THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
"O blessed sounds of wiser life
Contented with its day,
How ye rebuke the inner strife
That wears the soul away."
"The Eden we live in is our own heart,
And the first thing we do of our free choice
Is sure to be sin."
--FESTUS.
John Penelles was one of those strong religious characters whose minds
no questions disturb, whose spiritual aspirations are never put out of
breath. He had not yet been a yoke-fellow with sorrow. Hard work, the
cruelty of the elements, the self-denials of poverty, these things he
had known; but love had never smitten him across the heart.
When he rose that Easter Sunday he rose singing. He sang as he put on
his chapel broadcloth; he was trying over the different metres and the
Easter anthem as he walked about the sanded floor of his cottage, and
thought over the heads of his sermon. For he was to preach that night
in the little chapel of St. Swer, a fishing hamlet four miles to the
northward; indeed, John preached very often, being a local preacher
in the circuit of St. Penfer, and rather famous for his ready, short
sermons, full of the breath of the sea and of the savour of the
fisher's life upon it.
Denas had gone to a neighbouring farm for milk. He heard her quick
step on the shingle, and he stood still in the middle of the floor to
meet her. She had on a short dress of pink calico and a square of
blue-and-white-plaided flannel thrown over her head. She came in like
the breath of the spring Sabbath. Her face was rosy, her lovely lips
slightly apart, her blue eyes dewy and soft and bright and brimming
with love. She lifted her face to her father's face, and he forgot in
a moment all his fears. He saw only Denas, and not any of her faults;
if she had faults, he buried them that moment in his love, and they
were all put out of memory.
Roland and the Treshams were not spoken of. John and Joan both had the
fisher's dislike to name a person or a thing they considered unlucky
or unpleasant. "If you name evil you do call evil" was their simple
creed; and it saved many a household worry. They sat down to their
breakfast of tea, and fresh fish, and white loaf, and the wide-open
door let in the sea wind, and the sea smell, and the soft murmur of
the turning tide. John's heart was full of holy joy; he could feel it
singing: "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" And though he was only a poor
Cornish fisher, he was sure that the world was a very good world and
that life was well worth the living.
"Joan, my dear," he said, "the Bible do tell us that there shall be a
new earth. Can it be a sweeter one than this is?"
"Aw, John, it may be a sight better, for we be promised 'there shall
be no sea there,' thank God! no freezing, drowning men and no weeping
wives. I do think of that when you are out in the frost and storm,
John, and the thought be heaven itself."
"My dear, the sea be God's own highway. There be wonders by the sea.
Was not St. John sent to the sea-side for the Revelations? 'Twas there
he heard the angels, whose voices were like the sound of many waters.
Heaven will be wonderful! wonderful! if it do make us forget the sea.
Aw, my dear Joan, 'twill be something added to this earth, not
something taken away, and the good thing added will make both the sea
and the 'bounds of the everlasting hills' to be blessed."
"John, who told you that? And if the cruel, hungry, awful sea is not
to be taken away, nor yet the 'everlasting hills,' what will make it a
new earth?"
"God's tabernacle will be in it. Aw, my dear, that will make
everything new--sea and land, men and women; and then there will be no
more tears. My dear, when I think of that I love this old world, not
only for what it is, but also for what it is going to be."
"Father, you are preaching and not eating your breakfast; and I want
to get breakfast over and the cups washed, for I have to dress myself
yet, and a new dress to put on, too," and Denas smiled and nodded and
touched her father's big hand with her small one, and then John
smiled back, and with a mighty purpose began to eat his fish and bread
and drink his tea.
The whole day took its colour from this happy beginning. In
after-years John often spoke of that Easter Sabbath; of their quiet
walk all together up the cliff to St. Penfer Chapel; of the singing,
and the sermon, and the Sunday-school in the afternoon for the fisher
children; of the walk to St. Swer with Denas by his side and the walk
back, singing all the way home; of the nice supper ready for them, and
how they had eaten and talked till the late moon made a band of light
across the table, and John said hurriedly:
"Well, there now! The tide will be calling me before I do have time to
get sleep in my eyes."
Then Joan rose quickly and Denas began to put away the bread and
cheese and milk, and though none recognised the fact at the time, the
old life passed away for ever when the three rose from that midnight
supper.
