simple, trustful, ignorant girl into observations and calculationswhich lifted her unconsciously to a level, perhaps in some respects toa plane above her husband. She was naturally clever, and she learnedhow to dress herself, how to take care of herself, how to look out forher own interests. Roland had intended to dictate to her, and shebegan to smile at his dictations and to take her own way, which shecharmingly declared was the only reasonable way for her to take. 

During this interval Roland wrote often to Elizabeth. He wanted someone to complain to, and Elizabeth was the only person he knew who waswilling to listen to his complaints. She perceived very early thelittle rift between husband and wife which might be bridged by love ormight become an abyss in which love would be for ever lost. It must, however, be noted to her credit that she avoided any word likely towiden it. She did not like Denasia, but she had a controlling senseof honour. She had also a lofty ideal of the sacredness of themarriage tie. To have made trouble between a man and his wife would, in Elizabeth's opinion, have been as wicked a thing as to break into achurch vestry and steal the sacramental silver. But she did sympathizewith her brother, and advise him, and send him money. And naturallyDenasia, who thought badly of Elizabeth, resented her interference inher life at all; so that there was usually a coolness between Rolandand Denasia after the arrival of a letter from Burrell Court. 

In truth, any letter from St. Penfer at this period of Denasia's lifehurt her. She longed for her own people. She felt heart-sick for aword from them. In some moment of confidence or ill-temper, Roland hadgiven his wife his own version of the visit to his mother-in-law. Andwhatever else he remembered or forgot, he was clear and positive aboutJoan's message to her daughter. She had broken her good father's lifein two and her mother was sorry she had ever given her suck. Denasiaknew her mother's passionate nature, and she could understand thatsome powerful aggravation had made her speak so strongly, but thewords, after all allowances, were terrible words. They haunted her inthe midst of her professional excitements, and still more in thesolitude of her frequently restless nights. 

And if Joan had felt this a year ago, Denasia knew that she now feltmuch more bitterly; for in one of her letters to Roland Elizabeth hadwritten freely of the passionate anger of John Penelles when helearned that his daughter had become a public dancer. Indeed, Elizabeth affected to think it very cruel of Denasia to send to herold ignorant parents the illustrated paper which contained her picturein the dance act. She thought Denasia's vanity had overstepped allbounds and become positive cruelty, etc. , etc. And Denasia, in apassion which matched any outbreak of her father's, vowed not onlythat she had never sent such a paper to St. Penfer, but that Elizabethherself must have been the perpetrator of the cruelty, unless--and shethen gave Roland a glance which made him wonder where his willing andobedient Denasia of former days had gone. 

In all essential points this story was a false one. It was indeed truethat some person had sent to the Penelles cottage a London paper, inwhich there was a large picture of Denasia and the admiral dancing thefamous hornpipe. But the manner of its reception was matter ofspeculation only, and the speculative had founded their tale upon theknown hastiness of John and Joan's tempers, without taking intoconsideration the presence of unknown influences. 

As it happened, the pictured girl was received in the St. Penferpost-office during a storm. John had been called in the grey dawn tothe life-boat, and Joan, in spite of wind and rain, went down to thebeach with him. With a prayer in her heart, she saw him buckle on hisbuoyant armour and set his pale blue oar like lance athwart his rest, and then make straight out into the breakers that dashed and surgedaround. Joan saw the boat's swift forward leaping, its downward plungeinto the trough of the sea, its perilous uplifting, its perpendicularrearing, its dread descent. And John felt its human reel and shudder, its desperate striving and leaping and plunging, and its sadsubmission when the waters half filled it and the quivering men clungfor very life under the deluge pouring over them. 

So for three hours John was face to face with awful death, and Joan onher knees praying for his safety, and John had but just got back tohis home, and the cry of thanksgiving for her old dear's return wasyet on Joan's lips, when the postman brought the fateful newspaper. Fortunately they did not open it at once. Joan laid it carefully asideand brought on their belated breakfast. And as they ate it they talkedof the lives that were lost and saved. Then John smoked his pipe, andJoan tidied up her house and sat down beside him with her knitting inher hands. Both their hearts were solemn and tender. John felt as ifhis life was a new gift to him; Joan, as if her husband's love hadsome miraculous sweetness never known before. They spoke seldom andsoftly, finding in their responsive silence a language beyond words. 

It was, then, in this gentle mood that John reached to the shelf abovehis head and took down the paper. He opened it, and Denas in herpretty dancing dress, with her bare arms lifted above her head, lookedher father full in the face. She was laughing; she was the incarnationof merriment and of consciously graceful, captivating vivacity. Themiserable father was, however, fascinated; he gazed and gazed untilhis eyes overflowed, and his hands trembled, and the paper fell with arustle to the floor. 

Joan lifted it and looked at her husband. His eyes were shut, he wassobbing inwardly as punished children sob in sleep. She spoke to him, and he opened his eyes and pointed to the paper. Then Joan met thesame well-beloved face. The mother's cheeks burned red and redder, hereyes flashed, she straightened out every crease, as if the picturedsatin and lace had been real; and then turning to the printed page, she read aloud every word of adulation. 

They had talked together of the men and women drowned within sight ofland that morning, but here was their only child dancing in sight ofeternal death, and they could not say a word to each other about her. For it must be remembered that these simple, God-fearing fisher-folkhad been strictly and straitly reared in a creed which regardeddancing as one of the deadly sins. They honestly believed that therewas but a step between their darling and eternal death, and if sheshould take that step while dancing! To have known that she was on theship which had just gone to pieces on the rocks would not have madethem so heart-sick. Their very souls shivered as they thought of her. As for John, he could find only those two words that springinstinctively to every soul in trouble, "O God!"

But he motioned Joan to take the paper away, and Joan took it intothe room which was still called "Denas' room. " She kissed the picturedface, the hair and eyes and mouth, the lifted arms, the slenderthroat. She could not bear to crush the paper together; she opened adrawer and laid it as gently within as if she had been putting herbaby in its coffin. At this hour there was no anger in her heart;there was even a little motherly pride in her child's beauty and graceand cleverness. At this extremity of ill-doing she did not altogetherblame Denas. She was certain that before Denas danced, some one hadsomehow persuaded the girl that it was not wicked to dance. "Denas dohave principles, " she said stiffly, "and the man do not live who canmake her do wickedly if she do think it be wicked. "

She looked with a sad affection around the little room. How lonely itwas! Yes, it is the living who desert us that make lonely rooms, andnot the dead. We know the dead will never come back, but oh, how longit seems to wait for the living! Month after month to keep the roomready for the one who does not come for our longing! Month after monthto dress the bed and the table, and lay out the books they loved, andthe little treasures that may tell they were unforgotten. Joan lookedat the small dressing-table holding the shell box, and the satinpincushion, and the alabaster vase which Denas had once thoughtbeautiful beyond price. The snowy quilt and pillows, the carefullykept floor and chairs, the clothing washed and laid with sprigs oflavender in the tidy drawers--oh, what poetry and eloquence ofuntiring, undespairing mother-love were in these things!

But this patient, loving pity for their erring child was an attitudenot easily supposable, and Denasia did not suppose it. She knew fromRoland's report that her appearance as a public singer had caused herparents great sorrow and anger, and she could only imagine a stilldeeper anger when she added the sin of dancing to other causes ofoffence. But this alienation from her own people was the bitter dropin all her success and in all her pleasure. For now that the illusionsand selfishness of her bride-days were past, the faithful homeaffection that never wounded and never deceived resumed itsimportance, and she longed for her father's kiss and her mother'sbreast. 

But every day the day's work is to face, and Denasia's days were fullyoccupied by their obvious duties. So week after week and month aftermonth wore on in alternations of hope and despair, happiness andvexation, loving and quarrelling. Roland certainly, with hisdiscontent and abiding sense of wrong, threw a perpetual shadow overlife. She did not even dare to take, with any show of pleasure, suchpoor satisfaction as her passing fame awarded. A man may be jealous ofthe praise given to his own wife, and there were times when Rolandcould not understand Denasia's success and his own failure--bitterhours in which the poor girl felt that whether she pleased heraudience or did not please them, her husband was sure to be offendedand angry. 

She was almost glad when, at the close of the season, the companydisbanded and she was at liberty to retire. She had saved money andwas resolved to resume her studies. There was at least nothing in thatto irritate her husband, and she had a strong desire to improve hertalent in every direction. One evening Roland entered theirsitting-room in that hurry of hope and satisfaction once common enoughto him, but of which he had shown little during the past winter. Denasia looked up from her writing with a smile, to meet his smile. 

"Denasia, " he cried impulsively, "what do you think? We are going toAmerica! The United States is the place for me. How soon can you beready?"

"But, Roland? What?"

"It is true, dear. Whom are you writing to?"

"I was writing to Mr. Harrison and to madame. I want to know if theyare going to Broadstairs this summer, for where they go I wish to goalso; that is, if they can give me lessons. "

"A waste of money, Denasia. I have had a long talk with some of themen who are here with the American company. Splendid fellows! Theytell me that my Shakespearian ideas will set New York agog. NewYorkers give every one a fair hearing; at least 'there's nothing beatsa trial!' That is a New York motto, and these people are sure I wouldhave a fair trial there. And the country is so big! So big, Denasia, that the parts you know will last you for years. There is not a bit ofneed for you to study new songs and dances. Sing the old ones in newplaces. Why, you may travel thousands of miles in all directions--bigcities everywhere, little ones scattered thick as blackberries on allthe railroad routes, and railroad routes are spread like spider-websall over the United States! That is the country for us! New York firstof all, then Chicago, St. Louis, Salt Lake, San Francisco, NewOrleans--oh, hundreds of cities! And money, my dear! Money for thepicking up--that is, for the singing for. "

"I do not believe a word of it, Roland. It is all talk. I am going toBroadstairs to spend the summer in study. "

Roland looked a moment at the handsome, resolute woman who had resumedher writing, and he wondered how this Denasia had sprung from thesweetly obedient little maid he had once manipulated to his will witha look or a word. However, he could not spare her. It was not only herearnings he required; her beauty and talent gave him a kind ofreflected importance, and he expected great things from their unitedefforts in the wonderful new world of which he had just begun tothink. 

So he set himself to win what it was evident he could not command, and, Denasia's womanly instincts being stronger than her artisticinstincts, the husband conquered. The sweet words and kisses, thefrank acknowledgment of his faults, the declaration that his wholefuture hung now on her support and interest in his American scheme, moved Denasia to concede where she felt sure she ought to haverefused. But when a man finds all other arguments fail with a woman, he has only to throw himself upon her unselfishness. To prove it, shewill ruin her own life. Denasia was sure she was going a wrong road, but then Roland asked her to take it for his sake, and to show herlove for him she offered up her own hopes and desires, and offeredthem with smiles and kind words and an affected belief that the changemight be as good for her reputation as for her husband's. She didindeed--as good women do a kindness--surrender herself entirely, andpretended that the surrender was her own desire and her husband'scomplaisance a thing he deserved praise for. 

However, Roland's enthusiasms were undoubtedly partly contagious. EvenDenasia, who had so often been deceived, was partly under theirinfluence. His words had caught something of the vastness of the landof his hopes, and he talked so ambitiously and with so much certaintythat the untravelled woman caught his fever once more. Then she alsosuffered the idea of America to fascinate her, and she permittedRoland to bring his new friends to see her, for she desired to beentirely possessed by the idea which was now to be the ruling motiveof their lives. It was decided that they should sail about the middleof June. "We shall then have time to become familiar with the country, and we need not be in a hurry to decide about engagements. Hurry issuch a mistake, " said Roland with oracular wisdom. And Denasia hopedand smiled, and then turned away to hide the sudden frown and sigh. For the heart is difficult to deceive, and Denasia's heart warned hermorning, noon, and night. But to what purpose? Who heeds the warningfrom their higher selves? Though one rose from the dead to point out afatal mistake, how many would heed the messenger? For when love says, "This is the way, " wisdom, fate, death itself may speak in vain. 

About a week before the voyage, Roland said one night: "I think now, Denasia, that we have everything packed, I shall run down to St. Penfer and see my sister. I may never come back from America. Indeed, I do not think I shall ever want to come back, and I really ought tobid Elizabeth good-bye. She will doubtless also remember me in moneymatters, and in a strange country money is always a good friend. Is itnot, dear? What do you think, Denasia?"

"I have been thinking a great deal of St. Penfer. My heart is like tobreak when I think of it. I do want to see my father and mother somuch. "

"You would only get a heart-break, my love. They would have no end ofreproaches for you. I shall never forget your mother. Her temper wasawful!"

"You must have said something awful to aggravate her, Roland. Motherhas a quick temper, but it is also noble and generous. I do want tosee her. I must see her once more. Let us go together. "

"To St. Penfer? What a foolish idea! You would only give yourself awretched memory to carry through your whole life. "

"Never mind! I want to go to St. Penfer. "

"How can you? I cannot take you to Burrell Court, Denasia. "

"I would not put my foot inside Burrell Court. "

"Then if I went there and you went to your father's house, that wouldlook very bad. People would say all kinds of wicked things. "

"We could stop together at the Black Lion. From there you could callupon Elizabeth. From there I could go to my father and mother. Even ifthey should be cruel to me, I want to see them. I want to see them. Iffather should strike me--well, I deserve it. I will kiss his hand forthe blow! That is how I feel, Roland. "

"I shall not permit my wife to go to any place where she expects to bestruck. That is how I feel, Denasia. "

"You are ashamed to take me to St. Penfer as your wife. And yet youowe me this reparation. "

"There is no use discussing such a foolish statement. I do not think Iowe you anything, Denasia. I have given you my name; at this verymoment I am considering your welfare. You know that money isnecessary, and as much of it as we can get; but Elizabeth will give menothing if you are tagging after me. "

"If you are going begging, Roland, that alters the question. I have nodesire to 'tag' after you on that errand. As for Elizabeth, I hateher. "

"Why should you hate her? She was always good to you. "

"Good! Do not name the woman. If you want to go to her, go. I hope youwill carry her nothing but sorrow and ill-luck. I do! I do! I hate heras the sailor hates the sunken reef. I have not asked myself why. Ionly know that I have plenty of reason. "

"Do not be so excessive, Denasia. I shall leave for the West to-night. Would you like me to see your father? Your mother I decline to see. "

"Leave my father alone. You would not dare to go near him. If you do Iwill never speak to you again--never!"

Roland laughed lightly at her passion and answered with a provokingpleasantry: "You feel too, too, too furiously, Denasia. It is notladylike. Your emotions will wear away your beauty. "

So Roland went by the night train to St. Penfer, and Denasia took thetrain after his for the same place. She was determined to see herparents once more, and all their habits were so familiar to her thatshe had no fear of accomplishing her desire unknown to them. She timedher movements so well that she arrived at a small wayside station nearSt. Penfer about dusk. No one noticed her, and she sped swiftly acrossthe cliff-path, until it touched the path leading downward to her ownhome. 

The little village was quite still. The children had gone to bed. Themen were at sea. The women were doing their last daily duties. Denasiakept well in the shadow of the trees till she was opposite her home. Afew steps across the shingle would bring her to the door. She tried toremember what her mother might be doing just at that hour, and whilethus employed Joan came to the door, stood a moment on the threshold, and then went slowly to the next cottage. She had her knitting in herhand, and she was likely going to sit an hour with Ann Trewillow. WhenJoan's footsteps no longer crunched the shingle there was no sound butthe ocean beating on the shore and the wind stirring the tree-tops, and when Joan and Ann Trewillow went inside Ann's cottage there wasnot another human creature visible. 

Swiftly, then, Denasia crossed the shingle. She was at the door of herhome. It stood wide open. She entered and looked around. Nothing waschanged; the same glow of red fire on the white hearth, the same orderand spotless cleanliness, the same atmosphere of love and peace and oflife holy and simple. She was not hungry, but she was very thirsty andexceedingly weary. The bucket was full of freshly drawn water; shedrank and then turned her face to her own room. A strong, sweetcuriosity tempted her to enter it, and its air of visible welcome madeher smile and weep. It was then impossible to resist the desire thatfilled her heart; she shut the door, she unclothed herself, and oncemore lay down in her home to sleep. 

"It is hardly likely mother comes into this room more than once aweek; she will not, at any rate, come into it to-night. I shall hearher return and go to bed. When she is asleep I will look oncemore--once more on her dear face. Father will be home in the dawning. I will watch for his coming. If he goes to bed at once I may get awaybefore any person sees me. If he sits and talks to mother, I may hearsomething that will give me courage to say, 'I am here! Forgive me!'I must trust to luck--no, no, to God's pity for me!"

Thinking thus, she lay in weary abandon on her childhood's bed. Themonotonous tick of the old clock, the simmering of the kettle on thehob, and the deep undertone of the ocean soothed her like a familiar, unforgotten lullaby. In a few minutes she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

She was asleep when Joan returned. Joan had gone to her neighbour's toask a question about the boats, and she remained there for more thanan hour. For Ann Trewillow had heard of Roland's arrival in thevillage, and she and Joan had some opinions to express on the subject. So that when Joan returned to her own cottage, it was with her heartbeating to memories of her daughter. 

She put a little more coal on her fire and then went for a drink ofwater. The tin cup was not in its usual place, for Denas had leftit on the table. Joan looked at the cup with a face full ofquestions. Had she left it there? She never before had done such athing. Who then had been in her house? Who had been drinking from herwater-bucket? She asked the questions idly, without fear, but with acertain curiosity as to her unknown visitor. Then she put more waterinto the kettle and set a cup and saucer for her husband in casehe wanted a drink of hot tea when he came in from the fishing. Allthe time she was thinking of Denas, and the girl seemed to growinto the air beside her; she felt that if she whispered "Denas"she might hear the beloved voice answer "Mother. "

Unknown to any mortal, Joan had made a kind of idol of the picturedDenasia. She was sorry for her weakness in this matter, but she wasnot able to resist the temptation of very frequently opening thedrawer in which it lay, of looking at it, and of kissing it. Herconversation, her thoughts, her fancies made her child-sick. Shelonged for a sight of her darling's face, and she lifted a candle andwent to the door of the room in which it lay hidden. 

There was always an unacknowledged sense of self-indulgence in thisact, and the sense made her go a little softly about it, as if it hadto be done secretly. She opened the door slowly, and the rush candleshowed her clothing scattered about the room. Her heart stood still;she was breathless; she put down her light and on tiptoes went to thebedside. Denas was fast asleep. Her long hair lay loose upon thepillow, her face was pale and faintly smiling, her hands open and atrest upon the coverlet. Her deep, slow breathing showed her to be farbelow conscious being, and Joan knelt down at her child's side andfilled her empty eyes with the fair picture and her empty heart withthe hopes it inspired. 

Still Denas slept. Then Joan went into the outer room and sat down towait for John. As the dawn came up the East she pushed aside thefoliage of her flowering plants and watched the beach for John'sapproach. He came on with his mates, but they scattered to theircottages, and at last he was alone. Then Joan went to the door and hesmiled when he saw her waiting. She made an imperative motion ofsilence; she took his string of fish and his water-bottle out of hishands and laid them very softly down, and while John was yet lost inamazement at her actions, she put her hand in his and led him to theirgirl's bedside. Without a word both stood looking at her. The dawnshowed every change in her young face, and the pathos of hiddensuffering was revealed unconsciously as she slept. 

There is some wonderful magnet in the human eye; no sleeper can longresist its influence. As John and Joan gazed steadily on theirsleeping daughter she, became restless, a faint flush flew to hercheeks, she moved her hands. Joan slipped down on her knees; when thegirl opened her eyes she was ready to fold her in her arms. John stoodupright, and it was his wide-open, longing gaze which broughtDenasia's soul back to her. She gazed back silently into her father'sface for a moment and then murmured:

"Father! forgive me! Oh, mother! mother!"

They forgave her with tears of joy. They put her fault out of wordsand out of memory. Confession and forgiveness was an inarticulateservice of sorrow; but joy and welcome were eloquent and full oftender words. For once John locked his door and did not call hisneighbours to share his gladness. He speedily understood the shortnessand secrecy of her visit. After all, it was but a farewell. The joywas dashed with tears. The hope quickly faded away. 

They did not try to turn her from the way she had promised to go. Johnsaid only, "The Lord go with you, Denas, " and Joan wept at thethought of the land so far, far off. But they divined that their childhad her own sorrows, that the lot of woman had found her out, that shehad come to places where their love could not help her. Yet the visit, short and unsatisfactory as it was, made a great difference inPenelles' cottage. It lifted much anxiety. It gave the father andmother hopes which they took to God to perfect, excuses which theypleaded with Him to accept. Their confidence in their child wasstrengthened; they could pray for her now with a more sure hope, witha more perfect faith. 

