OH, THE PITY OF IT!
"One love is false, one love is true:
Ah, if a maiden only knew!"
"It is dear honey that is licked off a thorn."
The thing Elizabeth Tresham had done her best to prevent had really
happened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quite
unexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unable
to keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth's own
love-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacy
and decision.
Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of most
women--the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and the
eligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. The
first was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabeth
ascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthly
goods had not been well considered by the church he served. The living
of St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itself
was early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old.
Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under such
conditions; and at nineteen years of age poverty has a romantic
colouring if only love paint it.
Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, not
even poverty. He was unpoetically rich--he even trafficked in money.
The rector was a very young man; Burrell was thirty-eight years old.
The rector wrote poetry, and understood Browning, and recited from
Arnold and Morris. Burrell's tastes were for social science and
statistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent;
small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, on
the contrary, was tall and fair, and so exceedingly handsome that
women especially never perceived that the portal to all his senses was
small and low and that he was incapable of receiving a great idea.
On that Saturday morning Robert Burrell resolved to test his fate, and
he wrote to Miss Tresham. It was a letter full of that passionate
adoration he was too timid to personally offer, and his protestations
were honourably certified by the offer of his hand and fortune. It was
a noble letter; a letter no woman could easily put aside. It meant to
Elizabeth a sure love to guard and comfort her and an absolute release
from the petty straits and anxieties of genteel poverty. It would make
her the mistress of the finest domestic establishment in the
neighbourhood--it would give her opportunities for helping Roland to
the position in life he ought to occupy; and this thought--though an
after one--had a great influence on Elizabeth's mind.
After some consideration she took the letter to her father. He was in
one of his most querulous moods, ill-disposed to believe in any good
thing coming to him. He read the letter under such influence, and yet
he could not but be sensible of its importance.
"It is a piece of unexpected good fortune for you, Elizabeth," he said
with a sigh. "Of course it will leave me alone here, but I do not mind
that now; all else has gone--why not you? I thought, however, the
rector was your choice. I hope you have no entanglement there."
"He has never asked me to be his wife, but he has constantly shown
that he wished it. He is poor--I think he felt that."
"He has made love to you, called you the fairest girl on earth, made
you believe he lived only in your presence, and so on, and so on?"
"Yes, he has talked in that way for a long time."
"He never intends to ask you to marry him. He asked Dr. Eyre if you
had any fortune. Oh, I know his kind and their ways!"
"I think you are mistaken, father. If he knew Mr. Burrell wished to
marry me he would venture to----"
"You think he would? I am sure he would not--but here the gentleman
comes. I will speak a few words to him and then he will speak to you,
and after that you can answer Mr. Burrell's letter. Stay a moment,
Elizabeth. It is only fair to tell you that I have no money but my
annuity. When I die you will be penniless."
So Elizabeth went out of the room silent and with her head drooping a
little. The word "penniless" was a shock to her. She sat down in a
large chair with her back to the light and shut her eyes. She wished
to set the two men clearly before her. It would be easy to love Robert
Burrell if she did not love the other. Did she love the other? She
examined her heart pitilessly, and found always some little "if"
crouching in a corner. In some way or other it was evident she did not
believe "the other" would stand trial.
Mr. Tresham had the same opinion in a more positive form, and he was
quite willing to test it. He met the rector with more effusion than
was usual with him, and putting on his hat said:
"Walk around the garden with me, sir. I have something to say to you,
and as I am a father you must permit me to speak very plainly. I
believe you are in love with Elizabeth?"
There was no answer from the young man, and his face was pale and
angry.
"Well, sir! Am I right or wrong?"
"Sir, I respect and like Miss Tresham. Everyone must do so, I think."
"Have you asked her to marry you?"
"Oh, dear, no! Nothing of the kind, sir; nothing of the kind!"
"I thought not. Well, you see, sir, your dangling about my house keeps
honest men outside, and I would be obliged to you, sir--in fact, sir,
I require you at once to make Miss Tresham understand that your
protestations are lies--simple and straightforward lies, sir. I insist
on your telling her that your love-making is your amusement and
girls' hearts the pawns with which you play. You will tell her that
you are a scoundrel, sir! And when you have explained yourself to Miss
Tresham, you had better give the same information to Miss Trelawny,
and to Miss Rose Trefuses, and to that poor little sewing-girl you
practise your recitations on. Sir, I have the greatest contempt for
you, and when you have spoken to Miss Tresham, you will leave my house
and come here no more."
"It will give me pleasure to obey you, sir."
With these words he turned from the contemptuous old man, and in a
hurried, angry mood sought Elizabeth in her usual sitting-room.