Yet for several days afterward nothing seemed to be changed. John went
to his fishing and had unusual good fortune; and Joan and Denas were
busy mending nets and watching the spring bleaching. It was the duty
of Denas to take the house linen to some level grassy spot on the
cliff-breast and water and watch it whiten in the sunshine. Monday she
had gone to this duty with a vague hope that Roland would seek her
out. She watched all day for him. She knew that she was looking
pretty, and she felt that her employment was picturesque.
As she stood over the breadths of damask, with the water-can making
mimic rain upon them, she was well aware that all her surroundings
added charm to her charm. The soft winds blowing her hair and her pink
skirt; the green leaves whispering above and around her; the rippling
of the brook running down the hillside--all these things belonged as
much to her as the frame belongs to the picture. Why did not Roland
come to see her thus? Was he afraid for the words he had said to her?
Were they not true words? Did he intend, by ignoring them, to teach
her that he had only been playing with her vanity and her credulity?
Tuesday was too wet and blowy to spread the linen, and Denas felt the
morning insufferably long and tedious. Her father, who had been on the
sea all night, dozed in his big chair on the hearthstone. Joan was
silent, and went about her duties in a tiptoeing way that was very
fretful to the impatience of Denas. Denas herself was knitting a
guernsey, and as she sat counting the stitches Tristram Penrose came
to the door and, after a moment's pause, spoke to her. He was a fine
young fellow with an open-air look on his brown face and an open-love
look in his brown eyes.
"My dear Denas," he said, "is your father in?"
"Tris, who gave you license to call me dear? and my father is asleep
by the fireside."
"Aw, then, the One who gave me license to live gave me the license to
love; and dear you be and dear you always will be to Tris Penrose. The
word may be shut in my heart or I may say it in your ear, Denas; 'tis
all the same; dear you be and dear you always will be."
She shrugged her shoulders petulantly, and yet could not resist the
merry up-glance which she knew went straight to the big fellow's
heart. Then she began to fold up her knitting. While Tris was talking
to her father, she would ask for permission to go and see Elizabeth.
While Tris was present, she did not think he would refuse her request,
for if he did so she could ask him for reasons and he would not like
to give them.
Denas had all the natural diplomacy of a clever woman, and she knew
the power of a fond word and a sunny smile. "Father"--is there any
fonder word?--"Father, I want to go and see Miss Tresham. She told me
a very important secret on Saturday, and I know she was expecting me
yesterday to talk it over with her;" then she went close to his side
and put her hand on his shoulder and snuggled her cheek in his big
beard, and called poor Tris' soul into his face for the very joy of
watching her.
John was not insensible to her charming. He hesitated, and Denas felt
the hesitation and met it with a bribe: "You could come up the cliff
to meet me before you go to the boats--couldn't you, father?"
"Nay, my dear, I'll not need to look for you on the cliff, for you
will stay at home, Denas; it rains--it blows."
"Miss Tresham was expecting me all through yesterday, but it was so
fine I took the linen to bleach. She will be so disappointed if I do
not come to-day. We have a secret, father--a very particular secret."
It was hard to resist the pretty, pleading, coaxing girl, but John had
a strength of will which Denas had never before put to the test.
"My dear girl," he answered, "if Miss Tresham be longing to talk her
secrets to you, she can come to you. There be nothing in the world to
hinder her. Here be a free welcome to her."
"I promised, father."
"'Tis a pity you did."
"I must go, father."
"You must stay at home. 'Twould be like putting my girl through the
fire to Baal to send her into the company there be now at Mr.
Tresham's."
"I care nothing for the company. I want to see Miss Tresham."
"Now, then, I am in earnest, Denas. You shall not go. Take your
knitting and sit down to your own work."
She lifted her knitting, but she did not lift a stitch. Where there is
no positive compulsion the hand is only handmaid to the heart, and it
does the work only which the heart wishes. At this hour Denas hated
her knitting, and there being no necessity on her to perform it, her
hands lay idle upon her lap. After a few minutes' conversation John
went out with Tris Penrose, and then Denas began to cry with anger and
disappointment.
"My father has insulted me before Tris Penrose," she said, "and I will
never speak to Tris again. Many a time and oft he has let me go to St.
Penfer when it was raining and blowing. He is very cross, cruel cross!