When the gloaming came on thick with Cornish fog Joan kissed herdarling good-bye with passionate love and grief, and John walked withhis "little dear" through the dripping woods to the wayside station, and lifted her into the carriage with a great sob. None of the threecould have borne such another day, but oh, how glad was each one thatthey had dared, and enjoyed, and suffered through this one! It left amark on each soul that eternity would not efface. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A COWARDLY LOVE. 

 "Howso'er I stray or range, Whate'er I do, thou dost not change; I steadier step when I recall That if I slip thou dost not fall. " --CLOUGH. 

 "Have you buried your happiness? Well, live bravely on. The plant does not die though all its flowers be broken off. It remembers that spring will surely come again. "

Roland and Denasia were in Liverpool. They were full of hopes and ofprudent plans. Roland had again turned over a new leaf; he hadrenounced his past self--the faults he could no longer commit; he hadrenounced also his future faults. If he was a little extravagant inevery way for a day or two before making so eventful a voyage, he feltthat Denasia ought not to complain. Alas! it is not the renunciationof our past and future selves that is difficult; it is the steadydenial of our present self which makes the disciple. 

They spent two pleasant days in Liverpool, and on the eve of thesecond went to the wonderful piers and saw the vast companies ofsteamers smudging the blue sky with their lowering clouds of blacksmoke. Denasia clung closely to Roland; she felt that she was goinginto a new world, and she looked with a questioning love into hiseyes, as if she could read her fortune in them. Roland was unusuallygay and hopeful. He reminded his wife that the mind and the heartcould not be changed by place or time. He said that they had eachother to begin the new life with, and he was very sure they would soonpossess their share of every other good thing. And Denasia fell asleepto his hopeful predictions. 

In the morning all was changed. The sun was hidden behind banks ofblack clouds, the streets were plashy and muddy, the fierce showerssmote the windows like hail, and the view outside was narrowed to aprocession of dripping umbrellas. It was chilly, too, and the hotelwas inexpressibly dreary and uncomfortable. Greatly to Denasia'sastonishment, Roland was already dressed. All his hopes were fled. Hewas despondent and strangely woe-begone and indifferent. He said hehad had a miserable dream. He did not think now it was right to go toAmerica; they would do nothing there. He wished they were atBroadstairs; he had been a fool to mind the chatter of men who wereprobably guying him; he wished Denas had not urged the plan; if shehad only stood firm, etc. , etc. , etc. 

Denasia looked at him with amazement and with some anger. She remindedhim that the American idea was entirely his own. She wondered whatstuff he was made of, to be so dashed and quailed by a dream. She saidthat she also had had a bad dream. They had both eaten late; and asfor dreams, everyone knew they went by contraries. And as limpspirits like to lean, Roland was soon glad to lean upon Denasia'sbravery. 

The few last weary hours in England went slowly by. Roland and Denasiabecame at last impatient to be off; any place must certainly be betterthan that dreary hotel and that storm-beaten town; the cab that tookthem to the wharf was a relief, and the great steamer a palace ofcomfort. They were not sick, and the storm was soon over. After theylost sight of land the huge waves were flatted upon the main; theweather was charming; the company made a fair show of being intenselyhappy, and day after day went past in the monotonous pretension. Nothing varied the life until the last night on board, when there wasto be a concert. Denasia had been asked to take a part in it, and shehad promised to sing a song. 

No one expected much from her. She had not been either officious oreffusive during the voyage, and "song by Mrs. Tresham" did not raiseany great expectations. As it was nearly the last item on theprogramme, many had gone away before Roland took his place at thepiano and struck a few startling chords. Then Mrs. Tresham steppedforward and became suddenly Mademoiselle Denasia. 

 "Here beginneth the sea, That ends not till the world ends, "

thrilled the great ship's cabins from end to end. The captain waswithin the door before the first verse was finished. There was a crowdat the doors; all the servants in the lower saloon had ceased work tolisten. Song after song was called for. Perhaps, indeed, Denasia had asweeter taste of her power that night than she had ever felt in hallscrowded with strangers who had paid a shilling to be amused by her. 

The listener most interested in this performance said the least at thetime; but he never took his eyes off the singer, and his privatedecision was, "That young woman is a public singer. Her voice has notbeen trained for parlours; she has been used to fling its volumethrough the larger space of halls or theatres. I must look after her. "He approached Roland the next day and spoke in guarded terms aboutMrs. Tresham's voice. Roland was easily induced to talk, and theresult was an offer which was really--if they had known it--the opendoor to fortune. But it is the fatality of the unlucky to have thespirit of recklessness in their veins and the weakness of prudence intheir hearts. Instead of letting events guide them, they have thepresumption to think they can guide events. Roland received the offercoolly, and said he would consult Mrs. Tresham on the matter. But, instead of consulting with his wife, he dictated to her after thefashion of the suspicious:

"This man is the manager of a company, I think. He is very anxious foryou to sign an agreement. His offer appears to be good, but we knownothing of affairs in New York; it may be a very poor offer. If youhave made such an impression on him, you may make a much morepronounced one on others. We will not think of this proposal at all, except as the straw which shows us what a great wind is going toblow. "

Denasia was extremely opposed to this view. She quoted the old proverbof "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. " She said it would bea sure living during the time they were learning the new country andits opportunities. She begged Roland to let her accept the offer. Whenhe refused, she said that they would live to regret the folly. 

The manager thought so also. "For you must understand, " he said toRoland, "that I was desirous to engage Mrs. Tresham, not for what sheis--which is ordinary--but for the possible extraordinary I see in herif she could have the proper advantages and influences. " With thewords he bowed a little sarcastically to Mrs. Tresham's husband, andafterward spoke no more to him. And then there came to the foolishyoung man that sudden chill and foreboding which a despisedopportunity leaves behind it. 

But whether we do wisely or foolishly, the business of life must becarried on. They were at the point of landing, and for some days thestrange experiences of their new life occupied every moment and everyfeeling. Then came a long spell of hot weather, such heat as Denasiahad never dreamed of. Roland, who had been in Southern Europe, couldendure it better; as for Denasia, she lay prostrate with but one ideain her heart--the cool coverts of the Cornish undercliff and thetrinkling springs where the blue-bells and the forget-me-nots grew sothickly. 

Yet it was necessary that something should be done, and through theblazing heat, day after day, the poor girl was dragged to agencies andmanagers. But she found no one to make her such an offer as the one sofoolishly declined. And the time wore on, and the money in their pursegrew less and less, and a kind of desperation made both silent andirritable. Finally an engagement to go "on the road" was secured, andRoland affected to be delighted with it. "We shall see the wholecountry, " he said, "and we can keep our eyes open for somethingbetter. "

Denasia sighed. Disappointment and a sense of wrong and grievousmistake filled her heart and sat upon her face. She submitted as to anirreparable injury, and left New York without the least enthusiasm. "Good fortune knocked at our door, " she said, "and we had notintelligence enough to let him in. " This was all the reproach shegave her husband, and as she said "we" he accepted her generousself-accusation, and finally convinced himself that it was entirelyDenasia's fault that the offer was refused. "But then I do notblame you, Denasia, " he remarked magnanimously; "you had every rightto consider yourself worthy of a larger salary. "

They left New York in September and went slowly West. Denasia had afine physique, but it was not a physique trained to the special labourit had to endure: long days in hot railway cars; hurry and worry atevery performance; no seclusion, no time for study; no time toacknowledge headache or weariness; a score of little humiliations andwrongs; a constant irritability at Roland's apparent indifference toher wretchedness and apparent satisfaction with the company and lifeinto which he was thrown. The men, indeed, all seemed satisfied. Theyhad cigars to smoke, and they told stories and played cards, and sobeguiled the weary hours of travel. The women were headachy and tired;they soon threw aside their paper novels and confidential talks. Someof the very young ones--pretty, wilful, inexperienced girls, not yetdisillusioned, not yet weary--added flirtation to their amusements. Itpained Denasia to see Roland a willing aid to their foolish pastime. She had no fear that her husband would wrong her, but the pretencepained and humbled her. 

It was a wearisome seven months, a nightmare kind of life, unrelievedby even a phantom show of success. Men in the Sierras, out on thegreat Western plains, knew not the sea. They could not be roused toenthusiasm. Fisher-folk and fisher-life were outside their sympathies. They preferred a comic song--a song that hit a famous person, or apolitical principle, or a Western foible. Miners liked to hear about"Leadville Jim. " It touched their sensibilities when the "ThreeFishers who Went Sailing out into the West" made no picture in theirminds. Without being a failure, Denasia could not be said to be asuccess. She was out of her place, and consequently out of sympathywith all that touched her life. 

Coming back eastward, while they were at Denver Denasia was strickenwith typhoid fever. It was the result of months of unsatisfactory, unhappy labour, of worry and fret and disappointment. Nostalgia alsoof the worst kind had attacked her. She shut her eyes against thegreat mountains and endless plains. She wanted the sea. She wanted herhome. Above all, she wanted to hide herself in her mother's breast. Roland had been frequently unkind to her lately. She had been utterlyunable to respond to his moods, so different from her own, and she hadbeen more and more pained by the silly attentions he bestowed onothers. 

At last she could endure it no longer. She had come to a point ofindifference. "Leave me and let me die. " This was all she saidwhen Roland was at length forced to believe that her sickness wasnot temper, or disappointment, or jealousy. The company werecompelled to leave her; Roland saw his favourites on the train andthen he returned to nurse his sick wife. He found her insensible, and she remained so for many days. Doctors were called, andRoland conscientiously remained by her side; but yet it was allalone that she fought her battle with death. No one went with herinto the dark valley of his shadow. She was deaf to all humanvoices; far beyond all human help or comfort. Through the longnights Roland heard her moaning and muttering, but it was the voiceof one at an inconceivable distance--of one at the very shoal ofbeing. 

She came back from the strife weak as a baby. Her clear, shrill voicewas a whisper. She could not lift a finger. It was an exhaustingeffort to open her eyes. A new-born child was in every respect morealive and more self-helpful, for Denasia could not by look orwhisper make a complaint or a request. She was only not dead. Theconvalescence from such a sickness was necessarily long andtiresome. The fondest heart, the most unselfish nature must attimes have felt the strain too great to be borne. Roland changedcompletely under it. His love for Denasia had always been dependentupon accessories pleasant and profitable to himself, as, indeed, his love for any human being would have been. While Denasia'sbeauty and talent gave him _éclat_ and brought him money, headmired Denasia; and while her personality made sweet his private andenviable his public hours, he loved her. 

But a wife smitten by deathly sickness into breathing clay--a wife whocould give him no delight and make him no money--a wife who compelledhim to waste his days in darkness and solitude and unpleasant dutiesand his money in medicines and doctor's fees--was not the kind of wifehe had given his heart and name to. It was evident to him that Denasiahad failed. "She has failed in everything I hoped from her, " he saidto himself bitterly one day, as he sat beside the still, death-likefigure; "and there must be an end of this some way, Roland Tresham. "

Financial difficulties were quickly upon him, and though he hadwritten to Elizabeth a most pitiful description of his position, awhole month had passed and there was no letter to answer his appeal. He had momentary impulses to run away from a situation so painful andso nearly beyond his control. But it was fortunately much easier forRoland to be a scoundrel in intent than in reality. His selfishinstincts had some nobler ones to combat, and as yet the nobler oneshad kept the man within the pale of human affections. There had beenone hour when the temptation was very nearly too much for him; andthat very hour there came to him two hundred dollars from Elizabeth. It turned him back. Ah, how many a time two hundred dollars wouldprevent a tragedy! How many a time financial salvation means alsomoral salvation!

It was midsummer before Denasia was strong enough to return to NewYork, though she was passionately anxious to do so. "We are so far outof the right way, " she pleaded. "So far! In New York we are nearerhome. In New York I shall get well. "

And by this time Roland had fully realised how unfit he was for thevivid, rapid life of the West. The cultivated, gentlemanly drawl ofhis speech was of itself an offence; his slow, unruffled movements andattitudes, his "ancient" ways of thinking, his conservatism andgentility and ultra-superficial refinement were the very qualities notvalued and not needed in a community full of new life, ardent, impulsive, rapid, looking forward, and determined not to lookbackward. 

So with hopes much dashed and hearts much dismayed they re-enteredNew York. The question of the future was a serious one. They werenearly dollarless again, and even Roland felt that Elizabeth couldnot be appealed to for some months at least. Denasia was facing thesorrowful hopes of motherhood. For three or four months she could notsing. They restricted themselves to a small back room in a SecondAvenue boarding-house, and Roland searched the agencies and thepapers daily for something suitable to his peculiar characteristicsand capabilities, and found nothing. There was a great city full ofpeople, but not one of them wanting the services of a younggentleman like Roland. 

As for Denasia, she was still very weak. July and August tried herseverely. Some few little garments had to be made, and this pitifulsewing was all she could manage. She did not lose her courage, however, and if anything touched Roland's best feelings at this time, it was her unfailing hope, her smiling welcome no matter howfrequently he brought disappointment, her brave assurances that shewould be quite well before the winter season, and then all would beput right. 

In the last days of August the baby was born. Denasia recoveredrapidly, but the little lad was a sickly, puny child. He had beenwasted by fever, and fretted by anxious cares and by many fears, evenbefore they were his birthright. All the more he appealed to hismother's love, and Denasia began now to comprehend something of thesin against mother-love which she herself had committed. 

Perhaps she permitted her joy in her child to dominate her life toovisibly; at any rate it soon began to annoy her husband. He had beenso accustomed to all of Denasia's time and attention that he could notendure to be put off until baby was asleep, or until some triflingwant of baby's had been attended to. He fancied that her attention wasdivided; that even when she appeared to be listening to his complaintsor his intentions, her heart was with the child and her ears listeningfor its crying. The transient pleasure he had experienced in thelittle one's birth soon passed away, and an abiding sense of pettyjealousy and wrong took its place. 

"You are for ever nursing that crying little creature, Denasia, " hesaid one day when he returned to their small, warm room in a fever ofannoyance at some unappreciative manager. "No one can get yourattention for five minutes. You hear nothing I say. You take nointerest in anything I do. And the little torment is for ever and forever crying. "

"Baby is sick, Roland. And who is there to care for him but me?"

"We ought to be doing something. Winter is coming on. Companies arealready on the road; you will find it hard to get a position of anykind, soon. "

"I will go out to-morrow. I am strong enough now, I think. "

"I can find nothing suitable. People seem to take an instant disliketo me. "

"That is nonsense! You were always a favourite. "

"I have had to sell most of my jewelry in order to provide for yoursickness, Denasia. Of course I was glad to do it, you know that, but----"

"But it is my duty now, Roland. I will begin to-morrow. "

So the next day Denasia went to the agencies, and Roland promised totake care of baby. A two weeks of exhausting waiting and seeking, ofdelayed hope and destroyed hope, followed; and Denasia was forced toadmit that she had made no impression on the managerial mind. No onehad heard of her singing and dancing, and those who condescended tolisten were not enthusiastic. 

"You see, " said one of the kindest of these caterers for the public'spleasure--"you see, New Yorkers have no ideas about fisher men andwomen. If their fish is fresh, that is all that troubles them. If theythink about the men who catch it, they very likely think of them asliving comfortably in flats with all the modern improvements. A goodtopical song, a spirited dance--they are the things that fetch. "

In different forms this was the general verdict, and every day shefound it harder and harder to return home and meet Roland's eager faceas she opened the door. Pretty soon the anxiety became tinctured withcomplaint and unreasonable ill-temper, and with all the domesticmiseries which accompany resentful poverty. 

The poor little baby in Roland's opinion was to blame for everydisappointment. Its arrival had belated Denasia's application, or ifhe wanted to be particularly irritating, he accused Denasia of beingin such a hurry to return to her child that she did not attend to hermost necessary duties. So instead of being a loving tie between them, the poor wailing little morsel of humanity separated very love, whileRoland's complaints of it soon really produced in his heart theimpatient dislike which at first he only pretended. 

He grumbled when left in charge of the cradle. As soon as Denasia wasout of sight he frequently deserted his duty, and the disputes thatfollowed hardened his heart continually against the cause of them. Andwhen it came to naming the child, he averred that it was a matter ofno importance to him, only he would not have it called Roland. "Therehad been, " he said, "one too many of the Treshams called Roland. Thename was unlucky; and besides, the child did not resemble his family. It looked just like the St. Penfer fisher children. "

Denasia coloured furiously, but she answered with the moderation ofaccepted punishment, "Very well, then! I will call him 'John' after myfather. I hope he may be as good a man. "

Matters went on in this unhappy fashion until the end of October--nay, they continually grew worse, for poverty deepened and hope lessened. Denasia had lost the freshness of her beauty, and she was too simpleand ignorant to make art replace nature. Indeed, it is doubtfulwhether any persuasion could have made her imitate the "paintedJezebel" who had always been one of the most pointed examples of herreligious education. In her first experience of public life herradiant health and colouring shamed all meaner aids and had been amplysufficient for the brightest lights and the longest hours. But thatfierce ordeal of acclimating under conditions of constant travel andhard work had drained even the magnificent vitality that had been herheritage from generations of seamen, and typhoid and unhappy maternityhad robbed her of much of her almost defiant youth, with itsindomitable spirit and invincible hope. 

She had become by the close of October pale, fragile-looking, andwoefully depressed. Roland no longer found her always smiling andhoping, and he called the change bad temper when he ought to havecalled it hunger. Not indeed hunger in its baldest form for merebread, but hunger just as killing--hunger for the nourishing delicatefood and proper tonics that were just as necessary as bread; hungerfor hope, for work, and, above all, hunger for affection. 

For Roland had begun privately--yea, and sometimes openly--to callhimself a fool. And the devil, who never chooses a wrong hour, senthim at this time an important letter from Elizabeth. In it she toldhim that Mr. Burrell had died suddenly from apoplexy, and that she hadresolved to sell Burrell Court and make her residence in London andLucerne. She deplored his absence, and said how much she had neededsome one of her own family in the removal from Cornwall and in thesettlement of her husband's estate; and she sent her brother a muchsmaller sum of money than she had ever sent before. 

When Roland had finished reading this epistle he looked at Denasia. She was walking about the room trying to soothe and quiet the child. It was very ill, and she had not dared to speak about a doctor. Therefore she was feeling hurt and sorrowful, and when Roland said, "Elizabeth's husband is dead, " she did not answer him. 

"I said that Elizabeth's husband is dead, " he angrily reiterated. 

"Very well. I am not sorry. I should think the poor man would be gladto escape from her. "

"You are speaking of my sister, Denasia--of my sister, who is alady. "

"I care nothing about her. She could always take good care of herself. I am heart-broken for my child, who is ill and suffering, and I can donothing for his relief--no, not even get a doctor. "

Words still more bitter followed. Roland dressed himself and went out. He was not in a mood to do business or to look for business; indeed, there was no need that he should trouble himself for one day when hehad Elizabeth's order in his pocket. He turned it into cash, boughtthe daily newspapers, and, the morning being exquisite, he took thecars to Central Park. But it was not until he was comfortably seatedin the most retired arbour that he permitted himself to think. 

Then he frankly said over and over: "What a fool I have been! Here amI at thirty-three years of age tied to a plain-looking fisher-girl andher cross, sickly baby. All I hoped for in her has proved a deception. Her beauty has not stood the test of climate. Motherhood, thatimproves and perfects most women, has personally wrecked her. Hervoice is now commonplace. Her songs are become tiresome. She has grownfretful, and all her brightness and hopefulness have vanished. I donot know how to make a living. I may as well admit that my dramaticviews are a failure--that is, they are in advance of the times. I cando nothing for myself. But if I had not been married, what a jollytime I might now be having with Elizabeth! London, Paris, Switzerland, and no care or trouble of any kind. Oh, what a fool I have been! Howterribly I have been deceived!"

He did not take into consideration Denasia's disappointment. He had nodoubt Denasia was telling all her own sorrows to herself and weepingover them and her miserable little baby. After a while he lit a freshcigar and opened the newspapers. For an hour or two he let histhoughts drift as they led him, and then, as he was folding up one, the following notice met his vision:

"Wanted, a private secretary. A young man who has had a classicaleducation preferred. Call upon Mr. Edward Lanhearne, 9 Fifth Avenue. "

The name struck Roland. He had heard it before. It had a happy memory, an air of prosperity about it. Lanhearne! It was a Cornish name! Thatcircumstance gave him the clew. When he was a boy at Eton, heremembered a Mr. Lanhearne who stayed with his father. "By Jove!" hecried, starting to his feet, "he was an American. What a piece of luckit would be if it should be the same man!" He fixed the address in hismind and went to it immediately. 