She opened her eyes as he opened the door and looked at him. Then she
rose and went toward him. He waved her away imperatively and said:
"No, Elizabeth! No! I have no caress for you to-day! I do not think I
shall ever feel lovingly to you again. Why did you tell your father
anything? I thought our love was a secret, sacred affair. When I am
brought to catechism about my heart matters, I shut my heart close. I
am not to be hectored and frightened into marrying any woman."
"Will you remember whose presence you are in?"
"If you wanted to be my wife----"
"I do not want to be your wife."
"If you loved me in the least----"
"I do not love you in the least."
"I shall come here no more. O Elizabeth! Only to think!"
"I am glad you come here no more. I see that you judge the honour and
fulness of my heart by the infidelity and emptiness of your own. Go,
sir, and remember, you discard not me--I discard you."
Thus speaking she passed him haughtily, and he put out his hand as if
to detain her, but she gathered her drapery close and so left him. Mr.
Tresham heard her footsteps and softly opened the door of his library.
"Come in here, Elizabeth," he said with some tenderness.
"I have seen him."
"And he brought you the news of his own dishonour. Let him go. He is
as weak as a bent flax-stalk, and to be weak is to be wicked. Bury
your disappointment in your heart, do not even tell Denas--girls talk
to their mothers and mothers talk to all and sundry. Turn your face to
Burrell Court now--it is a fair fortune."
"And it may be a good thing for poor Roland."
"It may. A respectable position and a certain income is often
salvation for a man. Write to Mr. Burrell at once, and send the letter
by the gardener."
That was an easy direction to give, but Elizabeth did not find it easy
to carry out. She wrote half-a-dozen letters, and none of them was
satisfactory. So she finally asked her lover to call and see her at
seven o'clock that evening. And it was very natural that, in the
stress of such an important decision, the visit of Denas and their
intention of dressing the altar should be forgotten. It was a kind of
unpleasant surprise to her when Denas came and she remembered the
obligation. Of course she could not now refuse to fulfil it. The
offering was surely to God, and no relation between herself and the
rector could interfere with it. But it was a great trial. She said she
had a headache, and perhaps that complaint as well as any other
defined the hurt and shock she had received.
Denas wondered at Elizabeth's want of interest. She did not
superintend as usual the cutting of the flowers, so carefully nursed
and saved for this occasion; and though she went to the church with
Denas and really did her best to make a heart offering with her Easter
wreaths, the effort was evident. Her work lacked the joyous enthusiasm
which had always distinguished Elizabeth's church duties.
The rector pointedly ignored her, and she felt keenly the curious, and
in some cases the not kindly, glances of the other Easter handmaidens.
In such celebrations she had always been put first; she was now
last--rather, she was nowhere. It would have been hard to bear had she
not known what a triumph she held in abeyance. For Mr. Burrell was the
patron of St. Penfer's church; he had given its fine chime of bells
and renovated its ancient pews of black oak. The new organ had been
his last Christmas gift to the parish, and out of his purse mainly had
come the new school buildings. The rector might ignore Miss Tresham,
but she smiled to herself when she reflected on the salaams he would
yet make to Mrs. Robert Burrell.
Now, Denas was not more prudent than young girls usually are. She saw
that there was trouble, and she spoke of it. She saw Elizabeth was
slighted, and she resented it. It was but natural under such
circumstances that the church duty was made as short as possible; and
it was just as natural that Elizabeth should endeavour to restore her
self-respect by a confidential revelation of the great matrimonial
offer she had received. And perhaps she did nothing unwomanly in
leaving Denas freedom to suppose the rector's insolent indifference
the fruit of his jealousy and disappointment.
In the midst of these pleasant confidences Roland unexpectedly
entered. He had written positively that he was not coming. And then
here he was. "I thought I could not borrow for the trip, but I managed
it," he said with the bland satisfaction of a man who feels that he
has accomplished a praiseworthy action. For once Elizabeth was not
quite pleased at his visit. She would rather it had not occurred at
such an important crisis of her life. She was somewhat afraid of
Roland's enthusiasms and rapid friendships, and it was not unlikely
that his first conception of Mr. Burrell's alliance would be "a good
person to borrow money from."
Also she wished time to dress herself carefully and solitude to get
the inner woman under control. After five o'clock Denas and Roland
were both in her way. They were at the piano singing as complacently
and deliberately as if the coming of her future husband was an event
that could slip into and fit into any phase of ordinary life. It was a
strange, wonderful thing to her, something so sacred and personal she
could not bear to think of discussing it while Roland laughed and
Denas sang. It was not an every-day event and she would not have it
made one.