Mother, you give me leave--do! I will tell you a secret. Elizabeth is
going to be married, and she wants me to help in getting her things
ready. Mother, let me go; it is cruel hard to refuse me!"
The news of an approaching marriage can never be heard by any woman
with indifference. Joan stayed her needle and looked at Denas with an
eager curiosity.
"'Tis to the rector, I'll warrant, Denas," she said.
"No, it is not; but the rector is fine and angry, I can tell you. It
was too much for him to speak to Miss Tresham on Saturday afternoon at
the church. But won't he be sorry for his disknowledging her when he
knows who is to be the bridegroom? He will, and no mistake."
"I don't understand you, Denas. Who is going to marry Miss Tresham?
Say the man's name, and be done with it."
"'Tis a great secret, mother; but if you will let me go to St. Penfer
I will tell you."
"Aw, my dear, I can live without Miss Tresham's secrets. And I do know
she can't be having one I would go against your father to hear tell
of, not I."
"Father is unjust and unkind. What have I done, mother?"
"Your father is afraid of that young jackanapes, Roland Tresham, and
good reason, too, if all be true that is said to be true."
"Mr. Roland is a gentleman."
"Gentleman and gentleman--there be many kinds, and no kind at all for
you. You be a fisher's daughter, and you must choose a husband of
your own sort--none better, thank God! The robin would go to the
eagle's nest, and a poor sad time it had there. Gentlemen marry
gentlemen's daughters, Denas, and if they don't, all sides do be sorry
enough."
"Am I to go no more to Miss Tresham's?"
"Not until the young man is back in London."
"Then I wish he would hurry all and be off."
"So do I, my dear. I would be glad to hear that he was far away from
St. Penfer."
Joan rose with these words and went out of the room, and Denas knew
that for this day also there was no hope of seeing Roland. Her heart
was hot with anger, and she began to lay some of the blame upon her
lover. He was a man. He could have braved the storm. And there was no
open quarrel between her father and himself; it would have been easy
enough to make an excuse for calling. Elizabeth might have written a
letter to her. Roland might have brought it. Sitting there, she could
think of half-a-dozen things which Roland might have accomplished. How
long the hours were! How would she ever get the days over? Her mother
singing in the curing-shed made her angry. The ticking of the big
clock accentuated her nervous irritability, and when John returned
silent and with that air about him which indicated the master of the
house, Denas felt surely that all was over for the present between her
and Roland Tresham.
The night became blustery after John and the men had gone to the
fishing, and by midnight there was a storm. Joan's white, anxious
face was peering through the windows or out of the open door into the
black night continually. And the presence of Denas did not comfort
her, as it usually did; the mother felt that her child's thoughts were
with strangers, and not with her father out on the stormy sea.
It was ten o'clock next morning before John got home. He had made a
little harbour some miles off, and glad to make it, and had been
compelled to lay there until daybreak. He was weary and silent. He
said it would have gone hard with him had not Tris been at his right
hand. Then he looked anxiously at Denas, and when she did not give him
a smile or a word, he sat down by the fire much depressed and
exhausted. For he saw that his child had a hard, angry heart toward
him, and he felt how useless it was to try and explain or justify his
dealings with her.
It was now Wednesday, and Denas burned with shame when she thought
how readily she had listened to so careless a lover. No word of any
kind came from Elizabeth, who indeed was not to blame under the
circumstances. Mr. Burrell was much with her; they had a hundred
delightful arrangements to make about their marriage and their future
housekeeping. And if in these days Elizabeth was a little proud and
important and very much interested in her own affairs, she was
innocently so. She was only exhibiting the natural parade of a
lovely bud spreading itself into a perfect flower.
She had not the slightest intention of being unkind to Denas; indeed,
she looked forward to many pleasant hours with her and to her
assistance in all the preparations for her marriage. And Roland had
introduced the subject quite as frequently as he felt it to be
prudent. Finally Elizabeth had plainly told him that she did not
intend to have Denas with her until he returned to London. "I see you
so seldom, Roland," she said, "and we will not have any stranger
intermeddling when you are at home."
"Come, Elizabeth," he answered, "you are putting up your disapprovals
in the shape of compliments. My dear, you are afraid I will fall in
love with Denas."
"I am afraid you will make love to her, which is a very different
thing."
"Do you want Denas here?"