The house pleased him. It was a large dwelling fronting on the avenue. A handsome carriage was just leaving the door, and in the carriage wasa very lovely young woman. The entrance, the reception parlour, theservant who admitted him, all the apparent accessories of the houseand household indicated wealth and refinement. What a heaven incomparison with that back room on Second Avenue! For the first time inmany a month Roland had a sense of success in what he was going to do, and the feeling gave him a portion of the elements necessary tosuccess. 

Mr. Lanhearne received him at once. He was a kindly looking oldgentleman, with fine manners and an intelligent face. 

"Mr. Tresham, " he said, "I was attracted by your name. I once had afriend--a very pleasant friend indeed, called Tresham. "

"Did he live in London, sir?"

"He did. "

"He was Lord Mayor in the year 18--?"

"He was. Did you know him?"

"I am his son. I remember you very well. You went with me and myfather to buy my first pony. "

"I did indeed. Mr. Tresham, sit down, sir. You are very welcome. I amgrateful for your visit. And how is my old acquaintance? I have notheard of him for many years. We are both Cornishmen, and you know theCornish motto is 'One and all. '"

"My father is dead. He had great financial misfortunes. He did notsurvive them long. I came to America hoping to find a betteropening, but nothing has gone well with me. This morning I sawyour advertisement. I think I can do all you require, and I shall bevery glad indeed of the position. "

"How long have you been in America, Mr. Tresham?"

"More than a year. I went West at once, spent my money, and failed inevery effort. "

"To be sure. The West is for physical and financial energies. I thinkif a young man is to rely on his mental qualities he had better remainEast. I am glad you have called upon me. The duties I wish attended toare very simple. You will have to read my mail every morning andanswer it as I verbally direct. With the help of printed plates youwill arrange my coins and seals and such matters. I wish you also toread the newspapers to me. In a day or two you will find out whicharticles to read and which to omit. I want a companion for my drives. I want some one to chat with me on my various hobbies--a young man, because young men have such positive opinions, and therefore we shallbe likely to come to pleasant disputing. You will have a handsomeroom, a seat at my table, a place among my guests, and one hundreddollars a month. "

"I am very grateful to you, sir. "

"And I am very grateful to the kind fate which sent you to me. I oweyour father for many a delightful day. I am glad to pay my debt to hisson. When can you come here?"

"This afternoon, sir. "

"I like that. We dine at seven. I will expect you to dinner. Doyou--ahem!--excuse me, Mr. Tresham, perhaps you may require a littlemoney in advance. I shall be pleased to accommodate you. "

"You offer is gracious and considerate, sir. I am glad you made it, although I do not fortunately need to accept it. "

They clasped hands and parted with smiles. Mr. Lanhearne was quiteexcited over the adventure. He longed for his daughter to come home, that he might tell her what a romantic answer had come to his prosaicadvertisement. And Roland was still more excited. The air of thehouse, its peace, refinement, and luxury appealed irresistibly to him. It was his native air. He wondered how he had endured the vulgarityand penury of his surroundings for so long; how indeed he had bornewith Denasia's shortcomings at all. That refined old gentleman, thatquiet, elegant woman whom he had had a glimpse of--these people werelike himself, of his own order--he would never weary of them. Theclass he had voluntarily chosen, the people with whom poverty hadcompelled him to consort, they affected him now as the memory of adebauch affects a man when it is over. 

"I had no business out of my proper sphere, " he said sadly. "Elizabethwas right--right even about Denasia. "

He sat down in Union Square to consider his position, and he came to avery rapid and positive conclusion. He declared to himself: "I will nolonger waste my life. Denasia and I have made a great mistake. Together, we shall be poor and miserable. Apart, we shall be happy. Ino longer love her. I do not believe she loves me. All the love shecan spare from her blustering father and mother she wastes on thatmiserable sickly babe, who would be a thousand times better dead thanalive. If I leave her she will go back to St. Penfer. I have a hundreddollars; I will give her fifty of them. She can pay a steerage passageout of it or go in a sailing-vessel, or if she does not like that wayshe has things she can sell. If I give her half of what I have I dovery well indeed. "

He went rapidly to his home, or room. He knew that Denasia had anengagement to keep, and he hoped that he might be fortunate enough tofind her out. It was as he wished: Denasia had gone out and thelandlady was sitting beside the baby's cradle. Roland dismissed herwith that manner all women declared to be charming, and then he satdown and wrote a letter to his wife. It did not occupy him tenminutes. Some of his clothing was yet very good and fashionable; hepacked it in the leather trap which had gone with him to college, andthen he sent a little girl for a cab. Without word and withoutobservation he drove away from the scene of so much vexation anddisappointment. 

The whole life and vicinity had suddenly become horrible tohim--Denasia, his child, the shabby landlady, the shabby house, thedirty little grocery at the corner where he had bought his cigars andtheir small household supplies, the meals cooked there and eatenthere, Denasia's attempts at housekeeping--the whole series ofmemories made him wince and shiver with shame and annoyance. "ThankGod it is over!" he said fervently. And he never once thought what aninsult he was offering to eternal mercy and justice, in supposing Godhad anything whatever to do with his flagrant desertion of duty, hisshameful abrogation of all the consequences of his own wilfulselfishness, and his cruel farewell to the wife and son he was boundto nourish and cherish and defend. 

He thought of none of these things. He thought only of the comfort andelegance; the peace, the delicate living, the delicate clothing, thecongenial companionship he was going to. He was determined to have aluxurious bath, to be shaved and perfumed, to leave behind him thevery dust of his past life. He resolved not to allow himself toremember Denasia. She was to be as if she never had been. He wouldblot out of his memory all the years she had brightened and darkened. And if any excuse can be found for him, it must be in his suppositionthat Denasia felt just as he did. She would be grateful to him fortaking the initiative--glad to get back to her home and her people, glad to escape a life for which she must have discovered she hadneither strength nor vocation. 

So he thought, in spite of his resolve not to think. But a man must beeven more selfish and reckless than Roland was to take years of hispast life and plunge them into oblivion as he would plunge a stoneinto mid-ocean. In spite of the novelty of his situation, of hisdelight with his quiet, handsome room, the thought of Denasia wouldenter where it was forbidden to enter, and he could not help wonderinghow she would receive his letter, and what steps she would take inconsequence of it. 

Denasia came home weary and disappointed. She had had a long, silentwait for the person she expected to see, and finally been compelled toaccept the fact that he was not coming into town. She was heart-sick, and the paltry loss of the car fare was an addition to her anxiety. That the room was empty and the baby crying did not in any wayastonish her. She understood from it that Roland had come home anddismissed the landlady, and then wearied of his watch and gone outagain, leaving the child to sleep or to weep as it felt inclined todo. Her first action was to lift it from its bed, nurse and comfortit, and rock it to sleep on her breast. 

Then her eyes wandered from her child to a letter lying on the table. The circumstance roused no interest in her mind. She knew from itsgeneral appearance that it had been put there by Roland, and it was byno means the first time he had left the child with a letter containingsome excuse which he thought valid enough to satisfy Denasia. Shelooked at it with a little contempt. She expected to find it assertthat some one had called for him or had sent him a message involving apossible engagement, and she knew the whole affair would resolveitself into some plausible story, which she would either have toaccept or else deny, with the certain addition of a coolness or aquarrel. 

So the letter lay until she had put off and away her street costume. Then she took it in her hand and sat down by the open window to readthe contents. They were short and very much to the point:

 "DENASIA, MY DEAR:--You have ceased to love me and I have ceased to love you. You are miserable and I am miserable. We have made a great mistake, and we must do all we can to correct it. When you read this I shall be on my way to England. I advise you to go back to your parents for a year. You may in that time recover your beauty and your voice. It may be well then to go to Italy and give yourself an opportunity to obtain the education I see now you ought to have had at the first. But until that is practicable we are better apart. You will find fifty dollars in the white gloves lying on the dressing-case. I advise you to take a sailing-vessel; a long voyage will do you good and will be much cheaper. It is what I have done. Farewell. 

 "ROLAND. "

She read every word and then glanced at the cradle. The child moved. With the letter in her hand she soothed it and then sat down again. She was overwhelmed with the shameful wrong. But to cry out and wringher hands and call in the neighbours to see and hear what things shesuffered was not her way. Often she had seen her mother sittingspeechless and motionless for hours while her father hung between lifeand death; it was natural for Denasia to take unavoidable sorrow withthe same dumb patience. 

Then she began to analyse the specious sentences and to deny thethings asserted. "I have not ceased to love. Every hour of the day mylife has been a witness to my love. I never said I was miserable. Nothing had power to make me quite miserable if Roland was kind to me. He is on his way to England. Of course he has gone to his sister. Whatdid her sweet complaints and regrets at not having his help andcompany mean but 'Come to me, Roland'? She has lost her own husbandand now she must have mine. She has always been my evil angel. Whenshe was kindest to me it was only a different way of serving herself. My soul warned me; my father warned me. She is one of those humanvampires who suck love, luck, life itself from all near them, and whoslay, and rob, and smile, and caress while they do it. And I am to gohome for a year and get back my beauty and my voice. I am sorry I everwas beautiful. If I can help it I will never sing another song. Gohome and shame my good father and mother for his sake? Go home and belectured and advised and reproved by every woman in the village? Gohome a deserted wife, a failure in everything? No; I will not go home. Nor will I go to Italy. I have had more than enough of singing for myliving and his living, too. I will sew, I will wash, I will go toservice, I will do anything with my hands I can do; but I will notsing. And I will bring up my boy to work at real work, if it is but tomake a horseshoe out of a lump of iron! God! what a foolish woman Ihave been! What a silly, vain, loving woman! My heart will break! Myheart will break! Alone, alone! Sick, helpless, ignorant, alone!"

She closed her eyes and hid her face, and in that darkness gatheredtogether her soul-strength. But she shed no tears. Pale as death, weakand trembling with suppressed emotion, she went softly about thelittle room putting things in order--doing she scarcely knew what, yetfeeling the necessity to be doing something. Thus she came across thewhite gloves, and she feared to look in them. Her knowledge of Rolandled her to think he would not leave fifty dollars behind him. He wouldtake the credit of the gift and leave her to suppose herself robbed bysome intruder or visitor. 

So she looked suspiciously at the bit of white kid and undid itwithout hope. The money was there. After all, Roland had some pity forher. The sight of the bills subdued her proud restraint. One greatpressure was lifted. No one could now interfere if she sent for adoctor for her sick baby. She could at least buy it the medicine thatwould ease its sufferings. And so far out was the tide of herhappiness that from this reflection alone she drew a kind ofconsolation. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

DEATH IS DAWN. 

 "In the pettiest character there are unfathomable depths. "

 "Only one Judge is just, for only one Knoweth the hearts of men. "

 Sayeth the book: "There passeth no man's soul Except by God's permission, and the speech Writ in the scroll determining the whole, The times of all men, and the times for each. " --KORAN, 3d CHAP. 

The Lanhearnes by an old-fashioned standard were a very wealthyfamily. They were also a large family, though the sons had beenscattered by their business exigencies and the eldest daughters bymarriage. Only Ada, the youngest child of the house, remained with herfather; for the mother had been dead many years, and the preservationof the idea of home was felt by all the Lanhearne children to be inAda's hands. If she married and went away, who then would keep openthe dear old house and give a bright welcome to their yearly visits?

Ada, however, was not inclined to marriage. She was a grave, quietwoman of twenty-two years of age, whose instincts were decidedlyspiritual and whose hopes and pleasures had little to do with thisworld. She was interested in all church duties and in all charitableenterprises. Mission schools and chapels filled her heart, and shepaid out of her private purse a good-hearted little missionary to findout for her cases of deserving poverty which it was her delight torelieve. 

Roland had never before come in contact with such a woman, and at adistance he gave her a kind of adoration. Young, beautiful, rich, andyet keeping herself unspotted from the world or going into it only torelieve suffering, to dry the tears of childhood, and strengthen thefailing hearts of unhappy women. Once while walking with Mr. Lanhearnethe old gentleman said: "This is Ada's church. As the door is open letus enter and wait for prayers. " So out of the rush and crush ofBroadway the old and the young man turned into the peace of thetemple. And as they entered Ada rose up from before the altar, andwith a pale, rapt face glided into the solitude of her own pew. Neither spoke of the circumstance, but on Roland's mind it made a deepimpression. At that hour he realised how beautiful a thing is truereligion and how holy a thing is a woman pure of heart, calmly radiantfrom the very presence of God. 

In spite of the unhappy memories of the past, in spite of the worryingthoughts which would intrude concerning Denasia, he was not at thistime very happy. Certainly not happy enough to contemplate a longcontinuance of the life he was leading, but well satisfied to pass thewinter in its refined and easy seclusion. He knew that Elizabeth wouldbe in London until June, and he resolved to remain in New York untilshe left for Switzerland. He would then join her at Paris and spendthe summer and autumn in her company; beyond that he did not muchtrouble himself. 

He had, indeed, a vague dream of then quietly visiting Denasia anddetermining whether it would be worth while to educate her for grandopera. For the idea had taken such deep root in his mind that he couldnot teach himself to regard the future without it, and now thatElizabeth had full control of her riches, he did not contemplate anydifficulty about money matters. He still believed in Denasia's voice, and he had seen that her dramatic talents were above the average; soeven in the charmed atmosphere of the Lanhearne home, he could stillthink with pleasure of being the husband of a famous prima donna. 

He was sure that Denasia had returned to St. Penfer. He knew that eversince they came to America she had written at intervals to herparents, and though it was indeed a labour of love for either John orJoan to write a letter, Denasia had had several communications fromthem. Evidently, then, she had been forgiven, and he had no doubt thatfor the sake of her child she hurried homeward as soon as it waspossible for her to secure a passage. 

Still he allowed three weeks to pass ere he made any inquiries. Duringthose three weeks his own life had settled into very easy and pleasantways. He breakfasted alone or with Mr. Lanhearne. Then he read themorning papers aloud and attended to the mail. If the weather werefavourable, this duty was followed by a stroll or drive in the park. Afterward he was very much at leisure until dinner-time, and at nineo'clock Mr. Lanhearne's retirement to his own room gave him thoseevening hours which most young men consider the desirable ones. Rolandgenerally went to some theatre or musical entertainment. There wasalways the vague expectation of seeing and hearing Denasia, and hescarcely knew whether his disappointment was a pleasure or anannoyance. 

At the end of the third week he ventured to the Second Avenue house. The room they had occupied was dark. He watched it until midnight. IfDenasia had been singing anywhere, she would certainly have returnedto her child before that hour. The next night he sent a messenger toinquire for her address, and the boy said, "It was not known. Mrs. Tresham had left two weeks before. She had spoken of England, but itwas not positively known that she had gone there. "

"She is likely in St. Penfer by this time, " mentally commented Roland, and the thought gave him comfort. He did want Denasia and the baby tobe taken care of, and he knew they would want no necessary thing inJohn Penelles' cottage. But it was this very certainty of Denasia'sreturn to England which really detained Roland in America. He had nodesire to meet John Penelles until time had healed the wound he hadgiven John's daughter. John would be sure to seek him out in London, and there might be no end of trouble; but John would not come toAmerica, nor would he be likely in the summer season to leave thefishing and seek him either in Paris or Switzerland. As for Elizabeth, she knew from her brother's letters that he had deceived and left hiswife, and she had, of course, thought it proper to offer a feebleremonstrance, but Roland knew right well she would never betray hishiding-place. 

So Roland lived on week after week in luxurious thoughtlessness. Mr. Lanhearne grew very fond of him, and Ada, in spite of her numerousobjects of charitable interest, found it singularly pleasant todiscuss with so handsome and intelligent a companion religious topicson which their opinions were widely apart. Indeed, she honestlyaccepted the evident duty of leading him back to the safe and narrowroad of creditable dogmas. And with such a fair, earnest teacher itwas easy, it was natural for Roland to affect an interest in thesubject he did not really feel. 

Dangerous ground for both, but especially so for the lovely youngwoman whose sincerity and singleness of purpose led her to believethat a very natural and womanly instinct was the prompting of aspiritual concern for an immortal soul wandering from the right path. Roland as a hypocrite, affecting a piety he despised, would not havebeen either so captivating or so dangerous as Roland honestly ignorantand doubtful, yet willing to be taught and convinced. 

Dangerous ground for both, for both constantly assured themselvesthere was no danger. Ada Lanhearne was not a woman that any man couldapproach with laughter or half-concealed flirtation. And Roland hadno desire to overstep the boundary her noble presence inspired. Also, Denasia held him by the mysterious strength of the marriage tie. Apartfrom her and relieved of the petty cares which degraded their love, heforgot her shortcomings and thought more and more frequently of heraffectionate, forgiving heart. The radiance of her youthful beauty wasstill in his memory, and the haunting charm of her voice called him atall kinds of incongruous hours. He awoke at night with the silvery cryof "Caller Herrin'" in his ears. At the dinner-table he heard herlight musical laugh ring through the decorous, quiet room, and oftenwhen discussing an old Roman coin with Mr. Lanhearne he felt her handupon his shoulder, and feared to turn lest her face should confronthim. 

Ada's beaming eyes, and soft voice, and mystical rapture of holyenthusiasm touched him on quite a different side of his nature. Shemade him long to be good--he was almost afraid he would become good ifhe dwelt too much in her presence. And he did not desire to be so--notjust yet. But as she talked so earnestly to him of righteousness, andduty and the life to come, it was impossible that he should not insome way respond. And when his handsome eyes were shadowed withfeeling and his gay face and manner subdued to the gravity of thesubject, it was equally impossible for the young teacher not to bemoved by the evidences of her own eloquent persuasion. 

After all, much must be left to the imagination; the situation was sofull of possibilities, so absolutely free of all wrong conditions, soready to yield itself to many wrong conditions. Roland's days went byin a placid sameness, which did not become fretting, because he knewhe should end its pleasant monotony of his own free will in a very fewweeks. And Ada had never before been so happy. Why should she askherself the reason? To question fate is not a fortunate thing, at anyrate; she felt a reluctance to begin a catechism with her feelings orher surroundings. 

So the Christmas came and went, and the days lengthened and the coldstrengthened, and there was so much misery among the poor that Ada'stime and money were taxed to their uttermost use and ability. And thesuffering she saw left its shadow on her fair face. She was quieterbecause her thoughts were deep in her heart and did not thereforereadily resolve themselves into words. The mystery of the wholecreation suffering together oppressed and solemnized her life, for itwas no hearsay of cold, and hunger, and wretchedness that touched Ada. She sat down on the cold hearths with broken-hearted wives andmothers, and held upon her knees the little children ready to perish. Money she gave to the uttermost, but with the money somethinginfinitely more precious--love, like that which made the Christ putHis hand upon the leper as well as heal him; womanly sympathy, whichlistened patiently to tales of intolerable wrongs and to the moans ofextreme physical suffering. 

In her own home she seldom spoke of these experiences. Mr. Lanhearnedid not altogether approve of them. Like the centurion of old, hethought it was sufficient to "speak the word only, " that is, to givethe money necessary to relieve suffering. And he did not see why hischild's life should be shadowed by carrying the griefs of others. Sothere was very seldom any talk on these matters, unless Ada requiredassistance. Then she spoke with such clear sincerity and pathos thather father felt it to be a privilege to be her right hand, and for thetime being was probably as enthusiastic as herself. But these wererare occasions; Ada was too wise and considerate to stretch a generousor a gentle emotion until it failed. 

One bitterly cold night in February Roland returned to Lanhearne Housein a particularly unhappy mood. He had been down-town as far asTwenty-third Street, and had been subjected to all the depressinginfluences of the cold, brown-stony city, swept by that most cruel ofwinds--the east wind which comes with a thaw. The sullen poor, standing desperate and scornful at the street corners, seemed to casta malevolent eye upon his handsome, well-clothed person. There hadbeen a terrible accident, followed by a fire, somewhere in the city, and the raw, cutting air was full of its horror. As he passed a groupof men, a poor shivering creature said passionately, "Accident indeed!All accidents are crimes!" The friction of the interests and willsencompassing him evolved an atmosphere which he had no strength toantagonise. He simply submitted to its worry and restlessness andunhappy discontent, and so carried the spirit home with him. 

It was met on the threshold by influences that drove it back into thedesolate street. The warm, light house and the peace and luxury of hisown room soothed his mental sense of something wrong. And when hedescended to the parlour, he was instantly encompassed by soft warmth, by firelight and gaslight, by all the visible signs and audible soundsof sincere pleasure in his advent. Mr. Lanhearne had a new periodicalto discuss, and Ada, though unusually grave, lifted her still facewith the smile of welcome on it. 