She knew her father would not interfere, and she knew one way in which
to rid herself of Denas and Roland. Naturally she took it. A little
after six she said: "I have a headache, Roland, and shall not walk
to-night. Will you take Denas safely down the cliff?"
Roland was delighted, and Denas was no more afraid of the gay fellow
than the moth is of the candle. She was pleasantly excited by the idea
of a walk all alone with Roland. She wondered what he would say to
her: if he would venture to give voice to the inarticulate love-making
of the last two years--to all that he had looked when she sang to
him--to all that he meant by the soft, prolonged pressure of her hand
and by that one sweet stolen kiss which he had claimed for Christmas'
sake.
They walked a little apart and very silently until they came into the
glades of the cliff-breast. Then, suddenly, without word or warning,
Roland took Denas in his arms and kissed her. "Denas! sweet Denas!" he
cried, and the wrong was so quickly, so impulsively committed that for
a moment Denas was passive under it. Then with flaming cheeks she
freed herself from his embrace. "Mr. Tresham, you must go back," she
said. "I can walk no further with you. Why were you so rude to me?"
"I am not rude, Denas, and I will not go back. After waiting two years
for this opportunity, do you think I will give it up? And I will not
let you call me Mr. Tresham. To you I am Roland. Say it here in my
arms, dear, lovely Denas! Do not turn away from me. You cannot go back
without telling Elizabeth, and I swear you shall not go forward until
you forgive me. Come, Denas, sweet, forgive me!" He held her hands, he
kissed her hands, and would not release the girl, who, as she listened
to his rapid, eager pleading, became more and more disposed to
tenderness. He was telling the story no one could better tell than
Roland Tresham. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his caressing
attitudes, all went with his eager words, his enthusiastic admiration,
his passionate assertion of his long-hidden affection.
And everything was in his favour. The lovely spring eve, the mystical
twilight, the mellow flutings of the blackbirds and the vesper
thrushes piping nothing new or strange, only the sweet old tune of
love, the lift of the hills, the soft trinkling of hidden brooks, the
scent of violets at their feet and of the fresh leaves above them--all
the magic of the young year and of young love made the delicious story
Roland had been longing to tell and the innocent heart of Denas
fearing and longing to hear very easy to interpret--very easy to
understand.
Listening, and then refusing to listen; yielding a little, and then
drawing back again, Denas nevertheless heard Roland's whole sweet
confession. She was taught to believe that he had loved her from their
first meeting; taught to believe and half-made to acknowledge that she
had not been indifferent to him. She was under almost irresistible
influences, and she did not think of others which might have
counteracted them. Even Elizabeth's revelation to her of her own
splendid matrimonial hopes was favourable to Roland's arguments; for
if it was a thing for congratulating and rejoicing that Elizabeth
should marry a man so much richer than herself, where was it wrong for
Denas to love one supposed to be socially and financially her
superior?
Before they were half-way to the shingle Roland felt that he had won.
The conviction gave him a new kind of power--the power all women
delight to acknowledge; the sweet dictation, the loving tyranny that
claims every thought of the beloved. Roland told Denas she must not
dare to remember anyone but him; he would feel it and know it if she
did. She promised this readily. She must not tell Elizabeth. Elizabeth
was unreasonable, she was even jealous of everything concerning her
brother; she would have a hundred objections; she would influence his
father unfavourably; she would do all she could to prevent their
seeing each other, etc., etc. And where a man pleads, one woman is
readily persuaded against another. But Denas was much harder to
persuade where the article of secrecy touched her father and mother.
Her conscience, uneasy for some time, told her positively at this
point that deception was wicked and dangerous. Roland could not win
from her a promise in this direction. But he was not afraid--he was
sure he could trust to her love and her desire to please him.
One of the cruellest things about a wrong love is that it delights in
tangles and hidden ways; that it teaches and practises deceit from its
first inception; that its earliest efforts are toward destroying all
older and more sacred attachments. Roland was not willing to take the
hand of Denas in the face of the world and say: "This is my beloved
wife." Yet for the secret pleasure of his secret love, he expected
Denas to wrong father-love and mother-love and to deceive day by day
the friend and the companion who had been so kind and so fairly loyal
to her.
No wonder John Penelles hated him instinctively. John's soul needed
but a glimpse of the lovers sauntering down the narrow cliff-path to
apprehend the beginning of sorrows. Instantaneous as the glimpse was,
it explained to him the restless, angry, fearful feeling that had
driven him from his own cottage to the place appointed by destiny for
the revelation of his child's danger and of his own admonition.
