THE SEED OF CHANGE.
"I love thee! I love thee!
'Tis all that I can say;--
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day."
--HOOD.
"Ah, if the selfish knew how much they lost,
What would they not endeavour, not endure,
To imitate as far as in them lay
Him who His wisdom and His power employs
In making others happy."
--COWPER.
All fashionable wedding ceremonies are similar in kind and effect, and
Elizabeth would not have been satisfied if hers had varied greatly
from the highest normal standard. Her dress was of the most exquisite
ivory-white satin and Honiton lace. Her bridesmaids wore the orthodox
pink and blue of palest shades. There was the usual elaborate
breakfast; the cake and favours, the flowers and music, and the finely
dressed company filling the old rooms with subdued laughter and
conversation. All things were managed with that consummate taste and
order which money without stint can always command; and Elizabeth felt
that she had inaugurated a standard of perfection which cast all
previous affairs into oblivion, and demanded too much for any future
one to easily attain unto.
In the arrangements for this completely satisfactory function, the
position which Denas was to occupy caused some discussion. Mr. Tresham
had hitherto regarded her with an indifference which sometimes assumed
a character of irritability. He was occasionally jealous of his
daughter's liking for the girl; he knew men, and he was always
suspicious of her influence on his son Roland. Proud and touchy about
his own social position, he never forgot that Denas was the child of
poor fisher people, and he could not understand the tolerant affection
Elizabeth gave to a girl so far beneath her own standing.
When Elizabeth included her in the list of bridesmaids, he disputed
the choice with considerable temper. He said that he had long endured
a companionship not at all to his taste, because it gave Elizabeth
pleasure; but that on no account would he compel his guests to receive
Denas as their equal. His opposition was so determined that Elizabeth
gave up her intention, though she had to break an oft-repeated
promise. But, then, promises must be dependent on circumstances for
their redemption, and all the circumstances were against Denas.
"Mr. Burrell has two sisters," said Elizabeth to her, "and if I do not
ask Cousin Flora I shall never be forgiven; and father insists upon
Georgia Godolphin, because of his friendship with Squire Godolphin;
and I cannot manage more than four bridesmaids, can I? So you see,
Denas," etc., etc., etc.
Denas saw quite clearly, and with a certain pride of self-respect she
relegated herself to a position that would interfere with no one's
claims and offend no one's social ideas.
"I am to be your real bridesmaid, Elizabeth," she said. "Miss
Burrells, and your cousin Flora, and Miss Godolphin are for show. I
shall be really your maid. I shall lace your white satin boots, and
fasten your white satin dress, and drape the lace, and clasp the gems,
and make your bride-bouquet. I shall stay upstairs while you are at
church and lay ready your travelling costume and see that Adele packs
your trunks properly; and when you go away I shall fasten your cloak,
and tie your bonnet, and button your gloves, and then go away myself;
for there will be no one here then that likes me and nothing at all
for me to do."
And this programme, made with a little heartache and sense of love's
failure, Denas faithfully carried out. It cost her something to do it,
but she did not permit Elizabeth to see that she counted her faithless
in her heart. For she did not blame her friend; she understood the
force of the reasons not given--Mr. Tresham's latent dislike, her
humble birth, her want of fine clothes and fine polish and rich
connections--and she felt keenly enough that there was nothing about
her, personally or socially, to make Mr. Tresham's guests desire her.
And when the day drew near and they began to arrive, Denas shrank more
and more from their society. She saw that Elizabeth's manner with
them was quite different from her manner to herself, and in spite of
much kindness and generosity she felt humiliated, alone, outside, and
apart. She wondered why it was. These rich girls came in little
companies to Elizabeth's room, and with soft laughter and exclamations
of delight examined the bride's pretty garments and presents. They
were never haughty with her; on the contrary, they were exceedingly
pleasant. They called her "Miss Denas" and carefully avoided anything
like condescension in their intercourse. Yet Denas knew that between
them and herself there was a line impalpable as the equator and just
as potent in its dividing power.
It saddened her beyond reason, and when Roland arrived two days before
the wedding and she saw him wandering in the garden, riding, driving,
playing tennis, chatting and chaffing, singing and dancing with these
four girls of his own circle, she divined a difference, which she
could not explain but which pained and angered her.
Still, that last week of Elizabeth's maiden life was a wonderful week.
It was like living in the scenes of a theatre--there was no talk but
of love. All that everyone said or did referred to the great passion.
The house was in the hands of decorators; the aroma of all kinds of
delicious things to eat was in the air. There was a constant tinkling
of the piano and harp. Snatches of song, ripples of laughter, young
voices calling through the house and garden, light footsteps going
everywhere, the flutter of pink and blue and white dresses, the snowy
ribbons and massed roses in every room, the exciting atmosphere of
love and expectation--who could escape it? And who, when in the midst
of it, was able to prevent or to deny its influence?