She had, however, an evident anxiety, and Mr. Lanhearne probablydivined its origin, for after dinner was over he said: "Ada, I sawyour little missionary here, late. Is there anything very wrong?"

"I was just going to tell you, father. Mr. Tresham may listen also, itcan do him no harm. Mrs. Dodge came to tell me of a most distressingcase. She was visiting an old patient in a large tenement, and thewoman told her to call at the room directly above her. As she wentaway she did so. It was only four o'clock then, but in that placequite dark. When she reached the door she heard a voice praying--hearda voice thanking God amid sobs and tears--oh, father, what for? Forthe death of her baby! Crying out in a passion of gratitude because itwas released from hunger and cold and suffering!"

Mr. Lanhearne covered his face, and Roland looked at Ada with hislarge eyes troubled and misty. The girl was speechless for a moment ortwo, and Roland watched her sympathetic face and saw tears drop uponher clasped hands. Then she resumed: "Mrs. Dodge entered softly. Themother was sitting on a chair with her dead baby across her knees. There was no fire, no candle in the room, but the light from anoil-lamp in a near window fell upon the white faces of the mother andher dead child. There is no need to tell you that Mrs. Dodge quicklymade a fire, cooked the poor famished creature a meal, and thenprepared the dead child for its burial. But she says the mother isdistracted because she cannot buy it a grave and a coffin. I havepromised to do that; you will help me, father? I know you will. "

"To be sure I will, Ada. To be sure, my dear one! I will help gladly. Has the poor, sorrowful woman no husband to comfort her in thisextremity?"

"She says he is dead. Her history is a little out of the common. Sheis an English woman and was a public singer. The name she is known byis Mademoiselle Denasia--but that, of course, is not her real name. "

A quick, sharp cry broke from Roland's lips. He was grey asashes. He trembled visibly and stood up, though his emotioncompelled him instantly to reseat himself. He was on the point oflosing consciousness. Mr. Lanhearne and Ada looked at him withanxiety, and Mr. Lanhearne went to his side. 

"I am better, " he said with a heavy sigh. "I knew--I knew this poorwoman! I told you I was once on the road with a company. She was init. Her husband was a brute--a mean, selfish, cowardly brute--he oughtto be dead. I should like to help her--to see her--what is the street?the number? Excuse me--I was shocked!"

"I see, Mr. Tresham, " answered Ada, kindly. She had some ivory tabletsby her side, and she looked at them and said, "It is a very longway--One Hundred and Seventieth Street--here is the address. I shallbe glad if you can do anything to help. I am sure she is worthy--shehas had good parents and been taught to pray. "

"My dear Ada, " said Mr. Lanhearne, "sorrow forces men and women downupon their knees; even dumb beasts in their extremity cry unto God, and He heareth them. And as for being worthy of help--if worthinesswere the condition, which of us durst pray for consolation in the hourof our trouble? God has a nobler scale. He sends his rain upon thejust and the unjust, and He never yet asked a suppliant, 'Whose sonart thou?'"

Roland was grateful for this little discussion. It gave him a minuteor two in which to summon his soul to face the position. He was ablewhen Mr. Lanhearne ceased speaking to say:

"Mademoiselle Denasia is a Cornish woman. She comes from a village notfar from where my father lived. I feel that I ought to stand by her inher sorrow. I shall be glad to do anything Miss Lanhearne thinks itright to do. "

The subject was then dropped, but Roland could take up no othersubject. With all his faults, he was still a creature full of warmhuman impulses. There was nothing of the cold, calculating villainabout him. He was really shocked at the turn events had taken. Mr. Lanhearne, who knew the world of men which Ada did not know, mentallyaccused his handsome, sympathetic secretary of some knowledge of theunfortunate singer which it would be best not to investigate; but Adathought his emotion to be entirely the outcome of an unusually tenderand affectionate nature. 

The incident affected the evening unhappily. Roland was not ableeither to talk or read, and Mr. Lanhearne, out of pure sympathy forthe miserable young man, retired to his own apartment very early. Thiswas always the signal for Roland's dismissal, and five minutes afterit Mr. Lanhearne, looking from his window into the bleak, wind-sweptstreet, saw Roland rapidly descend the steps and then turn northward. 

"I was sure of it, " he whispered. "There is more in this affair thanmeets the ear, but I like the young man, and why should I rake amongthe ashes of the past? Which of us would care for an investigation ofthat kind?" Then he sat down before his fire and mentally followedRoland to the bare loneliness of that poor home where death and themother sat together. 

For once Roland feared to call, "Denasia!" He hesitated at the foot ofthe narrow stair and then went softly to the door. All within wasstill as the grave, but a glimmer of pale light came from under theill-fitting door. He might be mistaken in the room, but he resolvedto try. He turned the handle and there was an instant movement. Hewent forward and Denasia stood erect, facing him. She made no sound orsign of either anger, or astonishment, or affection. All her being wasconcentrated on the clay-cold image of humanity lying so strangelystill that it filled the whole place with its majesty of silence. 

He closed the door softly and said "Denasia! Oh, Denasia!"

She did not answer him, but sinking on her knees by the child, beganto sob with a passionate grief that shook her frail form as a tree isshaken by a tempest. 

"My dearest! My wife! Forgive me! Forgive me! I thought you were inSt. Penfer. As God lives, I believed you were with your mother. Iintended to come to you, I did, indeed! Denasia, speak to me. I willnever leave you again--never! We will go back to England together. Iwill make you a home there. I will love and cherish you for ever!Forgive me, dear! I am sorry! I am ashamed of myself! I hate myself! Ido not wonder you hate me also. "

"No, no! I do not hate you, Roland. I am lost in sorrow. I cannoteither love or hate. "

"Let me bear the sorrow with you, coward, villain that I am!"

"You did not mean to be either. You were tired of misery--men do tire. I would have tired, too, only for my baby. Oh, Roland! Roland! Roland!my love, my husband!"

Then--ah, then. No one can put into mere common words the greatmystery of forgiveness. It is not in words. Heart beat against heart, eyes gazed into eyes, souls met upon clinging lips, and the sweetcompact of married love was renewed in the clasping of theirlong-parted hands. They sat down together and spoke in soft, sadvoices of the great mistakes of the past. Until the midnight hour theywept and talked together, and then Denasia said:

"In a short time a poor woman who is nursing at the Gilsey Housewill be here. She is on duty until twelve o'clock, but as soon asshe is released she promised to come and sit with me. So you mustleave me now, Roland. It is useless to explain to my neighbours ourrelationship. They would look at you and me and think evilly. I wouldnot blame them if they did. When all is over I will come to you;until then I will remain alone. It is best so. "

Nevertheless Roland lingered and pleaded, and when he finallyconsented to her wish, he left all the money he had in her hands. Shelooked at the bills with a sad despair. "All these!" she whispered, "all these for a grave and a coffin! There was nothing at all to helphim to live. "

"Nothing could have saved him, Denasia. He was born under sentence ofdeath. He has been ill all his poor little life. My darling, believethat it is well with him now. "

Yet her words and tears troubled him, and he bade her good-night, andthen returned so often that the woman Denasia had spoken of passedhim in the narrow entry, and he paused and watched her go to hiswife's room. Even then he did not hurry to his own home. He went downthe side street, and stood looking at the glimmering lamp in thesorrowful place of death until he became painfully aware of theterribly damp, cold wind searching out and chilling life, even to thevery marrow of the bones. Then he remembered that he had come out inhis dress boots, consequently his feet were wet and numb, and he had afierce pain under his shoulder. A sudden, uncontrollable fear went tohis heart like a death-doom. 

He had to walk a long way before he found any vehicle, and when, afterwhat seemed a never-ending period of torture, he reached his room, heknew that he was seriously ill. But the house had settled for thenight; he had a reluctance to awaken the servants; he hoped the warmthwould give him ease; he was, in fact, quite unacquainted with theterrible malady which had seized him. In the morning he did notappear, and after a short delay Mr. Lanhearne sent him a message. 

Roland was, however, by this time in high fever and delirious. Thenews caused a momentary hesitation and then a positive decision. Thehesitation was a natural one--"Should not the young man be sent to thehospital?" The decision came from the cultivated humanity of a goodheart--"No. Roland was 'the stranger within the gates, ' he was acountryman, he was more than that, he was a Cornishman. " In a fewmoments Mr. Lanhearne had sent for his own physician and a trainednurse, and he went himself to the side of the sick man until helparrived. 

Toward night Roland became very restless, and with a distressingeffort constantly murmured the word "Denasia. " Mr. Lanhearne thoughthe understood the position exactly, and he had a very pardonablehesitation in granting the half-made request. But the monotonousimploring became full of anguish, and he finally took his daughterinto his councils and asked what ought to be done. 

"Denasia ought to be here, " answered Ada. "I have her address. LetDavis go for her. "

"But, my dear! you do not understand that she may--that she is, perhaps, not what we should call a good woman. "

"Dear father, who among us all is good? Even Christ said, 'Why callestthou Me good? There is none good save one, that is God. ' We knownothing wrong of her with certainty. Why not give her the benefit ofthe doubt? Are we not compelled to be thus generous with all ouracquaintances?"

So Denasia was sent for. She was sitting alone in her comfortlessroom. The baby was gone away for ever. Thinking of the lonely darknessof the cemetery, with the cold earth piled high above the littlecoffin, she felt a kind of satisfaction in her own shivering solitudeand silence. She was as far as possible keeping with the little form adreary companionship. Yet she had been expecting Roland and wasgreatly pained at his apparent neglect. 

When Davis knocked at the door she said drearily, "Come in. " Shethought it was her husband at last. 

"Are you Mademoiselle Denasia?" inquired a strange voice. 

A quick sense of trouble came to her; she stood up and answered"Yes. "

"There is a gentleman at our house, Mr. Tresham; he is very illindeed. He asks for you constantly. Mr. Lanhearne thinks you ought tocome to him at once. "

"I am ready. "

She spoke with a dreary patience and instantly put on her cloak andhat. Not another word was said. She asked no questions. She hadreached that point where women arrest all their feelings and wait. Thesplendid house, the light, the warmth, all the evidences of aluxurious life about, moved her no more than if she was in a dream. Agreat sorrow had put her far above these things. She followed theservant who met her at the door without conscious volition. A womangoing to execution could hardly have felt more indifference to themere accidentals of the way of sorrow. And when a door was swungsoftly open, she saw no one in the room but Roland. Roland helpless, unconscious. Roland even then crying out "Denasia! Denasia!"

The physician, Mr. Lanhearne, and his daughter stood by the fireside, and when Denasia entered Ada went rapidly to her side. 

"We are glad you have come, " she said kindly. "You see how ill Mr. Tresham is. You are his countrywoman--his friend, I think?"

"I--am--his--wife. "

She said the words with a pathetic pride, and Ada wondered why theyhurt her so terribly. Like four swords they pierced her heart and cutaway from it hope and happiness. She went back to her father's side, and leaned her head on his shoulder, and felt like one holding despairat bay. And oh, how grateful to her was the secret silence of thenight! Then she wept as a little child weeps who has lost its way. Byher anguish and her sense of loss for ever she was taught that Rolandhad become nearer and dearer than she had ever suspected. And theknowledge was a revelation of sorrow. Her delicate conscience shiveredin the shadow of a possible wrong and the bitterness of themight-have-been she was to fight without ceasing. 

She felt no anger toward Denasia, however. Denasia was only the hiddenrock on which her frail, unknown love-bark had struck and gone down. And she was constrained to admit that, so far as she herself wasconcerned, Roland was innocent. She had, indeed, often felt hurt athis restraint and want of response. In her pure, simple heart she hadcalled it pride, shyness, indifference; but she understood now thatthis poor, weak soul had at least not lacked honour. 

So that there was in this apparently peaceful, comfortable home twovital conflicts going on: the struggle of a noble soul to slay love, the struggle of unpitying death to slay life. About the ninth dayRoland, though weak, had some favourable symptoms, and there were goodhopes of his recovery. He talked with Denasia at intervals, andassured of her forgiveness and love, slept peacefully with his hand inhis wife's hand. 

A few days later, however, he appeared to be much depressed. His dark, sunken eyes gazed wistfully at Mr. Lanhearne, and he asked to be alonewith him for a little while. "I am going to die, " he said, with a facefull of vague, melancholy fear. The look was so childlike, so likethat of an infant soul afraid of some perilous path, that Mr. Lanhearne could not avoid weeping, though he answered:

"No, my dear Roland. The doctor says that the worst is over. "

Roland smiled with pleasure at the fatherly dropping of the formal"Mr. , " but he reiterated the assertion with a more decided manner. "Iam going to die. Will you see that my wife goes back to England to herfather and mother?"

"I will. Is there anything else?"

"No. She knows all that is to be done. Comfort her a little when I amdead. "

"My dear Roland, we are going to Florida as soon as you are able. "

"I am going to a country much farther off. I will tell you how I know. All my life long a figure formless, veiled, and like a shadow has cometo me at any crisis. When I was striving for honours at my college itwhispered, 'you will not succeed. ' When I went to my first businessdesk it brought me the same message. The night before I sailed forAmerica it stood at my bedside, and I heard the one word, 'failure. 'This afternoon it told me, 'you have come to the end of your life. 'Then my soul said, 'Oh, my enemy, who art thou?' And there grew out ofthe dimness the likeness of a face. "

For a few moments there was a silence painful and profound. Rolandclosed his eyes, and from under their lids stole two large tears--thelast he would ever shed. And Mr. Lanhearne was so awed and troubled hecould scarcely say:

"A face! Whose face, then, Roland?"

"My own! My own!" and he spoke with that patience of accepted doomwhich, while it carries the warrant of death, has also death'sresignation and dignity. 

After this revelation there was a decided relapse, and after a fewmore days of suffering, of hope, and despair had passed, the end camepeacefully from utter exhaustion. Mr. Lanhearne was present, but itwas into Denasia's eyes that Roland gazed until this sad earth waslost to vision, and the dark, tearless orbs, once so full of light andlove, were fixed and dull for evermore. 

"It is all past! It is all over!" cried Denasia, "all over, all over!Oh, Roland! Roland! My dear, dear love!" and Mr. Lanhearne led herfainting with sorrow from the place of death. 

And in another room, in a little sanctuary of holy dreams and lovingpurposes, Ada knelt in a transport of divine supplication, praying forthe dying, praying for the living, consecrating her own wounded heartto the service of all women wearing for any reason the crown ofsorrow, or drinking of the cup of Gethsemane, or treading alone thepainful road which leads from Calvary to paradise. For herself askingonly with a sublime submission--

 "Nearer, my God, to Thee; E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me!"

CHAPTER XIV. 

SORROW BRINGS US ALL HOME. 

 "Look in my face. My name is Might-have-been: I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell. "

 "Was _that_ the landmark?

 . . . . . . . . . . 

 "But lo! the path is missed; I must go back And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring Which once I stained . .. Yet though no light be left, nor bird now sing As here I turn, I'll thank God, hastening, That the same goal is still on the same track. " --ROSETTI. 

Roland Tresham was buried beside his son, and the friends and theplaces that had known him knew him no more. There were only strangersto lay him in the grave. His wife was too worn out with watching andgrief to leave her bed; his sister was far away. Mr. Lanhearne and twoor three gentlemen whose acquaintance Roland had made at the club ofwhich Mr. Lanhearne was a member paid the last pitiful rites, and thenleft him alone for ever. 

Ada sat with the sorrowful widow. Her innocent heart was greatlytroubled lest her interest in Roland, though known only to herself, had been an unintentional wrong. In every possible way she strove toatone for Roland's happiness in her home and her own happiness inRoland's presence. When she mentally contrasted these conditions withthe miserable conditions of the deserted wife and dying child, shefelt as if it would be impossible to balance the unkind and unmeriteddifference. That she was not specially drawn to Denasia only forcedfrom her a more generous concern for the unhappy woman. And when deathor sorrow tears from life the mask of daily custom, then, withoutregard to the accidents of birth, we behold ourselves, all alike sadseekers among the shadows after light and peace. 

And undoubtedly sympathy is like mercy; it blesses those who give itas well as those who receive. As Ada and Denas talked of the greatmysteries of life and death, their souls felt the thrill ofcomradeship. Denas was usually reticent about her own life, yet sheopened her heart to Ada, and as the two women sat together the dayafter the funeral, the poor widow spent many hours in excusing thedead and in blaming herself. 

She spoke honestly of her vanity, of her desire to get the better ofElizabeth by taking her brother from her, of the satisfaction she feltin mortifying the pride of the Burrells and the Treshams--even of herimpatience and ill-temper with Roland because he was not able toconquer the weaknesses which were as natural to him as the blood inhis body or the thought in his brain; because he could not alter theadverse circumstances which, as soon as they touched American soil, began to close around them. 

"And my great grief is this, " she cried, wringing her long, wastedhands: "he has died before his time and he has gone so far away thathe neither sees my repentance nor hears my words of remorsefulsorrow. "

"Would you desire the dead to see your sorrow, Mrs. Tresham?" saidAda. "Sorrow is for the living, not for the dead. "

"Oh, it is not enough to be seen by the living! I want the dead toknow that I grieve! When I have wept on my mother's breast and kneltat my father's feet, I shall still long for poor Roland to know that Iam sorry for the cross looks and cross words and all the pettydiscomforts which drove him from me--drove him to death before histime; that is the cruellest thing of all. "

Mr. Lanhearne entered the room as she spoke, and he sat down andanswered her: "To die before one's time, before one has seen andheard, and enjoyed and suffered the full measure of life, may seemhard, Mrs. Tresham, but there is something in this respect muchharder. I have just been with a man who has lived after his time. Thegrave has swallowed up all his loves and all his joys, and he alone isleft of his family and friends. Over such lingering lives thick, darkshadows fall, I can assure you. They have the loneliness of the gravewithout its quiet sleep and its freedom from unkindness and suffering. Let me advise you, as soon as you can bear the journey, to go to yourown people. It was your husband's desire. "

"I know it was, sir. I have fought hunger and sorrow and death like acat. But there is no need to continue the fight. I will go to the goodfather and mother that God gave me. I will weep no more rebellioustears. I will surrender myself and wait for His comfort. I am but apoor, suffering woman, but I know the hand that has smitten me. "

And Ada bowed her head and repeated softly:

 "They are most high who humblest at God's knees Lie loving God, and trusting though He smite. "

Then they spoke of the sea-journey, and Denas wished to go away assoon as possible. "I shall get some money as soon as I arrive inLondon, " she said. "Lend me sufficient to pay my passage there. "

"You have no occasion to borrow money, Mrs. Tresham, " said Mr. Lanhearne. "There is a sum due your husband which will be quitesufficient to meet all your expenses home. I will send a man to secureyou a good berth. Shall it be for Saturday next?"

"I can go to-morrow very well. "

"No, you cannot go to-morrow, Mrs. Tresham, " answered Ada. "You musthave proper clothing to travel in. If you will permit me, I willattend to this matter for you at once. "

And though the proper clothing was a very prosaic comfort, it was atangible one to Denas. She was grateful to find herself clothed inthat modest, sombre decency which her condition claimed; to have allthe small proprieties of the season and the circumstances, all thetoilet necessities which are part of the expression of a refinednature. For the poor lady who pitifully lamented the calamity whichhad "reduced her to elegance" indicated no slight deprivation;proper clothing for the occasions of life being both to men andwomen one of those great decencies demanded by an austere andsuitable self-respect. 

Faithfully did this good father and daughter fulfil to the last tittlethe demands of their almost super-sensitive hearts and consciences, and if they sighed with relief when the duty was over, the sigh onlyproved the duty to have been beyond the line of self-satisfaction anda real sacrifice to the claims of a common humanity. Mr. Lanhearnethen turned his thoughts gladly toward Florida. He felt that theinvasion of so much strange sorrow into his home had altered itsatmosphere, and that he was human enough to be a little weary inwell-doing. Ada was also glad to escape the precincts haunted by theform and the voice which it pained her conscience to remember andpained her heart to forget. So in a few more days the large brownhouse was closed and dark, and "the tender grace of a day that wasdead" was gone for evermore. The land of sunshine was before them, andmany of their friends were already there to give them welcome; yetAda's soul kept repeating, with a ceaseless, uncontrollable monotony, one sad lament--

 "Ah, but alas! for the smile that never but one face wore! Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unknown shore! Ah, for the face--the flower of flowers--that blossoms on earth no more!"