He was glad that he had obeyed the spiritual order; whatever power had
warned him had done him service. It is true the fond assurances of
Denas had somewhat pacified his suspicions, but he was not altogether
satisfied. When Denas declared that Roland had not made love to her,
John felt certain that the girl was in some measure deceiving
him--perhaps deceiving herself; for he could not imagine her to be
guilty of a deliberate lie. Alas! lying is the vital air of secret
love, and a girl must needs lie who hides from her parents the object
and the course of her affections. Still, when he thought of her arms
around his neck, of her cheek against his cheek, of her assertion that
"Denas loved no one better than her father and mother," he felt it a
kind of disloyalty to his child to altogether doubt her. He believed
that Denas believed in herself. Well, then, he must try and trust her
as far and as long as it was possible.
And Joan trusted her daughter--she scouted the idea of Denas doing
anything that was outside her mother's approval. She told John that
his fear was nothing but the natural conceit of men; they thought a
woman could not be with one of their sex and not be ready to sacrifice
her own life and the lives of all her kinsfolk for him. "It be such
puddling folly to start with," she said indignantly; "talking about
Denas being false to her father and mother! 'Tis a doleful, dismal,
ghastly bit of cowardice, John. Dreadful! aw, dreadful!"
Then John was silent, but he communed with his own heart. Joan had not
seen Roland and Denas as he had seen them; no one had troubled Joan as
he had been troubled. For something often gives to a loving heart a
kind of prescience, when it may be used for wise and saving ends; and
John Penelles divined the angry trend of Roland's thoughts, though it
was impossible for him to anticipate the special form that trend would
take.
Roland had indeed been made furiously angry at the interference
between himself and Denas. "I spoke pleasantly to the old fisher, and
he was as rude as could be. Rude to me! Jove! I'll teach him the value
of good manners to his betters."
He sat down on a lichen-covered rock, lit a cigar, and began to think.
His personal dignity had been deeply wounded; his pride of petty caste
trod upon. He, a banker's son, had been snubbed by a common
fisherman! "He took Denas from me as if I was going to kill her, body
and soul. He deserves all he suspected me of." And as these and
similar thoughts passed through Roland's mind he was not at all
handsome; his face looked dark and drawn and marked all over with the
characters sin writes through long late hours of selfish revelry and
riot.
But however his angry thoughts wandered, they always came back to the
slight of himself personally--to the failure of Penelles to appreciate
the honour he was doing him in wooing his daughter. And if the devil
wishes to enter easily a man or a woman, he finds no door so wide and
so easy of access as the door of wounded vanity and wounded
self-esteem.
Roland's first impulse was to make Denas pay her father's debt. "I
will never speak to her again. Common little fisher-girl! I will teach
her that gentlemen are to be used like gentlemen. Why did she not
speak up to her father? She stood there without a word and let him
snub me. The idea!" These exclamations were, however, only the quick,
unreasoning passion of the animal; when Roland had calmed himself with
tobacco, he felt how primitive and foolish they were. His reflections
were then of a different character; they began to flow steadily into a
channel they had often wandered in, though hitherto without distinct
purpose.
"After all, I like the girl. She has a kind of nixie, tantalising,
bewitching charm that would drive a crowd mad. She has a fresh,
sympathetic voice, penetrating, too, as a clarion. Her folk-songs and
her sea-songs go down to the bottom of a man's heart and into every
corner of it. Now, if I could get her to London and have her taught
how to manage her voice and face and person, if I had her taught how
to dance--Jove! there is a fortune in it! Dressed in a fancy fisher
costume, singing the casting songs and the boat songs--the calls and
takes she knows so well--why, she would make a gas-lit theatre seem
like the great ocean, and men would see the white-sailed ships go
marching by, and the fishing cobbles, and the wide nets full of
gleaming fish, and--and, by Jove! they would go frantic with delight.
They would be at her feet. She would be the idol of London. She would
sing full pockets empty. I should have all my desires, and now I have
so few of them. What a prospect! But I'll reach it--I'll reach it, and
all the fishers in St. Penfer's shall not hinder me!"
He thought his plans over again, and then it was dark and he rose up
to return home; but as he shook himself into the proper fit of his
clothes and settled his hat at the correct angle, he laughed
vauntingly and said:
"I shall be even with you, John Penelles, before next Easter. I was
not good enough for Denas, was I not? Well, she is going to work for
me and for my pleasure and profit, John Penelles; going to make money
for me to spend, John Penelles. My beautiful fisher-maid! I dare be
bound she is dreaming of me now. Women! women! women! What dear little
fools they are, to be sure!"