Denas gave herself freely to the moment. The presence of Roland made
all things easy to her. He contrived many an unseen meeting; her lips
never lost the sense of his stolen kisses; her hands were constantly
pink with the passing clasp or the momentary pressure. No one could
have supposed he was planning anything, for he was continually with
someone or with all of the four bridesmaids; yet there was not an hour
in which he did not manage to give Denas her part, though it were but
an upward glance at the open window where she sat sewing, or a kiss
flung backward to her; or a lifted hat, or a rose left where she alone
could find it; or a little love-letter crushed into her hand in
passing.
Such a week to stir a young heart to love's sweet fever! It passed
like a dream, and went finally with the clashing of wedding-bells and
the trampling of horses carrying away the bride. Then the guests
followed one by one until the house was lonely and deserted; and the
servants began to remove the remnants of the feast and to take down
the fading wreaths and roses.
Mr. Tresham took Roland with him to Burrell Court. He seemed
determined to keep his son by his side, and the drive to Burrell was
an effectual way. No one thought of Denas. She had now no place nor
office in the house. But she remained until near sundown, for she
trusted that Roland would find out a way to meet her at their usual
trysting-place. And just when she had given him up he came. Then he
told her that he was going to London in the morning, because his
father had suddenly resolved upon a short pleasure-trip, and he had
promised to go with him as far as Paris. But he had provided for their
correspondence.
"There is a man in St. Clair called Pyn, a boatman living in the first
cottage you come to, Denas," he said. "I have given him money, and my
letters to you will go to him. Can you walk to St. Clair for them?" It
was a foolish question; Roland knew that Denas would walk twenty miles
for a letter from him. He then gave her some addressed envelopes in
which to enclose her letters to him. "Pyn will post them," he said,
"and the handwriting will deceive everyone. And I shall come back to
you, Denas, as soon as I can get away from my father; and Pyn will
bring a message to St. Penfer and let you know, in some way, when I
get home."
These particulars being fully arranged and understood, he talked to
her of her own loveliness. He told her she was more beautiful in her
plain white frock than the bride in her bride-robes. He said all that
lovers have said from the beginning of time; all that lovers will say
until time ends. Denas believed him, believed every word, for the
nature of true love is to be without doubt or fear. And Roland thought
he loved her quite well enough for their future life together. If she
was to become a public singer, it would not be wise for him to have
too exclusive and jealous affection for her. Roland had always been
prudent for himself; he thought of everything which might affect his
own happiness. This night, however, he gave up all for love. He kept
Denas by his side until the gloaming was quite gone, and then he
walked with her down to the very shingle. They parted with tears and
kisses and murmured protestations of fidelity. And Denas watched her
lover until he reached the first bend in the upward path. There he
turned, and she stretched out her arms to him, and Roland lifted his
hat and kissed his hand, and then vanished among the thick trees.
The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could see
the fishing-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. She
knew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottage
she saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were folded
across her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent or
anxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart,
though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. She
tried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almost
angry at the stubborn indifference which she was unable to conquer.
"You be long in getting home, Denas. Father went to sea quite put out.
Jane Serlo says the bride did go away at two o'clock. Well, then, it
be long after nine now, Denas!"
"I had a lot to do after Mrs. Burrell left, mother--things she would
not trust anyone else to look to."
"Hum-m! 'Tis no good way, to take such charge. Who knows what she may
be saying after-times? I do feel glad she be married at last, and done
with. Mayhap we may see a bit of comfort ourselves now."
"She gave me twenty pounds before she left, mother."
"There be things twenty pound can't buy nor pay for; I tell you that,
Denas. And to see your father go off with the boat to-night, without
heart in him and only care for company! I do not feel to like it,
Denas. If your lover be dear to you, so be my old husband to me."
"What lover are you talking about, mother?"
"The lover that kept you on the cliff-breast--Roland Tresham, he be
the lover I mean."
"Who told you I was with Roland?"
"I know that you were not at Mr. Tresham's, for one called there to
put you safely home."
"I suppose Tris Penrose has been spying me and telling tales to father
and you."
"There be no need for Tris nor for anyone else to speak. Say to me,
plain and straight, that you were not with Roland Tresham to-night.
Say that to me, if you dare."
"I have had such a happy day, mother, and now you have taken all the
pleasure out of it--a mean thing to do! I say that."
"Your father and I had a happy day, thinking of your happiness. And
then to please that bad young man, who is not of your kind and not of
your kin, you do stay out till bad birds and night creatures are
prowling; till the dew be wetting you; till you have sent your father
off to the deep sea with a heart heavy enough to sink his boat--a mean
thing that to do! Yes! yes! cruel mean thing!"
"Mrs. Burrell gave me twenty pounds. I had to do something to earn
it."