She tried to hush this inner voice, to reason it into silence, to dullits aching echo with song or speech or notes of loftier tones; but itwould not be quieted. And when she was left alone, when there was noone near to comfort or strengthen, a great silence fell upon her. Forshe indulged no stormy sorrow; her grief was a still rain thatfertilised and made fragrant her higher self. In her maiden heart shehad had a dream of being crowned with bride-flowers, and lo! it wasrue, and thyme gone to seed, and dead primroses that garlanded hersad, unspoken love. But she wore them with a sweet, brave submission, not affecting to disbelieve that time would surely heal love's achingpain. For she knew that goodness was omnipotent to save and tocomfort. 

In the mean time, as the Lanhearnes sailed southward Denas sailedeastward, and in less than a couple of weeks half the circumference ofthe world was between the lives so strangely and sorrowfully broughttogether. Denas landed in Liverpool early in the morning, and withoutdelay went to London. She had business with Elizabeth, and she feltconstrained and restless until it should be accomplished. Shehesitated about going to the house in which she had spent with Rolandso many happy and sorrowful days, but when she entered the cab thedirection to it sprang naturally from her lips. 

And there was already in her heart that tender fear that she mightforget, the fear that all who have loved and lost have trembled torecognise, the fact that her sorrow might have an end, that she mightlearn to dispense with what was once her life, that a little vulgarexistence with its stated meals and regular duties and petty pleasureswould ever fill the void in her love and life made by Roland's death. 

So she tried, in the very place of her sweet bride memories, to bringback the first passion of her widowed grief. She tried to fill theempty chair with Roland's familiar form and the silent space with hishappy voice. Alas! other thoughts would intrude; considerations aboutElizabeth's attitude, about her home, about her future. For she knewthat this part of her life was finished; that nothing could ever bringback its conditions. They had been absolutely barren conditions. Herduties as a wife and a mother were over. Her career as a singer wasover. No single claim of friendship or interest from its past boundher. When she had seen Elizabeth these last years of her being anddoing would be a shut book. Nothing but her change of name and, perhaps, a little money would remain to testify that Denas Penelleshad ever been Denasia Tresham. 

Do as she would, she could not keep these thoughts apart from hermemories of her lover and her husband. She arrested her mindcontinually and bade herself remember the days of her gay bridal, orelse those two lonely graves far beyond the western sea; and then, ereshe was aware, her memories of the past had become speculations aboutthe future. And she was abashed by this arid, incurable egotism inthe most secret place of her soul. She felt it making itself knowncontinually in her hard determination to make the best of things; sheknew that it was this feeling which was determined to close the deathchamber, to deny all torturing memories; which said, in effect, "whatis finished is finished, and the dead are dead. "

But the conflict wearied her almost to insensibility. She was alsophysically exhausted by travel, and the next day she slept profoundlyuntil nearly the noon hour. It had been her intention to see Elizabethin the morning, and she was provoked at her own remissness, for whatshe feared in reality happened--Elizabeth was out driving when shereached her residence. The porter thought it would be six o'clock ereshe could receive any visitor, "business or no business. "

Denas said she would call at six o'clock, and charged the man to tellhis mistress so. 

But the visit and the engagement passed from the servant's mind. Infact, he had, as he claimed, a very genteel mind. Callers who came ina common cab did not find an entry into it. Elizabeth returned in dueseason from her drive, drank a cup of tea, and then made her eveningtoilet. For Lord Sudleigh was to dine with her, and Lord Sudleigh wasthe most important person in Elizabeth's life. It was her intention, as soon as she had paid the last tittle of mint, anise, and cummin toMr. Burrell's memory, to become Lady Sudleigh. Everyone said it was amost proper alliance, the proposed bride having money and beauty andthe bridegroom-elect birth, political influence, and quite as muchlove as was necessary to such a matrimonial contract. 

Elizabeth, however, in spite of her pleasant prospect for the evening, was in a bad temper. The bishop's wife had snubbed her in the drive, and her dressmaker had disappointed her in a new costume. The Marchwind also had reddened her face, and perhaps she had a premonition oftrouble, which she did not care to investigate. When informed thatthere was a lady waiting to see her on important business, she simplyelected to let her wait until her toilet was finished. She had aconviction that it was some officious patroness on a charitymission--someone who wanted money for the good of other people. And asthere are times when we all feel the claims of charity to be anunwarrantable imposition, so Elizabeth, blown-about, sun-browned, snubbed, disappointed, and anxious about her lover, was not, on thisparticular occasion, more to blame for want of courtesy than manyothers have been. 

Finally she descended to the drawing-room and was ready to receive hervisitor. There was a very large mirror in the room, and pending herentrance Elizabeth stood before it noticing the set and flow of herblack lace dress, its heliotrope ribbons, and the sparkle of thehidden jets upon the bodice. Some heliotrope blossoms were in herbreast, and her hands were covered with gloves of the same delicatecolour. Denas saw her thus; saw her reflection in the glass before sheturned to confront her. 

For a moment Elizabeth was puzzled. The white face amid its sombre, heavy draperies had a familiarity she strove to name, but could not. But as Denasia came forward, some trick of head-carriage or of walkingrevealed her personality, and Elizabeth cried out in a kind of angryamazement:

"Denas! You here?"

"I am no more Denas to you than you are Elizabeth to me. "

"Well, then, Mrs. Tresham! And pray where is my brother?"

"Dead. "

"Dead? dead? Impossible! And if so, it is your fault, I know it is! Ihad a letter from him--the last letter--he said he was coming to me. "

She was frightfully pale; she staggered to a sofa, sat down, andcovered her face with her gloved hands. Denasia stood by a tablewatching her emotion and half-doubting its genuineness. A silencefollowed, so deep and long that Elizabeth could not endure it. Shestood up and looked at Denasia, reproach and accusation in every toneand attitude. "Where did he die?" she asked. 

"In New York. "

"Of what did he die?"

"Of pneumonia. "

"It was your fault, I am sure of it. Your fault in some way. My poorRoland! He had left you, I know that; and I hoped everything for hisfuture. "

"He had come back to me. He loved me better than ever. He died in myarms--died adoring me. His last work on earth was to give me this listof property, which I shall require you either to render back or tobuy from me. "

Elizabeth knew well what was wanted, and her whole soul was in arms atthe demand. Yet it was a perfectly just one. By his father's willRoland had been left certain pieces of valuable personal property:family portraits and plate, two splendid cabinets, old china, Chineseand Japanese carvings, many fine paintings, antique chairs, etc. , etc. , the whole being property which had either been long in theTresham family or endeared to it by special causes, and therefore leftpersonally to Roland as the representative of the Treshams. At thebreak up of the Tresham home after his father's death, Roland had beenglad to leave these treasures in Elizabeth's care, nor in hiswandering life had the idea of claiming them ever come to him. As fortheir sale, that would have been an indignity to his ancestors belowthe contemplation of Roland. 

Fortunately Mr. Tresham's lawyer had insisted upon Mrs. Burrell givingRoland a list of the articles left in her charge and an acknowledgmentof Roland's right to them. "Life is so queer and has so many queerturns, " he said, "that nothing can be left to likelihoods. Mrs. Burrell is not likely to die, but she may do so; and then there may bea new Mrs. Burrell who may make trouble, and I can conceive of manyother complications which would render nugatory the intentions of thelate Mr. Tresham. The property must, therefore, be set behind thebulwark of the law. " Elizabeth herself had acknowledged this danger, and she had done all that was required of her in order to keep theTresham family treasures within the keeping of the Treshams. 

She was now confronted with her own acknowledgment and agreement, orat least with a copy of it, and she was well aware that it wouldbe the greatest folly to deny the claim of Roland's wife. But theidea of robbing her beautiful home for Denasia was very bitter toher. She glanced around the room and imagined the precious cabinetsand china, the curious carvings and fine paintings taken away, andthen the alternative, the money she would have to pay to Denasia ifshe retained them, came with equal force and clearness to herintelligence. 

"Mrs. Tresham, " she said in a conciliating voice, "these objects canbe of no value to you. "

"Roland told me they were worth at least two thousand pounds, perhapsmore. There is a picture of Turner's, which of----"

"What do you know about Turner? And can you really entertain thethought of selling things so precious to our family?"

"Roland wished you to buy them. If you do not value them sufficientlyto do so, why should I keep them? In my father's cottage they would beabsurd. "

"Your father's cottage? You are laughing at me!"

"I am too sorrowful a woman to laugh. A few weeks ago, if I had hadonly one of these pictures I would have sold it for a mouthful ofbread--for a little coal to warm myself; oh, my God! for medicine tosave my child's life or to ease his passage to the grave. "

"I had forgotten the child. Where is he?"

"By his father's side. "

"That is well and best, doubtless. "

"It is not well and best. What do you know? You have never been amother. God never gave you such sorrowful grace. "

"We will return to the list, if you please. What do you propose todo?"

"I have spoken to a man in Baker Street who deals in such things. Ifyou wish to buy them and will pay their fair value I will sell them toyou, because Roland desired you to have them. If you do not wish tobuy them or will not pay a fair price I will remove them to BakerStreet. There are others who will know their value. "

"I advanced Roland a great deal of money. "

"You gave him it. You demanded and accepted his thanks. The sums alltold would not pay for the use of the property. "

"I shall do right, of course. Bring the man you have spoken ofto-morrow afternoon, and I also will have here an expert of the samekind. I will pay you whatever they decide is a proper sum. "

"That will satisfy me. "

"I am sorry affairs have come to this point between us. I tried to bekind to you. I think you have been very ungrateful. "

"You were kind only to yourself. You never were a favourite in St. Penfer. Other ladies did not often call upon you. In me you had acompanionship which you could control, you had your sewing done fornext to nothing, you had the news of the town brought to you. Youplayed upon my restless disposition, my love of fine clothing, myambition to be some one greater than Denas Penelles, and as soon asgood fortune came to you and you had everything you desired, you foundme a bore, a claimant on your sense of justice which you did not liketo meet. Understand that the fact of wearing silk and jewelry does notgive you the right to take up an immortal soul and play with it orcast it aside as you find it convenient. I owe you the deepest grudge. You made me dissatisfied with my own life, you showed me the pleasantvistas of a different life, and when I hoped to enter with you, Ifound myself outside and the door shut in my face. You have alwaystried to make Roland dissatisfied with me. You insinuated, youdeplored, in every letter to him. You stabbed while you pretended tokiss me. I found you out long ago. Everyone finds you out. You neverhad a friend. You never will have one. "

She spoke with that pitiless scorn which is the language of suppressedpassion. Elizabeth only lifted her eyebrows and turned away from her. And Denasia knew that she had made a mistake, and yet she did notregret it. There are times when it is a relief to be angry, whether wedo well to be so or not; when to lose the temper is better than tokeep it. Of course there are great and beautiful souls with whomnothing turns to bitterness, but the soul of Denasia was not one ofthese. It had been born ready to feel and ready to speak, and regardedit as something of a virtue to do so. 

She left Elizabeth's house in a very unhappy mood, and at a rapid walkproceeded to her lodging in Bloomsbury. She would have felt theconfinement of a cab to be intolerable, but it was a relief to set herpersonality against the friction of a million of encompassing wills. And in a short time she succumbed to that condition of electricitywhich they evolve, and permitted herself to be moved by it withoutconsidering her steps. 

At length she was hungry, and she turned into a place of refreshmentand ate with more healthy desire than she had felt for many months, and then the restless, fretting creature within was pacified, and sheresolved to walk quietly to her room and sleep before she sufferedherself to think any more. But as she was following out this plan shecame to a famous theatre, and the name at the entrance attracted her. "I will be my own judge, " she said. "I will see, and hear, and be moreunmerciful to myself than any other could be. "

So she entered the place and sat throughout three scenes. She did notwait for the final act. There was no necessity. She had arrived at herverdict. It was in her eyes and attitude when she left the building, but she gave it no voice until she sat weary and sad before theglimmering fire in her room. 

"I could be Queen of England as easily as I could be a prima donna, "she said mournfully. "There was perhaps a time--perhaps--perhaps, whenyouth and beauty and love could have helped me, but that time has gonefor ever. "

She said the words slowly, and the weight of despair was on each one. For she realised that in her case effort had brought forth no lastingfruit and that endurance had been without avail, and she wasexceedingly sorrowful. For there is a singular vitality in the idea ofpublic singing or acting when once it has taken root in any nature, and Denasia had been subject that night to one of its periods ofrevival. She had told herself that "she would probably have a thousandpounds; that she could go to Italy and pay for the best teachers; thatit would please Roland if he knew, if he remembered, for her to do so;that it would annoy Elizabeth in many ways if she became a singer;that she would show the world it was possible to sing and act and yetbe in every respect womanly, pure-hearted, and blameless before Godand man. "

These and many such ideas had filled her mind at intervals all the wayacross the Atlantic, and her passionate renunciation of the stage, made that miserable day when Roland deserted her, began to lose itsreasonableness and therefore its sense of obligation. After herinterview with Elizabeth, the question of money to carry out suchintentions was practically settled, and she had, therefore, only toarrive at a positive personal conclusion. Once or twice in her publiccareer she had received what her heart told her was a just criticism. It had not been a very flattering one, and Roland had passionatelydenied its justice. But she felt that the hour had now come when shemust have the truth and accept the truth. 

So she had tested herself by the natural and acquired abilities of thegreatest singer of the day. It was, perhaps, a pitiless standard, butshe felt that her safety demanded its extremity. Her comparisons madeher burn with shame at her own shortcomings. She wondered how Rolandcould have been so deceived, how he could have hoped or believed inher at all. She forgot that circumstances had quite altered Roland'sfirst intentions, and that in following out his secondary ones lessdistinctive talent was sufficient. On their marriage if he had takenher, as he proposed, to Italy; if the three last restless, miserableyears had been spent in repose, in a favourable climate under fineinstructors, with a happy, satisfied, hopeful affection to stimulateand support her ambition--ah, then all of Roland's hopes might havebeen fulfilled. But lack of patience as much as lack of money hadbrought final failure. The blossom had been gathered and worn with butsmall _éclat_, and there was now no hope of fruit. 

Full of such sombre thoughts, she turned up the lights and looked atherself. Gone was her radiant beauty, her splendid youth; gone alsoher buoyant spirit and invincible courage. That night as she sat therealone she buried for ever this hope of a life for which she was notdestined. Yet it was while sitting on that very hearth together Rolandand she had felt the joy of her first triumph at Willis Hall. Shecould remember every incident of her return home the night of herbrilliant _début_. How Roland had praised her and loved her. Neitherof them then thought the temporary success to be the first downwardstep from their original grander ideal; the first step toward amiserable failure. Now it was clear enough. Alas! alas! Why cannotjoy, as well as sorrow, open the eyes? Why are they only washedclear-seeing with tears?

When the hopeless ceremony was over and she had fully accepted the lotbefore her, she rose and with tear-filled eyes looked around the placeof her renunciation. She felt as if her husband ought to have someconsciousness of her disappointment; as if the longing in her heartshould bring him to her side. Where was he? Where had he gone to?"Roland! Roland!" she whispered, and the silence beat upon her heartlike the blows of a hammer. Was he present? Did he hear her? She feltuntil she reached the very rim of conscious feeling, and then? Alas!nothing but a mighty mystery looming beyond. 

Weary and exhausted with emotion, she lay down and slept, and in themorning the courage born of a resolved mind was with her. When she hadfinished her business with Elizabeth, then there was her father andher mother and her real life again. She must go back and take it upjust where she had thrown it down. And this humiliating duty was allthat her own way had brought her. Never again would she take herdestiny out of the keeping of the good God who orders all things well. On this resolution she stayed her heart, and somehow in her sleepthere had come to her a conviction that the time of smiles wouldsurely come back to her once more. For God giveth His children intheir sleep, and the sorrowful wake up comforted, and the weakstrong, because some angel has visited them and "they knew it not. "

Elizabeth was quite prepared for her visitor. She was, indeed, anxiousto get the affair settled and to dismiss Denasia from her life forever. Her lawyer and appraiser were busy when Denasia arrived, andwithout ceremony each article specified in Roland's list was examinedand valued. Elizabeth offered her sister-in-law no courtesy; shebarely bowed in response to her greeting, and there was a final verysevere struggle as to values. Mrs. Burrell had certainly hoped tosatisfy Denasia with a thousand pounds, but the official adjustmentwas sixteen hundred pounds, and for this sum Roland's widow, who wasirritated by her sister-in-law's evident scorn and dislike, stubbornlystood firm. 

It is probable that Elizabeth would also have turned stubborn and havesuffered the articles to go to the auction-room had not her personalpride and interests demanded the sacrifice. But she had alreadyintroduced Lord Sudleigh to these family treasures, and she could notendure to go to Sudleigh Castle and take with her no heirlooms to besurety for her respectability. So that, after all, Denasia won herrights easily, because a man whom she had never seen and never evenheard of pleaded her case for her. But she had no exceptional favour. It is the people whom we do not know that are often our helpers. It isthe people who seem to have no possible connection with us that areoften the tools used by fate for our fortune. 

When the transaction was fully over and Denasia had Elizabeth's chequein her pocket the day was nearly over. The business agents lefthurriedly and Denasia was going with them, when Elizabeth said:"Return a moment, if you please, Mrs. Tresham. I have heard nothingfrom you about my brother. I think it is your duty to give me someinformation. I am very miserable, " and she sat down and covered herface. Her sobs, hardly restrained, touched Denasia. She was sorry forthe weeping woman, for she knew that if Elizabeth had loved any humancreature truly and unselfishly, it was her brother Roland. 

"What can I tell you?" she asked. 

"Something to comfort me, if you are not utterly heartless. Had hedoctors? help? comforts of any kind?"

"He had everything that money and love could procure. He died in Mr. Lanhearne's house. I was at his side. Whatever could be done by humanskill to save his life was done. "

"Did he name me often?"

"Yes. "

"And you never said a word--never would have done--you were going awaywithout telling me. How could you be so cruel?"

"It was wrong. I should have told you. He spoke often about you. Inhis delirium he believed himself with you. He called your name threetimes just before he died; it was only a whisper then, he was soweak. "

Elizabeth wept bitterly, and Denasia, moved by many memories, couldnot watch her unmoved. After a wretched pause she said:

"Good-bye! You are Roland's sister and he loved you. So then I cannotreally hate you. I forgive you all. "

But Elizabeth did not answer. The loss of her brother, the loss of hermoney--she was feeling that this woman had been the cause of all hersorrows. Grief and anger swelled within her heart; she felt it to bean intolerable wrong to be forgiven. She was silent until Denasia wasclosing the door, then she rose hastily and followed her. 

"Go!" she cried, "and never cross my path again. You have brought menothing but misery. "

"It is quite just that I should bring you misery. Remember, now, thatif you do a wrong you will have to pay the price of it. "

Trembling with anger and emotion, she clasped her purse tightly andcalled a cab to take her to her lodging. The money was money, at anyrate. A poor exchange for love, certainly, but still Roland's lastgift to her. It proved that in his dying hours he loved her best ofall. He had put his family pride beneath her feet. He had put hissister's interest second to her interest. She felt that every poundrepresented to her so much of Roland's consideration and affection. Itwas, too, a large sum of money. It made her in her own station a veryrich woman. If she put it in the St. Penfer bank it would insure her agreat deal of respect. That was one side of the question. The otherwas less satisfactory. People would speculate as to how she hadbecome possessed of such a sum. Many would not scruple to say, "It wassinful money, won in the devil's service. " All who wished to be unkindto her could find in it an occasion for hard sayings. In smallcommunities everything but prosperity is forgiven; that is neverreally forgiven to anyone; and though Denasia did not find words forthis feeling, she was aware of it, because she was desirous to avoidunnecessary ill-will. 

She sat with the cheque in her hand a long time, considering what to dowith it. Her natural vanity and pride, her sense of superiorintelligence, education, travel, and experience urged her to takewhatever good it might bring her. And she went to sleep resolving to doso. But she awoke in the midnight with a strange sense of humiliation. In that time of questions she was troubled by soul-inquiries that cameone upon another close as the blows of a lash. She was then shockedat the intentions with which she had fallen asleep. The littlevanities, and condescensions, and generosities which she had planned forher own glory--how contemptible they appeared! And in the darkness shecould see their certain end--envy and hatred for herself anddissatisfaction and loss of friends for her father and mother. Hadshe not already given them sorrow enough?

Her right course was then clear as a band of light. She woulddeposit the money at interest in a London bank. She would say nothingat all about its possession. Before leaving for St. Penfer she wouldbuy a couple of printed gowns, such as would not be incongruous withher surroundings. She would go back to her home and village asempty-handed as she left them--a beggar, even, for a little loveand sympathy, for toleration for her wanderings, for forgivenessfor those deeds by which she had wounded the consciences andself-respect of her own people and her own caste. 