"I shall be glad to have her here. I have a great deal of sewing to
do, and she is a perfect and rapid needlewoman."
"Then go to-morrow and ask her to come. I am off to London to-night.
In this world no one has pleasure but he who gives himself some. You
were my only pleasure at St. Penfer, and I do not care to share your
society with Robert Burrell."
"I will go and see Denas. I must ask her parents to let her stay with
me until my marriage."
But as Denas did not know of this intention, that weary Wednesday
dragged itself away amid rain and storm and household dissatisfaction;
but by Thursday morning the elements had blustered their passion away
and the world was clear-skied and sunshiny. Not so Denas; she sat in a
dark corner of the room, cross and silent, and answering her father
and mother only in monosyllables. John's heart was greatly troubled by
her attitude. He stood leaning against the lintel of the door,
watching his boat rocking upon the tide, for he was thinking that
until Denas and he were "in" again he had better stop at home.
"I do leave my heart at home, and then I do lose my head at sea;" and
with this unsatisfactory thought John turned to his daughter and said
softly: "Denas, my dear, 'tis a bright day. Will you have a walk? But
there--here be Miss Tresham, I do know it is her."
Denas rose quickly and looked a moment at the tall, handsome girl
picking her way across the pebbly path. Then she threw down her
knitting and went to meet her, and Elizabeth was pleased and flattered
by her protegee's complaints and welcomes. "I thought you would never
send me a message or a letter," almost sobbed Denas. "I never hoped
you would come. O Elizabeth, how I have longed to see you! Life is so
stupid when I cannot come to your house."
"Why did you not come?"
"Father was afraid of your brother."
"He was right, Denas. Roland is too gay and thoughtless a young man to
be about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I do
not think he will come back here until near the wedding-day."
Then they were at the door, and John Penelles welcomed the lady with
all the native grace that springs from a kind heart and from noble
instincts which have become principles. "You be right welcome, Miss
Tresham," he said. "My little maid has fret more than she should have
done for you. I do say that."
"I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, and
Denas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if she
may stay with me until my marriage in June. No one can sew like Denas,
and now I can afford to pay her a good deal of money for her work--for
her love I give her love. No gold pays for love, does it, sir?"
John was pleased with her frankness. He knew the value of money, he
knew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answered
with a candour which brushed away all pretences:
"We be all obliged to you, Miss Tresham. We be all glad that Denas
should make money so happily. It will help her own wedding and
furnishing, whenever God do send her a good man to love her. It be a
great honour to Denas to have your love, but there then! your brother
is a fine, handsome young man, and--no offence, miss--it would not be
a great honour for my little maid to have his love or the likelihood
of it--and out of temptation is out of danger, miss, and if so be I do
speak plain and bluff, you will not put it down against me, I'll
warrant."
"I think, Mr. Penelles, that you are quite right. I have felt all you
say for two years, and have shielded the honour and the happiness of
Denas as if she was in very deed my sister. Can you not trust her
with me now?"
"'Tis a great charge, miss."
"I am glad to take it. I will keep it for you faithfully."
"'Tis too much to ask, miss; 'twould be a constant charge, for
wrong-doing is often a matter of a few moments, though the repentance
for it may last a lifetime."
"Roland is in London. He went yesterday. I do not expect him to come
to St. Penfer again until the wedding. I assure you of this, Mr.
Penelles."
"Then your word for it, Miss Tresham. Take my little maid with you.
She be my life, miss. If Denas was hurt any way 'twould be like I got
a shot in my backbone; 'twould be as bad for her mother, likewise for
poor Tris Penrose."
Elizabeth smiled. "I am glad to hear there is a lover; Denas never
told me of him. Is he good and brave, and handsome and young, and
well-to-do?"
"He be all these, and more too; for he do love the ground Denas treads
on--he do for sure."
Denas was in her room putting on her blue merino and her hat, and
while she made her small arrangements and talked to her mother,
Elizabeth set herself to win the entire confidence of John Penelles.
It was not a hard thing to do. Evil and sin had to be present and
palpable for John's honest heart to realize them. And Miss Tresham's
open face, her frank assurances, her straightforward understanding of
the position were a pledge John never doubted.