He was quite excited and quite good-tempered now. A new plan was like
a new fortune to Roland. He never took into consideration the
contrariness of circumstances and of opposing human elements. His
plans were perfect from his own standpoint; the standpoint of other
people was out of his consideration. Never before had he conceived so
clever a scheme for getting a livelihood made for him. There was
really nobody but Denas to interfere with any of his arrangements, and
Denas was under his control and could be made more so. This night he
felt positive that he had "hit the very thing at last."
He reached home late, but in exuberant spirits. Elizabeth was waiting
for him. She was beautifully dressed, and in a moment he saw upon her
hand the flash of large and perfect diamonds. "They were mother's, I
suppose, and I have as much right--yes, more right--to them than she
has." This was his first thought, but he did not express it. There was
an air about Elizabeth that was quite new to him; he was curious and
full of expectation as he seated himself beside her. She shook her
head in a reproving manner.
"You have been making love to Denas. I see it in your eyes, Roland.
And you promised me you never would."
"Upon my honour, Elizabeth. We met the old fisher Penelles a long way
up the cliff and he took her from me. Talking of making love--pray,
what have you been doing? I thought you had a headache."
"Roland, I am going to be married--June the 11th."
"Is that your engagement ring?"
"It is. Mr. Burrell says it was his mother's engagement ring; but,
then, gems are all second-hand--a hundred-hand--a thousand-hand for
that."
"Burrell! You take my breath away! Burrell! The man who has a bank in
Threadneedle Street?"
"The same."
"Good gracious, Elizabeth! You have made all our fortunes! You noble
girl! I did not know he was thinking of you."
"He was waiting for me. Destiny, Roland. But he is a noble-hearted
man, and he loves me and I intend to be a good wife to him. I do
indeed. He is going to make a great settlement on me, and I shall have
an income of my own from it--all my own, to do what I like with."
"Elizabeth, dear, I always have loved you better than anything else in
the world. You will not forget me now, will you, dear?"
"Why, Roland, I thought of you when I accepted Mr. Burrell. When I am
married, Roland, I shall manage things for you as you wish them, I
daresay. The man loves me so much that I could get not the half, but
the whole of his kingdom from him."
"You are the dearest, noblest sister in the world."
"I could not bear to go to sleep without making you as happy as
myself. Now, Roland, there is something you must not do, and that is,
have any love nonsense with Denas Penelles. At Burrell Court you will
meet rich girls and girls of good birth, and your only chance is in a
rich marriage--you know it is, Roland."
"Oh, I do not quite think that, Elizabeth."
"Roland, you know it. How many situations have you had and lost? If
Mr. Burrell gave you a desk in his bank to-morrow, you would hand back
its key before my wedding-day."
"Perhaps; but there are other ways."
"None for you but a rich marriage. Every other way supposes work, and
you will not work. You know you will not."
"I have some objections."
"Now, any trouble with a fisherman's daughter would be bad every way.
There is the dislike rich girls have for low amours, and, worse still,
the dreadfully Cornish habit fishers have of standing together. If you
offend John Penelles or wrong him in the least, you offend and wrong
every man in St. Penfer fishing quarter. Do not snap your fingers so
scornfully, Roland; you would be no match for a banded enmity like
that."
"All this about Denas?"
"Yes; all this about Denas. The girl is a vain little thing, but I do
not want to see her breaking her heart about your handsome face."
She drew the handsome face down to her lips and kissed it; and Roland
used every charm he possessed in order to deepen his influence over
his going-to-be-rich sister. He was already making plain and straight
his paths for a certain supremacy at Burrell Court. He was already
feeling that a good deal of Robert Burrell's money would come, through
Elizabeth's hands, into his pocket. That would be a perfectly
legitimate course for it to take. Why should not a loving sister help
a loving brother?
And oh, the pity of it! While brother and sister talked only of
themselves, Robert Burrell sat silent and happy in his study, planning
magnificent generosities for his bride; thinking of her youth, of her
innocence, her ignorance of fashionable society, of her affection for
and her loyalty to her father and brother, and loving her with all his
great honest heart for these very things. And Denas lay dreaming of
Roland. And Roland, even while he was talking with Elizabeth about
Burrell Court, was holding fast to his intention to degrade Denas. For
the singing, dancing, fiddling life which he was to lead with her
suited his tastes exactly; he felt it would be the absolutely
necessary alterative to the wealthy decorum of Burrell Court.
O Love! what cruelties are done in thy name! We think of thee as
coming with a rose, and a song, and a smile. Nay, but the Calydonian
Maidens were right when they cried bitterly: "Death should have risen
with Love, and Grief, and visible Fear; and there should have been
heard a voice of lamentation and mourning, as of many in prison."[2]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] T. E. Brown, M.A.
[2] "Atalanta in Calydon."