This determination awoke with her in the morning, and she followed itout literally. The presents she had resolved to buy in order to getherself a little favour were put out of consideration. She purchasedonly a few plain garments for her own every-day wearing. She left hermoney with strangers who attached no importance to it; and, with onesmall American trunk holding easily all her possessions, she turnedher face once more to the little fishing village of St. Penfer by theSea. 

CHAPTER XV. 

ONLY FRIENDS. 

 "Stay at home, my heart, and rest, Home-keeping hearts are happiest; For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care-- To stay at home is best. " --SONG. 

 ". .. Those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day; Are yet a master-sight of all our seeing. " --WORDSWORTH. 

Only those who have experienced the sensation can tell how strange andsad is the feeling with which the soul turns away from a destinyaccomplished. When Denas had deposited her money in the ClydesdaleBank and made the few purchases she thought proper and prudent, shefelt that one room of the house of life was barred for ever againsther return to it. 

For a few years her experiences had been strangely interwoven withthose of the Treshams. To what purpose? Why had they been so? As faras this existence was concerned, it seemed a relationship that mightwell have been omitted. But who can tell what circumstances wentbefore it or what were to follow? For all human beings leave behindthem as they go through life a train of events which are due either toimpulses originating in a previous existence or are the seeds ofevents which are to be perfected in a future one; what we sow, that weshall surely reap. 

Leaving London, such thoughts of something final, at least as far asthis probation was concerned, greatly depressed Denas. "Never more, never more, " was the monotonous refrain that sprang from her soul toher lips. But it is a wise provision of the Merciful One that thepast, in a healthy mind, very soon loses its charm, and the thingsthat are present take the first place. 

"I cannot bring anything back. I do not think I would bring anythingback if I could. I have been very unhappy and restless in the past. Every pleasure I had was tithed by sorrow. Roland loved me, but Ibrought him only disappointment. I loved Roland, and yet all myefforts to make him happy were failures. Roland has been taken fromme. Our child has been taken away from me. Elizabeth I have putaway--death could not sever us more effectually. I am going back to myown people and my own life, and I pray God to give me a contentedheart in it. "

These were the colour of her reflections as the train bore her swiftlyto the fortune of her future years. She had no enthusiasm about them. She thought she knew all the possibilities they kept. She looked forno extraordinary thing, for no special favour to brighten theiruniform occupations and simple pleasures. She had taken the firsttrain she could, without considering the time of its arrival in St. Penfer. She told herself that there would be a certain amount ofgossip about her return, and that it could not be avoided by either apublic or private arrival. Still, she was glad when the sun set andthe shadows of the night were stretched out--glad that the moon wastoo young to give much light, and that it was quite nine o'clock whenthe St. Penfer station was reached. 

A few people were on the platform, but none of them were thinking ofMrs. Tresham, and the woman so simply dressed and veiled in black madeno impression on anyone. She left her trunk in the baggage-room andwent by the familiar road down the cliff-breast. It had been raining, of course, and the ground was heavy and wet; but the sky was clear, and the half-moon made a half-twilight among the bare branches andshed a faint bar of light across the ocean. 

At the last reach she stood still a moment and looked at the clusteredcottages and the boats swaying softly on the incoming tide. A greatpeace was over the place. The very houses seemed to be resting. Therewas fire or candle light in every glimmering square of their windows;but not a man, or a woman, or a child in sight. As she drew near toher father's cottage, she saw that it was very brightly lighted; andthen she remembered that it was Friday night, and that very likely theweekly religious meeting was being held there. That would account forthe diffused quiet of the whole village. 

The thought made her pause. She had no desire to turn her home-cominginto a scene. So she walked softly to the back of the little house andentered the curing shed. There was only a slight door--a door veryseldom tightly closed--between this shed and the cottage room. Sheknew all its arrangements. It was called a curing shed, but in realityit had long been appropriated to domestic purposes. Joan kept her milkand provisions in it, and used it as a kind of kitchen. Every shelfand stool, almost every plate and basin, had its place there, andDenas knew them. She went to the milk pitcher and drank a deepdraught; and then she took a little three-legged stool, and placing itgently by the door, sat down to listen and to wait. 

Her father was talking in that soft, chanting tone used by the fishersof St. Penfer, and the drawling intonations, with the occasional riseof the voice at the end of a sentence, came to the ears of Denas withthe pleasant familiarity of an old song. 

As he ceased speaking some woman began to sing "The Ninety-and-Nine, "and so singing they rose and passed out of the cottage and to theirown homes. One by one the echoes of their voices ceased, until, at thelast verse, only John and Joan were singing. As they finished, Denaslooked into the room. Joan was lifting the big Bible covered withgreen baize. Between this cover and the binding all the letters Denashad sent them were kept, and the fond mother was touching andstraightening them. John, with his pipe in one hand, was lifting theother to the shelf above his head for his tobacco-jar. The last wordsof the hymn were still on their lips. 

Denas opened the door and stood just within the room, looking at them. Both fixed their eyes upon her. They thought they saw a spirit. Theywere speechless. 

"Father! Mother! It is Denas!"

She came forward quickly as she spoke. Joan uttered one piercing cry. John let his pipe fall to pieces on the hearthstone and drew his childwithin his arms. "It be Denas! It be Denas! her own dear self, " hesaid, and he sat down and took her to his breast, and the poor girlsnuggled her head into his big beard, and he kissed away her tears andsoothed her as he had done when she was only a baby. 

And then poor Joan was on the rug at their feet. She was taking thewet stockings and shoes off of her daughter's feet; she was dryingthem gently with her apron, fondling and kissing them as she had beenused to do when her little Denas came in from the boats or the schoolwet-footed. And Denas was stooping to her mother and kissing the happytears off her face, and the conversation was only in those singlewords that are too sweet to mix with other words; until Joan, withthat womanly instinct that never fails in such extremities, began tobring into the excited tone those tender material cares that make lovepossible and life-like. 

"Oh, my darling, " she cried, "your little feet be dripping wet, andyou be hungry, I know, and we will have a cup of tea. And, Denas, there be such a pie in the cupboard. And a bowl of clotted cream, too. It is just like the good God knew my girl was coming home. And Iwonder who put it into my heart to have a mother's welcome for her?And how be your husband, my dear?"

"He is dead, mother. "

"God's peace on him!"

"And the little lad, Denas--my little grandson that be called Johnafter me. "

"He is dead, too, father. "

Then they were speechless, and they kissed her again and mingled theirtears with her tears, and John felt a sudden lonely place where he hadput this poor little grandson whom he was never to see. 

Then Denas began to drink her warm tea and to talk to her parents; butthey said no words but kind words of the dead. They listened to thepitiful taking-away of the young man, and before the majesty of deaththey forgot their anger and their dislike, and left him hopefully tothe mercy of the Merciful. For if John and Joan knew anything, theyknew that none of us shall enter paradise except God cover us with Hismercy. 

And not one word of all her trouble did Denas titter. She spoke onlyof Roland's great love for her; of their trials endured together; ofhis resignation to death; of her own loneliness and suffering sincehis burial; and then, clasping her father's and mother's hands, shesaid:

"So I have come back to you. I have come back to my old life. I shallnever act again. I shall sing no more in this world. That life isover. It was not a happy life. Without Roland it would be beyond mypower to endure it. "

"You be welcome here as the sunshine. Oh, my dear girl, you be lightto my eyes and joy to my heart, and there is no trouble can hurt memuch now. "

Then Joan said: "'Twas this very morning I put clean linen on yourbed, Denas. I swept the room, and then made the pie, and clotted thecream, and I never knew who I did it for. Oh, Denas, what a godsendyou do be! John, my old dear, our life be turned to sunshine now. "

And long after Denas had fallen asleep they sat by their fire andtalked of their child's sorrow, and Joan got up frequently and took acandle and, shading it with her hand, went and looked to see if thegirl was all right. When Denas was a babe in the cradle, Joan had beenused to satisfy her motherly longing in the same way. Her widowedchild was still her baby. 

In the morning John went from cottage to cottage and told his friendsto come and rejoice with him. For really to John "the dead was aliveand the lost was found. " And it was a great wonderment in the village;men nor women could talk of anything else but the return of DenasTresham. Many were really glad to see her; and if some visited thepoor, stricken woman thinking to add a homily to God's smiting, theywere abashed by her evident suffering, by her pallor and her wastedform, and the sombre plainness of her black garments. For some dayslife was thus kept at a tension beyond its natural strain, and Joanand her daughter had no time to recover the every-day atmosphere. Butno excitement outlasts the week's perchances and changes, and afterthe second Sunday all her acquaintances had seen Denas, and curiosityand interest were at their normal standard. 

All her acquaintances but Tris Penrose. Denas wondered that he did notcome to see her, and yet she had a shy dislike to make inquiries abouthim. For the love of Tris Penrose for Denas Penelles had been thevillage romance ever since they were children together, and she fearedthat a word from her about him might set the women to smiling andsympathising and to taking her affairs out of her own hands. 

As the home-life settled to its usual colour and cares, Denas becameconscious of a change in it. She saw that her father went very seldomto sea, that he was depressed and restless, and that her mother, in agreat measure, echoed his moods. And she was obliged to confess thatshe was terribly weary. There was little housework to do, except whatfell naturally to Joan's care, and interference with these dutiesappeared to annoy the methodical old woman. The knitting was farahead, there were no nets to mend; and when Denas had made herself acouple of dresses, there seemed to be no work for her to do. And shewas not specially fond of reading. Culture and study she couldunderstand if their definite end was money; but for the simple loveof information or pleasure books were not attractive to her. 

So in a month she had come to a place in her experience when it was aconsolation to think of that sixteen hundred pounds in London. Shemight yet find it necessary to her happiness; for without some changeshe could not much longer endure the idleness and monotony of herlife. Fortunately the change came. One morning a woman visited thecottage, and the sole burden of her conversation was the lack of aschool in St. Penfer by the Sea to which the fisher-children might goin the morning. 

"Here be my six little uns, " she cried, "and up the cliff they musthurry all, through any wind or weather, or learn nothing. And thenthey be that tired when they do get home again, they be no use at allabout the bait-boxes or the boats. There be sixty school-goingchildren in the village, and I do say there ought to be a school herefor them. "

And suddenly it came into the heart of Denas to open a school. Pay orno pay, she was sure she would enjoy the work, and that afternoon shewent about it. An empty cottage was secured, a fisher-carpenter agreedto make the benches, and at an outlay of two or three pounds sheprovided all that was necessary. The affair made a great stir in thehamlet. She had more applications for admission than the cottage wouldhold, and she selected from these thirty of the youngest of thechildren. 

For the first time in many months Denas was sensible of enthusiasm inher employment. But Joan did not apparently share her hopes or herpleasure. She was silent and depressed and answered Denas with aslight air of injury. 

"They have agreed to pay a penny a week for each child, " Denas said toher mother. 

"Well, Denas, some will pay and some will never pay. "

"To be sure. I know that, mother. But it does not much matter. "

"Aw, then, it do matter, my girl--it do matter, a great deal. " AndJoan began to cry a little and to arrange her crockery with far morenoise than was necessary. 

"Dear mother, what is it? Are you in trouble of any kind?"

"Aw, then, Denas, I be troubled to think you never saw your father'strouble. He be sad and anxious enough, God knows. And no one to say'here, John, ' or 'there, John, ' or give him a helping hand in anyway. "

"Sit down, mother, and tell me all. I have seen that father's ways arechanged and that he seldom goes to the fishing. I hoped the reason wasthat he had no longer any need to go regularly. "

"No need? Aw, my dear, he has no boat!"

"No boat! Mother, what do you mean to tell me?"

"I mean, child, that on the same night the steamer _Lorne_ was wreckedyour father lost his boat and his nets, and barely got to land withhis life--never would have done that but for Tris Penrose, who lostall, too--and both of them at the mercy of the waves when thelife-boat reached them. Aw, my dear, a bad night. And bad times eversince for your father. Now and then he do get a night with Trenager, or Penlow, or Adam Oliver; but they be only making a job for him. Andwhen pilchard time comes, 'tis to St. Ives he must go and hire himselfout--at his age, too. It makes me ugly, Denas. My old dear hiringhimself out after he have sailed his own boat ever since man he was. And then to see you spending pounds and pounds on school-benches andbooks, and talking of it not mattering if you was paid or not paid;and me weighing every penny-piece, and your father counting thepipefuls in his tobacco-jar. Aw, 'tis cruel hard! Cruel! cruel!"

"Now, then, mother, dry your eyes--and there--let me kiss them dry. Listen: Father shall have the finest fishing-boat that sails out ofany Cornish port. Oh, mother, dear! Spend every penny you want tospend, and I will go to the church town this afternoon to buy fathertobacco for a whole year. "

"Let me cry! Let me cry for joy, Denas! Let me cry for joy! You haverolled a stone off my heart. Be you rich, dear?"

"Not rich, mother, but I have sixteen hundred pounds at interest. "

"Sixteen hundred silent pounds, and they might have been busy, happy, working pounds! Aw, Denas, what hours of black care the knowing ofthem might have saved us. But there, then--I had forgotten. The moneybe dance money and theatre money, and your father will not touch apenny of it. I do know he will not. "

"Mother, when I stopped singing--when I left the theatre for ever Ihad not in my purse one half-penny. Roland gave me fifty dollars; thatcame from Elizabeth--that was all I had. When it was gone, Roland wasemployed by Mr. Lanhearne. I told you about him. "

"Yes, dear. How then?"

"Roland's father left him pictures and silver plate and many valuablethings belonging to the Treshams, and when Roland died they were mine. Elizabeth bought them from me. They were worth two thousand pounds;she gave me sixteen hundred pounds. "

"Why didn't you tell father and me? 'Twas cruel thoughtless of you. "

"No, no! I wanted to come back to you as I left you--just Denas--withoutanything but your love to ask favour from. If I had come swellingmyself like a great lady, worth sixteen hundred pounds, how all thepeople would have hated me! What dreadful things they would have said!Father would have had his hands full and his heart full to make thisone and that one keep the insult behind their lips. Oh, 'twould havebeen a broad defiance to evil of every kind. I did think, too, thatfather had some money in St. Merryn's Bank. "

"To be sure. And so he did. But there--your aunt Helen's husband wasdrowned last winter, and nothing laid by to bury him, and father hadit to do; and then there was a mortgage on the cottage, and that wasto lift, or no roof to cover Helen and her children. So with this andthat the one hundred pounds went away to forty pounds. That be forour own burying. There be twenty pounds of yours there. "

"Mine is yours!" Then rising quickly, she struck her hands sharplytogether and cried out: "ONE and ALL! ONE and ALL!"[4]

And Joan answered her promptly, letting the towel fall from her graspto imitate the sharp smiting of the hands as with beaming face sherepeated the heart-stirring cry. 

"ONE and ALL! ONE and ALL! Denas. Aw, my girl, there was a time when Isaid in my anger I was sorry I gave you suck. This day I be right gladof it! You be true blood! Cornish clean through, Denas!"

"Yes, I be true Cornish, mother, and the money I have is honest money. Father can take it without a doubt. But I will see Lawyer Tremaine, and he shall put the sum I got in the St. Penfer _News_, and tell whatI got it for, and none can say I did wrong to take my widow right. "

"I be so happy, Denas! I be so happy! My old dear will have his ownboat! My old dear will have his own boat!"

"Now, mother, neither you nor I can buy a boat. Shall we tell fatherand let him choose for himself?"

Joan knew this was the most prudent plan, but that love of "surprisepleasures" which is a dominant passion in children and uneducatednatures would not let Joan admit at once this solution of thedifficulty. How could she forego the delight of all the privateconsultations; of the bringing home of the boat; of the wonder of thevillagers; of John's happy amazement? She could not bear tocontemplate the prosaic, commonplace method of sending John to buy hisown boat when it was within the power of Denas and herself to be anunseen gracious providence to him. So after a moment's thought shesaid: "There be Tris Penrose. It will be busy all and happy all forhim to be about such a job. "

"I have not seen Tris since I came home. He is the only one who hasnot come to say welcome to me. "

"Aw, then, 'twas only yesterday he got home himself. He has been awaywith Mr. Arundel on his yacht. "

"You never told me. "

"You never asked. I thought, then, you didn't want Tris to be named. "

"But what for shouldn't I name Tris?"

"La! my dear, the love in Tris' heart was a trouble to you. You weresaying that often. "

"But Tris knows about fishing-boats?"

"Who knows more?"

"And what kind of a boat father would like best?"

"None can tell that as well. "

"And Tris is home again?"

"That be true. Ann Trewillow told me, and she be working at the Abbeytwo days in the week. "

"Has Mr. Arundel bought the Abbey?"

"He has done that, and it be made a grand place now. And when Trislost his boat trying to save your father's life and boat, Mr. Arundelwas with the coast-guard and saw him. And he said: 'A fine young man!A fine young man!' So the next thing was, he spoke to Tris and hiredhim to sail his yacht. And 'tis far off, by the way of Giberaltar, they have been--yet home at last, thank God!"

"Tris will be sure to come here, I suppose?"

"Ann Trewillow told him you were home--a widow, and all; he will behere as soon as he can leave the yacht. It is here he comes first ofall as soon as he touches land again. "

"Then we will speak to him about the boat. "

"To be sure. And I do wish he would hurry all and show himself. Newboats be building, but the best may get sold--a day might make adifference. "

"And now, mother, you must try and lift the care from father's heart. Let him know, some way, that money troubles are over and that he maycarry his head up. You can do it--a little word--a little look fromyou--he will understand. "

"Aw, then, Denas, a smile is enough. I can lift my eyelids, and he'llsee the light under them and catch it in his heart. John isn't awoman. Thank God, he can be happy and ask no questions--trusting all. Your father be a good man to trust and hope. "

Then the day, that had seemed to stretch itself out so long andwearily, was all too short for Joan and Denas. They talked about themoney freely and happily, and Denas could now tell her mother all thecircumstances of her visit to Elizabeth. They were full of interest tothe simple woman. She enjoyed hearing about the dress Elizabeth wore;about her house, her anger, her disappointment, and hard reluctance topay money for the treasures she had begun to regard as her own. 

So the morning passed quickly away, and in the afternoon Denas wentinto the village to look after her school-room. It was such a lovelyspring day. The sky was so blue, the sea was so blue, the earth was sogreen and sweet, and the air so fresh and clear that Denas could notbut be glad that she was alive to be cheered by them. Not for a verylong time had she felt so calmly happy, so hopeful of the future, soresigned to the past. 

After her business in the village was over she walked toward thecliff. She had some idea that it would be pleasant to go up to thechurch town, but just where the trees and underwood came near to theshingle a little bird singing on a May-thorn beguiled her to listen. Then the songster went on and on, as if it called her, and Denasfollowed its music; until, by and by, she came to where the shinglewas but a narrow strip, and the verdure retreated, and the rocks grewlarger and higher; and, anon, she was at the promontory between St. Penfer and St. Clair. 

It would now be impossible to go up the cliff and back again beforetea-time, and she sat down to rest a little before returning home. Shesat longer than she intended, for the dreamy, monotonous murmur of thewaves and the stillness and solitude predisposed her to that kind ofdrifting thought which keeps assuring time: "I am going directly. "

She was effectually roused at last by the sound of a clear, strongvoice whistling a charming melody. She sat quite still. A convictionthat it was Tris Penrose came into her heart. She wondered if he wouldnotice--know--speak to her. Tris saw her figure as quickly as it camewithin his vision, and as quickly as he saw it he knew who waspresent. He ceased whistling and cried out cheerily:

"Denas? What, Denas?"

She stood up then and held out her hands to him. And she was startledbeyond measure by the Tris that met her gaze. Naturally a veryhandsome man, his beauty was made most attractive by a sailor suit ofblue broadcloth. His throat was open to the sea breeze, a bluekerchief tied around it in a sailor's knot. And then her eyes wanderedto his sun-browned face, close-curling black hair, and the littleblue, gold-trimmed cap set upon the curls. The whole filled her with apleasant wonder. She made a little time over his splendour, and askedif he was going to the pilchard fishing in such finery. And he tookall her hurried, laughing, fluttering remarks with the greatestgood-humour. He said, indeed, that he had been told she was homeagain, and that he wore the dress because he was coming to see her. 