Certainly Elizabeth meant all she promised. She was as desirous to
prevent any love-making as John Penelles was. And when interest and
conscience are in the same mind, people do at least try to keep their
promises. Denas went gayly back with her to St. Penfer. It was
something to be in Roland's home; she would hear him spoken of, and
she would exchange the monotonous common duties of her own home for
the happy bustle and the festive preparations of a house where a fine
wedding was to be celebrated.
Her expectations in this respect were more than gratified. Every hour
of the day brought something to discuss, to exclaim over, to wonder
about, to select, to try on. Notes and flowers, and sweetmeats, and
presents of all kinds were continually reminding Elizabeth of her
lover; and she grew beautiful and generous in the sunshine of such a
magnificent love. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed like a happy
dream. On Saturday evening Denas was to return home until after the
Sabbath. For Saturday night and Sunday were John's holiday, and a poor
one indeed it would be to him without his daughter. Nor was Denas
averse to go home. She looked forward to the pleasure of telling her
mother everything she had seen and done; she looked forward to going
to chapel with her father, and showing a pretty hat and collar and a
pair of kid gloves which Elizabeth had given her.
About five o'clock she started down the cliff. Her heart was light in
spite of Roland's silence. Indeed, she had begun to feel a contempt
for him and greater contempt for herself because she had for a moment
believed in a man so light of love and so false of heart. Elizabeth's
affairs were full of interest to her. Elizabeth had been so sisterly
and kind. She had paid her well and promised her many things that made
life seem full of hope to the ambitious fisher-girl. How the birds did
sing! How still the green glades were! In that one week of rain and
sunshine, how the leaves had grown!
She went gayly forward, humming softly to herself--none of the songs
Roland sang with her, but a little love-song Elizabeth had learned
from Robert Burrell. Her foot had that spring to its lift and fall
that shows there is a young innocent heart above it. In and out among
the glades she went, almost as brightly and musically as the brook
whose sparkling and darkling course she followed. When but a few
hundred yards down the path, someone called her. She thought it was a
fancy and went onward, nevertheless feeling a sudden silence and
trouble. Immediately she heard footsteps and the rustling swish of
parting leaves and branches.
Then she stood still and looked toward the place of disturbance. A
moment afterward Roland Tresham was at her side. He took her hand; he
said softly, "This way, darling!" and before she could make the
slightest resistance he had drawn her into a little glade shut in by
large boulders and lofty trees. Then he had his arms around her, and
was laughing and talking a thousand sweet, unreasonable things.
"Oh, Mr. Tresham, let me go! Let me go!" cried Denas.
"Not while you say 'Mr. Tresham.'"
"Oh, Roland!"
"Yes, love, Roland. Say it a thousand times. Did you think I had
forgotten you?"
"You were very cruel."
"Cruel to be kind, Denas. My love! they think I am in London. Everyone
thinks so. I did go to London last Wednesday. I left London this
morning very early. I got off the train at St. Claire and walked
across the cliff, and found out this pretty hiding-place. And I am
going to be here every Saturday night--every Saturday night, wet or
fine, and if you do not come here to see me, I will go to Australia
and never see St. Penfer again."
He would talk nothing but the most extravagant nonsense, and finally
Denas believed him. He gave her a ring that looked very like
Elizabeth's betrothal ring, and was even larger than Elizabeth's, and
he told her to wear it in her breast until she could wear it on her
hand. And for this night, and for many other Saturday nights, he never
named the plot in his shallow head and selfish heart; he devoted
himself to winning completely the girl's absorbing love--not a very
difficult thing to do, for the air of romance and mystery, at once so
charming and so dangerous, enthralled her fancy; his eager, masterful,
caressing wooing made her tremble with a delicious fear and hope; and
in the week's silence and dreaming, the folly of every meeting grew
marvellously.
Nor was the loving, ignorant girl unaffected by the apparently rich
gifts her lover brought her--brooch and locket and bracelet, many
bright and sparkling ornaments, which poor Denas hid away with joy and
almost childish delight and prideful expectations. And if her
conscience troubled her, she assured it that "if it was right for
Elizabeth to receive such offerings of affection, it could not be
wrong for her to do likewise."
Alas! alas! She did not remember that the element of secrecy made the
element of sin. If she had only entertained this thought, it would
have made her understand that the meeting which cannot be known and
the gift which cannot be shown are wicked in their essence and their
influence, and are incapable of bringing forth anything but sorrow and
sin.