Then they sat down, and she told Tris what she desired to do for herfather, and Tris entered into the project as enthusiastically as if hewas a child. Never before had Tris felt so heart-satisfied. It wassuch a joy to have Denas beside him; such a joy to know that she wasfree again; such a joy to share a secret with her. And gradually theeffusiveness of their first meeting toned itself down to quiet, restful confidence, and then they rose together and began to walkslowly toward the cottage. For of course Joan was to be consulted, andbesides, Tris had a present for her in his pocket. 

The westering sun sent level rays of sunshine before them, and theytried involuntarily to step in it as they used to do when they werechildren. Tris could not help a smile as they did so, and then one ofthose closely personal conversations began whose initial point isalways: "And do you remember?" Tris remembered everything, andespecially one Saturday when they ran away together to a little fairycove and made boats all day long. Yes, every movement of that happyday was in Tris' heart, and he told Denas that the same pebbly shorewas still there, and that often he fancied he heard on it the beat oftheir little pattering, naked feet, and wished that they could havebeen children upon the shore for ever, and ever, and evermore. 

"I do not think that would have been nice at all, Tris, " answeredDenas. "It is better to be grown up. You were only good to play withthen. I could not have asked you to go and buy a boat for father, could I?"

And Tris looked at her sweet, pale face, and noting how the pinkcolour rushed into her cheeks to answer his looks, thought how rightshe was, and that it was much better to have Denas a woman to be lovedthan a child to be played with. 

And somehow, after this, they had no more words to say, and Triswalked at her side under his old embarrassment of silence. Nor couldDenas talk. If she tried to do so, then she raised her eyes, and thenTris' eyes looking into hers seemed to reproach her for the words shedid not say. And if she kept her eyes on the shingle, she still feltTris to be looking at her, questioning her, loving her just as he usedto do--and she could not bear it--never! never! At the firstopportunity she must make Tris understand that they could only befriends--friends only--and nothing, positively nothing more. 

FOOTNOTE:

 [4] The effect of this Cornish sentiment upon the Cornish heart is mighty, as it is past reasoning about. A Cornish friend of mine was in a silver mine among the Andes, and looking at the big, bearded men around, he suddenly called out "ONE and ALL!" In an instant four of the men had dropped their tools and were holding his hands in as brotherly fashion as if the tie of blood was between them. It is, indeed, one of those shibboleths of race which move the soul to its most ancient depths. The malign influences which destroy even the domestic affections touch not the deeper sense of race. Age only increases its intensity, and being a purely unselfish love, we may believe that it survives death and claims the heritage of eternity. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE "DARLING DENAS. "

 ". .. Good the more Communicated, the more abundant grows. " --MILTON. 

 "So the boat was built. Aw, they wouldn't be hoult; And every trennel and every boult The best of stuff. Aw, didn' considher The 'spense nor nothin'--not a fig! And three lugs at her--that was the rig-- And raked a bit, three reg'lar scutchers, And carried her canvas like a ducherss. Chut! the trim is in the boat. Ballast away! but the trim's in the float-- In the very make of her! That's the trimming!" --T. E. BROWN. 

Money in the bank is all the comfort to the material life that a goodconscience is to the moral life. Joan was restored to her best self bythe confidence her child had given her, and John entering his cottagein the midst of a happy discussion between Denas, Tris, and his wife, felt as if the weight of twenty years suddenly dropped away from him. He thought it was Tris who brought the sunshine, and he rejoiced init, and induced the young man to tell them about the yacht's trip andthe old cities on the Mediterranean which he had visited. 

Everyone sees strange places with their own mental and spiritualsight, and Tris had seen Genoa and Venice and Rome and Corinth fromthe standpoint of a Cornish Methodist fisherman. But apart from thispartiality he had made sensible observations of the strange ways ofbuilding and living, and had come to the conviction that Cornishpeople held the great secret of a happy life. As for the Mediterraneanitself, Tris considered it "a jade of a sea, nohow worth the praise itgot. "

"You may read the Cornish seas like a book, John, " he said, "but thisMediterranean be this way--you have to watch it every minute. Turnyour back on it for a bite or a sup, and it will get the better of yousome way, and, most likely of all, with one of its dirty whitesqualls. Then I tell you, John, it is all hands to reef! Quick! and ifa single breadth of canvas be showing, it is a rip and a roar and thedeath of the yacht and of every man in her. "

"And what of the yacht herself, Tris? Be she good-tempered andgood-mannered?"

"She do behave herself beautiful. The seas may fly over hercross-trees, but if you make her trig she comes to her bearings like ashot to its mark; shakes herself as if she was ready for a race, andthen away she do go--just like a sea-gull for a fish. "

So they talked the evening away, and Denas listened and watched thehandsome yachtsman, kindling and laughing to the tales he told. Andwhen he went away she felt, as others did, the sudden fall in themental temperature and the chill and silence that follow any unnaturalexcitement. But Denas, as well as John and Joan, were too simple forsuch considerations. They only felt the change, and were sure that itwas Tris who brought the sunshine, and so, when he went, took it awaywith him. 

But after this night there was a different atmosphere in JohnPenelles' cottage. John's unhappiness had been mainly caused by thesight of his wife's anxiety and sorrow; and if Joan was her old self, John was not the man to let the loss of his boat and his position makehim miserable. For in this little cottage the wife held the samemighty power that the wife holds in all finer homes--the power toeither make her husband weak and sorrowful or to strengthen his heartfor anything. When Joan smiled, then John could not only enjoy thepresent, but he could also bravely face the future. For when a man cantrust in his wife, then he can hope in his God and all things arepossible to him. 

Denas also caught the trick of hoping and of being happy. She openedher school with thirty scholars and found out her vocation. No onecould doubt the voice which had called her to this work; she went toit as naturally as a bird goes to build its nest. She loved thechildren and they loved her. At the end of the first week she foundherself compelled to make her number forty. The sweet authoritypleased her. The children's affection won her. Her natural power toimpart what knowledge she had gave her the sense of a benefaction. Such loving allegiance! Such bigoted little adherents! Such blinddisciples as Denas had! In a couple of weeks she was the idol ofevery child in St. Penfer by the Sea, and as mothers see throughtheir children, she was equally popular with the children of largergrowth. 

One very singular incident of this popularity was the fact that everychild, without special intent, without the slightest thought ofoffence, called their beloved teacher Denas Penelles. For a time shecorrected the mistake, but the name Tresham was strange andunfamiliar. They looked at her with wide-open eyes and then went backto the old word. Denas perceived that they heard her called Penellesin their homes, and that it was useless to take offence where none wasintended. Yet the inferred wrong to her dead husband wounded her andrekindled in her heart the fire of old affection. 

"They want me to forget his very name, " she thought angrily, and thenatural result was a determination to nurse with greater fondness thememory which time and circumstances were daily doing their best toefface. 

In the mean time all had been going on satisfactorily about the newfishing-smack. Tris had taken Mr. Arundel into his confidence. Hewished to have his permission to make a careful selection and toattend to all matters connected with its proper transfer. And thoughthat gentleman's own feelings did not lie upon the surface of hisnature or explain themselves in childlike secrets and surprises, hecould understand and almost envy the wealth of emotions and illusionsthat demanded such primitive expressions. 

So he permitted Tris to absent himself frequently for such a laudablepurpose. Indeed, Mr. Arundel had seen the death of John's boat, andthis point of interest enabled him to feel something of the pleasureand importance which centred around the boat now building to take itsplace. For Tris had found in a yard ten miles north just the very kindof smack John had always longed for--a boat not built by mathematicalmeasurements, but a wonderful, weatherly, flattish smack; that with ajump would burst through a sea any size you like, and keep right sideup when the waves were fit to make a mouthful of her. 

She was building for the pilchard season and was to be ready for themiddle of June. And at length she was finished and waiting to bebrought to her own harbour. If she had been a living, loving humancreature, her advent could not have been more eagerly longed for. Yetthere had been a short period of coolness between Tris and Denas, forTris in some moment of enthusiasm had gone beyond the line Denas hadmarked out for him. And then she had been cold and silent and Tris hadbeen miserable. Joan, also, had taken the young man rather scornfullyto task. 

"Tris, " she said, "you be as knowing about a woman as Peter Mulletwas, and he was hanged for a fool. Be you looking to sow and reap inthe same month?"

"Not as I know by, but--but----"

"But you be so blind in love you could not see a hole in a ladder ortell the signs on a woman's face. Denas be 'fraid of her own self. Lether be. Let her be. If you do say a word now about your love she willrun back and hide herself in an old love--that be a woman's way. See, now! As the old love quails the new love will fetch up--but time givenfor quailing, Tris, for all that. Denas had a sight of trouble, Tris;she may well be feared to try matrimony again. "

"I would try and make her happy. I would be a good husband. "

"Husbands! husbands! Tris, they be like pilchards--the bad ones arevery bad and the best ones be but middling. "

Then the loving fellow said with a big sigh that he would wait--buttired of waiting and going away again, and back only when God and Mr. Arundel said so. 

"Aw, then, " answered Joan, "a good thing. Women have to miss a manbefore they know they love him. Give Denas time to miss you, Tris, andwhen the boat is home be a bit careless like. If she do wonder andworry a little--a good thing for her. Women they be made up ofcontraries, but sweet as blossoms and as good as gold for all that, Tris. "

On the twenty-fourth all was ready to bring home the boat. The boathad been sold to Denas Tresham, the money paid, and the deed oftransfer to John Penelles ready made out. There had also been prepareda paper for the St. Penfer _News_, which was to appear that day, andwhich Lawyer Tremaine said would supply a ten-days' holiday gossip forthe citizens. And no day specially made for so happy an event couldhave been lovelier. The sea was dimpling all over in the sunshine;there was just the right wind, and just enough of it, to let Trisreach harbour in the afternoon. John wondered at the air of excitementin his cottage. Joan was singing, Denas had her best dress on, andboth had been busy making clotted cream, and junket, and pies of allkinds. 

In fact, John was a little depressed by this extravagance of lighthearts. He did not think the money Denas got from her school warrantedit, and he was heart-sick with the terrible fear that the busy seasonwas at hand and that he had found nothing to do. Adam Oliver's twonephews from Cardiff had come to help him, and that shut one place;and neither Trenager nor Penlow had said a word to him, and his braveold soul sank within him. 

"And what be in the wind with you women I know nothing of, " he saidfretfully, "but you do have some unlikely old ways. "

"What way be the wind, John, dear?"

"A little nor'ard, what there be of it--only a capful, though. "

"Aw, then, John, look to the nor'ard, for good luck do come the waythe wind blows. "

"Good luck do come the way God sends it, Joan. "

"And many a time and oft it do be coming and us not thinking of it. "

John nodded gravely. There was little hope in his heart, but he wentas usual to the pier and stood there watching the boats. Most of themwere now ready for the fishing. When the men on the lookout saw theshadow of a dark cloud coming on and on over the sea, when they wavedthe signal-bush right and left over their heads and sweeping theirfeet, then they would out of harbour and shoot the seine. John wasvery anxious. His lips were moving, though he was silent. His body wasmindful of the situation, his soul was praying. 

"That be a strange boat, " said Penlow after a long gossip; "wellmanaged, though. The man at her wheel, whoever he be, knows the set ofthe tide round here as well as he knows his cabin. I wonder what boatthat be?"

John had no heart to echo the wonder. Another strange boat, doubtless, bringing more fishers. He said it was getting tea-time, he would goalong. He knew that if the fish were found and there was a seat in aboat it would be offered him. He would not give his mates the pain ofrefusing or of apologising. The next day he would go to St. Ives. 

When he reached his cottage he saw Joan and Denas on the door-stepwatching the coming boat. Their smiles and interest hurt him. Hewalked to the hearth and began to fill his pipe. Then Denas, with alarge paper in her hand, came to his side. She slipped on to hisknee--she laid her cheek against his cheek--she said softly, and oh, so lovingly:

"Father! father! The boat coming--did you see her?"

"To be sure, Denas. I saw her, my dear. "

"She is your boat, father--yours from masthead to keel! All yours!"

He looked at her a moment and then said:

"Speak them words again, Denas. "

She spoke them again, smiling with frank delight and love into hisface. 

"Thank God! Now tell me about it! Joan, my old dear, come and tell meabout it. "

Then they sat down together and told him all, and showed him the St. Penfer _News_ containing Lawyer Tremaine's statement regarding theproperty which had come of right to Denas. And John listened until theburden he had been carrying rolled quite away from his heart, and witha great sigh he stood up and said loudly, over and over again, "ThankGod! Thank God! Thank God!" Then, as if a sudden hurry pressed him, hecried--"Come, Joan! Come, Denas! Let us go to the pier and welcome herhome. "

She was just tacking to reach harbour when they mingled with the crowdof men and women already there. And Ann Trewillow was calling out:"Why, it is Tris Penrose at her wheel!" Then as she came closer a manshouted: "It be the _Darling Denas_. It must be John Penelles' boat. To be sure it be John's boat!" This opinion was reached by an instantconviction, and every face was turned to John. 

"It be my boat, mates. Thank God and my little girl. It be my boat, thank God!"

And then Tris was at the slip, and the anchor down and all the menwere as eager about the new craft as a group of horsemen couldpossibly be about the points of some famous winner. Tris had to tellevery particular about her builder and her building, and as thefishers were talking excitedly of these things, Joan gave a generalinvitation to her friends, and they followed her to the cottage, andheard the St. Penfer _News_ read, and had a plate of junket[5] and ofclotted cream. 

And they were really proud and glad of what they heard. Denas had madeherself so beloved that no one had a grudging or, envious feeling. Everyone considered how she had come back to them as if she had beenpenniless; "and teaching our little ones too--with sixteen hundredpounds at her back! Wonderful! Wonderful!" said first one and thenanother of the women. Indeed, if Denas had thought out a plan to makeherself honoured and popular, she could hardly have conceived of onemore in unison with the simple souls she had to influence. They couldnot sleep for talking about it. Denas Penelles was a veritable romanceto them. 

"And fair she was and fair she be!" said Mary Oliver, a good woman, with not a pinch of pride in her make-up. "And if Tris Penrose win herand she win him, a proper wedding it will be--a wedding made by theirguardian angel. I do think that. " And the group of women presentanswered one and then another, "A proper wedding it will be, to besure. "

In the evening there was a great praise-meeting at John's cottage; forin St. Penfer all rejoicing and all sorrow ended in a religiousmeeting. And Denas and Tris sang out of the same hymn-book, and satside by side as they listened to John's quaintly eloquent tribute tothe God "who did always keep faith with His children. " "I was like tolose sight of my God, " he cried, "but my God never did lose sight ofme. God's children be well off, He goes so neighbourly with them. Heis their pilot and their home-bringer. I did weep to myself all lastnight; but just as His promise says, joy did come in the morning. " Andthen John burst into song, and all his mates and neighbours with him. 

And it is in such holy, exalted atmospheres that love reaches itssweetest, fairest strength and bloom. Tris had no need of words. Wordswould have blundered, and hampered, and darkened all he had to say. One look at Denas as they closed the book together--one look as heheld her hand on the door-step, and she knew more than words couldever have said. She saw through his eyes to the bottom of his clear, honest soul, and she knew that he loved her as men love who find inone woman only the song of life, the master-key of all their being. 

She expected Tris would come and see her the next day, but AnnTrewillow brought word that he had sailed with Mr. Arundel. Tris hadbeen expecting the order, and the yacht had only been waiting forguests who had suddenly arrived. Denas was rather pleased. She was notyet ready to admit a new love. She felt that in either refusing oraccepting Tris' affection she would be doing both herself and Tris aninjustice. A love that does not spring into existence perfect needscautious tending; too much sunshine, too much care, too constantwatching will slay it. There must be time given for it to grow. 

Without reasoning on the matter, Denas felt that absence would be agood thing. She was afraid of being driven by emotion or bycircumstances into a mistaken position. And she had now an absorbinginterest in her life. Her school was a delight. No consideration ofmoney qualified her pleasure in her pupils. She was eager to teach allshe knew. She was eager to learn, that she might teach more. As theweeks went by her school got a local fame; it was considered a greatprivilege to obtain a place in it. 

Good fortune seemed to have come to St. Penfer by the Sea whenDenas came back to it. Never had there been a more abundantsea-harvest than that summer. The _Darling Denas_ brought luck tothe whole fleet. She was a swift sailer, always first on thefishing-ground and always first in harbour again; and it was a greatpleasure to Denas to watch her namesake leading out and leading homethe brown-sailed bread-winners of the hamlet. When the time and thetide and the weather all served, Denas might now often be seen, withher mother and the rest of the fishermen's wives, standing on thewind-blown pier watching the boats out in the evening. 

There had been a time when she had positively declined the lovingceremony--when she had hated the thought of any community in suchfeelings--when the large brown faces of the wives and mothers and thesad patience of their attitude had seemed to her only the visiblesigns of a poor and sorrowful life. And even yet, as she stood amongthem she was haunted by a rhyme she had read in some picture paperyears ago--a rhyme that so pathetically glanced at love that dweltbetween life and death that she never could see a group of fishermen'swives on the pier watching the boats outside without saying it toherself:

 "They gazed on the boats from the pier, ah, me! Till their sails swelled in the wind, Till darkness dropped down over the sea And their eyes with tears were blind. Then home they turned, and they never spoke, These daughters and wives of the fisher-folk. "

But years and experience had taught her the falsehood of extremes; sheknew now that life has many intermediate colours between lamp-blackand rose-pink, and that if the fisherman's wife had hours of anxiouswatching, she had also many hours of such rapturous love as comessparingly to others--love that is the portion of those who come backfrom the very grave with the shadow of death on their face. 

In the autumn Tris returned for a few days, but he was so busy that hecould not leave the yacht. She was being provisioned and put in orderfor the long Mediterranean winter voyage, and Tris was in constantdemand. But John and Joan and Denas walked over to St. Clair to bidhim good-bye. And never had Tris looked so handsome and so manly. Hisair of authority became him. In a fishing-boat men are equal, but onthis lordly pleasure-boat it was very different. Tris said to one mango and to another come, and they obeyed him with deference andalacrity. This masterful condition impressed Denas greatly. Shethought of Tris with a respect which promised far more than mereadmiration for his beauty or his picturesque dress. 

After Tris was gone the winter came rapidly, but Denas did not dreadit. Neither did John nor Joan. John looked upon his boat as averitable godsend. What danger could come to him on a craft soblessed? All her takes were large and fortunate. The other boatsthought it lucky to sail in her wake. On whatever side the _DarlingDenas_ cast her bait, they knew it was right to cast on that sidealso. 

Joan was happy in her husband's happiness; she was happy in herunstinted housekeeping; she was now particularly happy in Denas'school. The little lads and lasses brought all their news, all theirjoys and sorrows to Denas; and when Denas went home every day, Joan, with her knitting in her hands, was waiting to give her a dainty mealand to chat with her over all she had heard and all she had done. 

And Denas was happy. When she mentally contrasted this busy, lovingwinter with the sorrows of the previous one, with the hunger and coldand poverty, the anguish of death and the loneliness, she could notbut be grateful for the little home-harbour which her storm-tossedheart had found again. If she had a regret, it was that she could notretain her hold upon her finished life. Every time she asked her heartafter Roland, memory gave her pictures in fainter and fainter andfainter colours. Roland was drifting farther and farther away. 

She could no longer weep at his name. A gentle melancholy, ahalf-sacred remoteness invested the years in which he had been thelight of her life. For

 "When the lamp is shattered, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is fled. "

Mercifully, youth has this marvellous elasticity. And the childrenfilled all the vacant places in her life. For as yet she did not thinkmuch nor at all decidedly about Tris. If Roland was slipping away frommemory, Tris by no means filled her heart. Yet she was pleased whenAnn Trewillow's little maid Gillian told her one morning:

"Master Arundel's yacht be come into harbour safe and sound, andCaptain Tris, he be brave and hearty, and busy all to get ashoreagain. And my mother do say Mr. Arundel he be going to marry a finelady, and great doings at the Abbey, no doubt. And mother do say, too, that Captain Tris will be marrying you. And I was a brave bitfrightened at that news, and I up and answered mother: 'It bean't so. Miss Denas likes better teaching us boys and girls. ' I said that, andwishing it so with all my heart. "

And Denas, seeing that the boys and girls were looking anxiously ather for an assurance of this position, said positively:

"I am happier with you, children, than I could be with anyone else, and I do not intend to marry at all. "

"Never? Say never!"

"Well, then--never. "

Yet there was a faint longing in her heart for love all her own. A mancan love what others love, but a woman wants something or someone tolove that is all her own. And she was interested enough in Tris'return to dress with more than usual care that evening. She felt surehe would come, and she put on her best black gown and did not brushthe ripples out of her front hair, but let the tiny tendrils softenthe austere gravity of her face and make that slight shadow behind theears which is so womanly and becoming. 

About seven o'clock she heard his footsteps on the shingle and the gaywhistle to which they timed themselves. Joan went to the door towelcome him. Denas stood up as he entered, and then, meeting hisardent gaze, trembled and flushed and sat down again. He sat downbeside her. He told her how much already he had heard of her graciouswork in the village. He said it was worth going to France and Italyand Greece, only to come back and see how much more lovely than allother women the Cornish women were. And by and by he took from hispocket the most exquisite kerchief of Maltese lace and a finely-carvedset of corals. Denas would have been less than a woman had she notbeen charmed with the beautiful objects. She let Tris knot the lovelysilky lace around her throat, and she went to her mirror and put thecarved coral comb among her fair, abundant tresses, and the rings inher ears, and the necklace and the locket round her white slenderthroat. 

Then Tris looked at her as if he had met a goddess in a wilderness;and Joan, with her hands against her sides, congratulated and praisedherself for having given to St. Penfer by the Sea a daughter so lovelyand so good. 

FOOTNOTE:

 [5] Junket is made of fresh milk, spirits, spices, sugar; curdled with rennet and eaten with clotted cream. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

DENAS. 

 "She that is loved is safe; and he that is loved is joyful. " --BISHOP TAYLOR. 

 "No pearls, no gold, no stones, no corn, no spice, No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price; Divine is Love, and scorneth worldly pelf, And can be bought with nothing but itself. " --HEYWOOD. 

 "To-morrow, Love, as to-day, Two blent hearts never astray; Two souls no power may sever; Together, O Love, for ever!" --ROSSETTI. 

During the summer which followed, Tris was much at home. Mr. Arundeldid not go to Norway; he was in London with the lady whom he intendedto marry, until the end of the season, and afterward frequently at hercountry home in Devonshire. Tris had then his opportunity and he didnot neglect it. But he was an impulsive young man, and very often lostthe ground on Monday that he had gained on Sunday. All of love'sfitful fevers and chills tormented him, and then he tormented Denas. He was jealous of every moment of her time, of every kind word andlook she bestowed on others. The school offended, the childrenirritated his conception of his own rights. He was as thoroughlyunreasonable and Denas as thoroughly contradictory as was necessaryfor the most tantalising of love affairs. 

About the beginning of the summer, just before the pilchard season, Jacob Trenager died. He was a Pentrath man, and of course "went home"for his burying. It did not seem an event likely to affect the livesof Tris and Denas, and yet it did have a very pleasant influence upontheir future. In some far-back generation a Trenager had saved thelife of an Arundel, and ever since, when any adult of one family wasburied an adult of the other threw the first earth upon the coffin, intoken of their remembrance and of their friendship. Mr. Arundel wasaware of the tradition, and he desired to perpetuate it. He was, perhaps, actuated by some religious respect for the customs andfeelings of his ancestors; he was, undoubtedly, considerate of thefact that he had just bought a valuable estate in the midst of theseold clannish fisher-folk, and well aware that such a triflingconcession to their prejudices might in a future Parliamentarystruggle be of preponderating value to him. 

So, in accord with his expressed desire, Trenager's funeral wasobserved with all the ancient ceremonies. His mates from the numerousvillages around carried him all the way on his bier to Pentrath;carried him by the sea-shore, singing hymns as they went. A greatcrowd of men and women were in the procession, and the old church atPentrath was full to overflowing. Jacob's forefathers for centuriesback lay in Pentrath church-yard, and there were old people living inthe town who remembered Jacob casting the first earth on the presentMr. Arundel's father's coffin, and who wondered whether the son woulddo the same kindness for the fisherman. 

The day after Jacob's death it was noticed in St. Penfer that astrange gentleman called upon Denas, and that Denas went up thecliff-breast with him and remained in the church town for the greaterpart of the day. And for the next two days the same thing occurred. Probably John and Joan knew the meaning of these visits, but theysaid nothing in response to the numerous "I wonders" of theiracquaintances. However, on the day of the funeral the secret wasmade evident. The strange gentleman was the organist of Pentrathchurch, and his visit to Denas was made to induce her to sing aportion of the funeral service; and St. Penfer being nearer thanPentrath, they had gone to St. Penfer church to practise. 

Nothing, however, was said of the intention, because Denas had notfelt sure that at the last moment she would be able to fulfil herpromise. But in the preliminary practice she quite recovered herself-possession, and the long rest had given to her voice a maturityof sweetness and power that made it a delight to exercise it. Shethought with a pleasant pride of the solemn joy she was going to give;nor was she oblivious of the fact that her father and mother and Triswould have an opportunity to listen to her singing music worthy of thenoblest voice to interpret. 

It was a warm, sunshiny day. The church windows were all open, and therustle of the trees in the church-yard, the hum of the bees, the songsof the birds, the murmur of the town beyond, came through them. Mr. Arundel stood at the foot of the coffin, Jacob's family at the head;the crowd of fishers filled the old pews and aisles to overflowing. Suddenly there was a burst of triumphant melody. It filled the churchand lifted the souls of all present up, and up, far beyond, and far

 "Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth. "

 "_I know that my Redeemer liveth!_"

Higher and higher the clear, strong voice rang out the joyfulassurance, till every heart swelled to rapture and every eye was wetwith holy tears. 

 "_I know that my Redeemer liveth!_"

And as Denas sang the blessed affirmation, the organ pealed out itsnoble symphony, and men and women lifted wet faces heavenward, untilto the last majestic confident strain--

 "_Yet in my flesh shall I see God_"--

the coffin was lifted and the mourners and the singer followed it tothe open grave. 

Never before had Denas had such joy in God's pleasant gift of amelodious voice. To look at her father's and mother's faces was ahappiness sufficient. The adoration of Tris, the delight and gratitudeof her friends, the conviction that she had lifted for a few momentsmortal men above their mortality and made them realise that theyshould "yet see God, " was in itself a recompense beyond anything shehad ever dreamed of. Nor could she put aside the comparisons thatnaturally came from this effort of her power. To sing holily andloftily, to sing in--

 ". .. Strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death"--

How dear to heaven and earth such saintly melody! How different fromthe--

 "Midnight song and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity"

that had once appeared an elysium of musical ravishment to her. 

Tris walked home with Denas, and this evening they came very close toeach other. And then, at the close of it, Tris unfortunately said somewords which showed how bitterly he regarded the years that had beenstolen from him by Roland Tresham. And Denas resented the anger shownto this paling, dying shade of her memory, and the next day Tris wentaway with Mr. Arundel and did not return for full five weeks. 

But Mr. Arundel had been so much interested in the singer as to askfrom Tris all that he could tell him of the life of Denas. And Tris, like all lovers, was only too glad to talk of the girl he adored; soas they sat together at midnight on the lonely sea, with the fullmoon above them, they grew very confidential. Tris told all the storyof his love, and Mr. Arundel told Tris about the beauty andaccomplishments of the woman he was going to marry; and there was, inthis way, a kind of intimacy established which resulted in afinancial proposition making the question of marriage a very easy andhappy one to Captain Tristram Penrose, of the yacht _Spindrift_. 

That five weeks of lonely heartache taught Denas that Tris had becomea very dear portion of her life, and when he returned he found it moreeasy than he had dared hope to induce her to bury for ever the strangeyears which a strange love had somehow slipped into her sheaf of life. And she promised Tris to let them fall from out her grasp, all thevain regrets, the vain hopes, the vain love which were garnered inthem. 

Then Tris told her that he had signed a contract with Mr. Arundel forfive years, and that a portion of this contract was the use of thestone cottage on the hill beyond the Abbey--the pretty home coveredwith clematis and jasmine vines and surrounded by a lovely garden. Hesaid if Denas would share it with him he would make it as beautifulwithin as it was without, and that he would love her more and morefondly to the last moment of his life. He spoke with all the simplepassion of his nature and circumstances; but his heart was hot behindhis words, and Denas gave herself freely to their persuasion. 

They were sitting on the rocks by the sea-side as she did so; thewaves were breaking at their feet; the boats were lying on thehorizon; the village was as quiet as a painted village. She gave herheart and hand to Tris there; she suffered him at last to take her tohis heart and kiss her; she intoxicated him with rapture by shylykissing him in return. Then they went back to the village together. Joan was asleep in her chair. John was away with the boats. They bothkissed Joan and Tris called her "mother. " And Joan said she had justbeen dreaming of such a joy, and she blessed them and then went to thedoor and looked toward the _Darling Denas_. If she could only see herold dear upon the deck, she thought she could send a thought, athanksgiving, that would somehow, some way, reach him. 

In a few days after this happy understanding, Mr. Arundel hadapparently an equally joyful surprise. Something happened, and thedays of his waiting were over, and he was to be married immediately. Then it was, in Cornish phrase, "busy all" to get the yacht overhauledand well victualled. For the young couple were going to spend thewinter on the Mediterranean coasts, and Tris was as much interested inthe preparations as was possible to be, even though the unexpectedchange disarranged and postponed his own plans. 

For there had absolutely been in Tris' mind a resolution to marryDenas before he went on the winter's cruise. Of course, in making thisresolution he had never taken into account the contrary plans of Denasand Joan, neither of whom was disposed to make any haste about themarriage. 

"Love do soon die if there be no house for him to live in, " said Joan;"and I do feel to think that the furnishing of the house be the firstthing. And that not to be done in a week or a month, either. Ham-samwork have no blessing or happiness with it. To be sure not. Why wouldit?"

Denas held the same opinions, so Tris went away and left thefurnishing of the house to Denas and Joan. They would have all thewinter to prepare the napery and crockery and consult about carpetsand furniture. For now that he was to become a married man and ahouseholder, Tris was quite inclined to take all the domestic andsocial consideration his position gave him. Mr. Arundel, in placingsuch a pretty home at the service of his captain, required by the verygift a suitable acceptance of it. 

And no one but a mother can tell with what delightful pride Joanentered into this duty. She had never bought carpets and stuffedfurniture before. The china tea-service would not let her sleep forthree nights, she was so divided between the gold and white and thepink and gold. All the little niceties of the dining-room and thesitting-room--the American kitchen utensils which to Joan seemedmarvellous and beautiful, the snowy curtains at every window, thewhite-handled knives and the plated silver--all these things held joysand surprises and never-ending interest to the happy mother. 

Between these duties and her school, the long winter months passedhappily away to Denas. The school, indeed, troubled her in a certainway. Who was to keep it together? John also had formed it into aSunday-school and was greatly delighted with the work. But a reallygood work never falls through; there is always someone to carry it on, and one day Denas was visited among her pupils by the Wesleyanpreacher from St. Penfer. He was astonished at her methods and hersuccess, and he represented the claims of such a school with so muchforce to the next district meeting that they gladly appointed ateacher to fill the place of Denas. It cost her a little pang toresign her authority; but her marriage was drawing near, and it wouldnecessarily be followed by her removal to St. Clair, and it wasimportant that the children should be provided for. 

About the end of March she had a letter from Tris. The yacht was thenat Gibraltar on its return passage, and Tris might be looked forwithin a few days. But the house was nearly ready and all her personalpreparations were made. Such as pertained to the ceremony and theirfuture life they would make together when Tris returned home. Neverhad father, and mother, and daughter, been so happy and so closelyone. Joan had grown young again. John sang from morning to night. Denas had the loveliness of love transfiguring the loveliness of merephysical beauty. It was busy all and happy all within the Penelles'cottage during those days of expectation. 

One morning Joan was going through the whole house before the grandfinal preparations, and for some reason she opened a closet usuallylittle regarded--a closet full of those odds and ends families do notlike to destroy. The first thing she lifted was that picture of Denasas "Mademoiselle Denasia in Pinafore. " It had been her pride andcomfort in sorrowful days now overpast, and she laid it upon the tableand stood looking at it. Denas entered the room while this act oftender reminiscence was going on. She did not at first perceive orunderstand the object of it. But when she reached her mother's sideand saw the yellow, faded presentment, her face flushed crimson, andwith flashing eyes she covered the picture with her hands. 

"Why did you keep it? Oh, mother, how could you!"

"Aw, then, Denas, 'twas my only comfort many a day and many a time. Don't take it away--Denas! Denas!"

"I will not have it in the house--'tis a shame to me; it breaks myheart; how could you, mother?" and she drew the paper away, andwalking to the fire, threw it upon the coals. It burned slowly, browning gradually from the dancing feet to the tips of the fingersmeeting above the head. 

With a white, sad face she watched it burn to a brown film that theupward draught of the chimney carried out of her sight. Joan alsowatched the immolation, and she was a little angry at it. That pictureof Mademoiselle Denasia was one of Joan's secret idols. No one likesto watch the destruction of their idols, and Joan was hardly pacifiedby the kisses and loving words with which Denas extenuated her act. For an hour or two she had an air of injury. She had been in the habitof showing this picture with an air of serious secrecy and with manysighs to any new acquaintance or strange visitor, and its destructionreally put a stop to this clandestine bit of egotism; for who wouldbelieve such an improbable story without the pictured Denasia to proveit?

Denas regarded the incident as a happy omen. As she watched thepicture turn to cinder, she buried fathoms deep below the tide of herpresent life all the restless, profitless, half-regretful memories itrepresented. A word or two said by the preacher the day he visited herschool had clung to her consciousness as a burr clings to wool. Theywere speaking of the education necessary for the class of childrengathered there, and Denas, after naming the studies pursued, said:"They are sufficient for the life before them;" then, with aninvoluntary sigh, she added, "It is a very narrow life. "

And perhaps the minister had heard something of her story, for heanswered gravely: "God knows just where He wants every soul. That isthe life, that is the school, for that soul, and no life is toonarrow. The humblest will afford

 "'The common round, the trivial task Which furnish all we ought to ask-- Room to deny ourselves. '

Mrs. Tresham, that is the grand lesson we are sent here to learn;self-denial, as against self-pleasing and self-assertion. "

Denas only said, "Yes, sir;" but she took the words into her heartand found herself repeating them a hundred times a day. 

Tris came home just before Easter. The spring was in his heart, thespring was in his life and love. The winds, the young trees, thepeeping crocus-buds, were part and parcel of Denas and of his hopes inher. What charming walks they took to their home! What suggestions andimprovements and alterations they made! No two young thrushes, building their first nest, could have been more interested and moreimportant. Mr. And Mrs. Arundel had remained in town for the Easterholidays, and Tris was very nearly lord of all his time. He ratherthought Mr. Arundel had purposely left him so at this happy epoch, andthe idea gave him the more pleasure in his light duties. 

There was a great deal of good-natured discussion about the properdate for this wonderful wedding. Tris acted as if it was the firstwedding in the world. He was sure everyone in St. Penfer and St. Clairwould be disappointed beyond comfort unless they had a chance to bepresent. He thought, therefore, that Easter Sunday would be the day ofdays in this respect. All the boats would be in harbour. All the womenand children would have their new gowns and bonnets on. There would bea special service in the chapel--and then, finally:

"The house be ready, mother, and I be ready, and Denas be ready, andwhat are we waiting for?"

And as John, and Joan, and Tris were of one mind, what could Denas dobut be of the same mind? After all, the great anxiety was theweather. The restless way in which Tris queried of the winds andwatched the clouds almost made John angry. "You do be enough to beckona storm, Tris, " he cried. "Let be! Let be!" Yet for all that Johnhimself walked oftener to his door than was his custom, and lookedseaward and windward in a furtive kind of way, very amusing to thewomen, who saw clearly through his anxiety. 

But even the weather sometimes comes up to our hopes and is evenbetter than our expectations. Easter Sunday broke in a royal mood ofsunshine. There was not a breath of wind; the sea was like a sea ofsapphire sprinked with incalculable diamonds; the boats lay lazilyswinging on the tide-top; the undercliff was in its Easter green andwhite. The lark set the bride-song going, and so woke up the thrush, and the thrush called to the blackbird, and the woods soon rang withmusic. 

The ceremony was to be in the St. Clair chapel, and at nine o'clockTris came in the yacht's boat for his bride and her parents. The boathad been freshly painted white. The four sailors who were to row herwere in snow-white duck and blue caps and kerchiefs. Tris had on hisbest uniform--blue broadcloth and gilt buttons. Tris was handsomeenough and proud and happy enough to have set off a fisher's suit ofblue flannel; but he trod like a prince and looked like a youngsea-god in his splendid array. 

It had been thought best for the bride to go to St. Clair by sea. There was no carriage available, and the walk to St. Clair was longand apt to be wet from the last tide. And nobody wanted thebride-dress to be soiled. Besides which, the sea-way gave the St. Penfer people an opportunity to set her off with waving kerchiefs anda thousand good wishes; and it also gave the people of St. Clair anopportunity to welcome her in the same manner. Those who did not knowabout such things and who were wickedly reckless concerning signs andomens--which sailor and fisher folk never are--said this seaward roadto the church might have been avoided and the bride's gown keptsweetly fresh and unruffled by Denas simply dressing in her own house. But Denas knew well that it was unlucky; for the bride in herbride-dress must go into her house before she comes out of it. 

The chapel was crowded up to the pulpit steps, all but John's pew, which was empty until the bride's party took possession of it. It wasa sight to make men and women happy only to look at Joan Penelles'face. John tried to preserve a grave look, but Joan beamed upon everyman and woman present. When the little stir of their entrance hadsubsided, then the Easter service went joyously on. It was known thatthe wedding was to be solemnized between the sermon and thebenediction, and though the sermon was a very good one, all thought ita little long that morning. For there is something about a bridal, anda bride, and a bridegroom, that is perennially fresh and young. 

But at length the happy moment arrived. Tris rose and offered his handto Denas. Then Denas also rose and let her long cloak fall down, andput her bonnet off her head, and walked by Tris' side to thecommunion table. John and Joan proudly followed. All with curiousinterest watched the bride, for few then present had ever seen a brideso bride-like. And well might the handsome sailor be proud of her asshe stood beside him robed in white, lustrous silk, with lilies at herbreast and the gleam of scarlet corals in her fair hair and at herwhite throat. 

Let those who have been so blessed as to live through such momentsimagine them. And, alas! for those who cannot say with a smile, "Iknow; I know. " In this marriage, the bride and bridegroom's joy wasdoubled by being so enthusiastically shared. It was not only thepreacher who gave them the benediction; they walked through anatmosphere so full of kindness and good-will and good wishes that theycould do nothing at all but smile, and smile, and smile again to the"God bless you, dears, " which greeted them at every step. 

Then the clerk spread open the book and the preacher put the pen intothe bride's hand. She looked at her husband; she looked at her mother;she hesitated a moment, and then wrote boldly--not Denasia--but--

"_Denas. _"

Neither father nor mother disputed the name. They certified it withtheir own names, and then passed with their children into thesunshine. The congregation were waiting outside. They parted and madea way between them for the bride and the bridegroom to take; and sostanding there, watched them go hand-in-hand up the hillside to thepretty vine-covered house which was to be their future home. To mortaleyes they seemed to walk alone, but they did not. They had rightwelcome company, for--

 "Love took them softly by the hand, Love led them through their own dear door, And showed them in the sea and land Beauty they had not known before-- Never before: O Love! sweet Love!

 "And now it cannot pass away; They see it wheresoe'er they go; And in their hearts by night and day Its gladness singeth to and fro, By night and day: O Love! sweet Love!"

 * * * * *

Transcriber Notes

Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. 

Hyphenation standardized. 

Otherwise, archaic and variable spelling is preserved, includingRosetti/Rossetti and Giberaltar. Author's punctuation style is alsopreserved. 

Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. 

Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. 

Transcriber Changes

The following changes were made to the original text:

 Page 25: Was 'wth' (She sat down in a large chair =with= her back to the light and shut her eyes. )

 Page 93: Added double quote (Some will never come back =again!'"=)

 Page 98: Added period (with such evident enjoyment that she gave an appetite to the =others. =)

 Page 98: Was 'Bobert' (After breakfast =Robert= Burrell said he would delay his visit)

 Page 154: Was 'guiver' (It made his brown face blanch and his strong, stern mouth =quiver= with mental anguish. )

 Page 174: Was 'beatiful' (her open throat, and =beautiful= bare arms lifted to the basket upon her head)

 Page 207: Was 'indorsed' (of that brutal conservatism which makes Englishmen suspicious of everything not =endorsed= by centuries of use and wont. )

 Page 297: Was 'ocupations' (She looked for no extraordinary thing, for no special favour to brighten their uniform =occupations= and simple pleasures. )

 Page 308: Was 'sayng' ("La! my dear, the love in Tris' heart was a trouble to you. You were =saying= that often. ")

 Page 344: Was 'fom' (and the walk to St. Clair was long and apt to be wet =from= the last tide. )