"My faith! I'd fling the twenty pound to the fishes. Aw, then, 'tis a
poor price for my girl's love, and her innocent heart, and the proud
content she once had in her own folk. Only fishers! but God's folk,
for all that! But there! What be the use of talking? After Mr.
Tresham's flim-flams, my words be only muddling folly."
"I am going to bed, mother."
"To be sure. Go your ways."
Then Joan also rose, and went to the fireside, and drew the few coals
together, and lit a lamp. For a moment she stood still, looking at the
closed door between her and her child; then she lifted a large book
from the window-sill, laid it on the small round table, opened it
wide, and sat down before it. It was a homely, workaday-looking book,
and she did not read a word of it, though her eyes were upon the page.
But it was the Bible. And the Bible is like the sunshine, it comforts
and cheers us only to sit down in its presence.
And very soon Joan lifted her hand and laid it across the open page.
It was like taking the hand of a friend. God knows what strength, what
virtue, there was in that movement! For she immediately covered her
face with her other hand and tears began to fall, and anon mighty
whispered words parted her lips--words that went from the mother's
heart to the heart of God! How can such prayer ever fail?
In the morning John Penelles met his daughter, not with the petulant
anger of a wounded woman, but with a graver and more reasonable
reproof. "Denas, my dear," he said, and he gently stroked her hair as
he spoke, "Denas, you didn't do right yesterday; did you now? But you
do be sorry for it, I see; so let the trouble go. But no more of it!
No more out in the dark, my girl, either for bride-making or for
corpse-waking, and as for the man who kept you out, let him ask God to
keep him from under my hand. That is all about it. Come and give
father his tea, and then we will mend the nets together; and if
Saturday be fair, Denas, we will go to St. Merryn and see your Aunt
Agnes. 'You don't want to go?' Aw, yes, my dear, you do want to go.
You be vexed now; and not you that should be vexed at all, but your
mother and I. There, then! No more of it!"
He spoke the last words as if he was at the end of his patience, and
then turned sharply toward the broiled fish and hot tea which Joan was
placing on the table. The face of Denas angered him, it was so
indifferent and so wretched. He could have laughed away a little
temper and excused it, for he was not an unjust nor even an
unsympathetic man; and he realized his daughter's youth and her
natural craving for those things which youth considers desirable.
But the utter hopelessness of her attitude, her refusal to eat, her
silence, her sighs, the unsuitableness of the dress she wore to the
humble duties of her station, her disinclination to talk of what
troubled her, or indeed to talk at all--both John and Joan felt these
things to be a wrong, deliberate and perpetual, against their love and
their home and their daily happiness.
It was certainly a great and sudden change in the life of Denas. For
the past eight weeks she had been in an atmosphere of excitement,
tinctured with the subtle hopes and expectations of love. In it she
had grown mentally far beyond the realization of her friends. She had
observed, assimilated, and translated her new ideas through her own
personality as far as her means permitted. If her mother and father
had looked carefully at their daughter, they would have seen how much
more effectively her hair was arranged; what piquancy of mode had been
observed in the making of her new dresses; what careful pride had
dictated the fashion and fit of her high-heeled shoes; what trouble
was systematically taken to preserve her delicate skin and to restore
the natural beauty of her hands--in short, they must have noticed that
their child's toilet and general appearance was being gradually but
still rapidly removed from all fitness with her present surroundings.
And just after Elizabeth's marriage came on the hardest and most
distinctive part of the fisher's year. All along the rocky coast the
"huers" were standing watching for the shoals of pilchard, and the men
were in the boats beneath, waiting for their signal to shoot the
seines. Every fisher had now, in an intense degree, the look which
always distinguishes him--the look of a man accustomed to reflect and
to be ready for emergencies. This year the shoals were so large that
boat-loads were caught easily in fifty feet of water.
Then every wife in the hamlet had her hands full and busy from dawn
till dark; and Joan went to the work with an exuberant alacrity and
good nature. In former years Denas had felt all the enthusiasm of the
great sea harvest. This year she could not endure its clamour and its
labour. What had happened to her that the sight of the beautiful fish
was offensive and the smell of its curing intolerable? She shut her
eyes from the silvery heaps and would gladly have closed her ears
against the jubilant mirth, the shouting and laughing and singing
around her.
Her intense repugnance did really at last breed in her a low fever,
which she almost gladly succumbed to. She thought it easier to lie in
bed and suffer in solitude than to put her arms to her white elbows in
fresh fish and bear the familiar jokes of the busy, merry workers in
the curing-sheds. Denas was not really responsible for this change. It
had grown into her nature, day by day and week by week, while she was
unconscious of any transforming power. The little reluctances which
had marked its first appearance had been of small note; her father and
mother had only laughingly reproved them, telling her "not to nourish
prideful notions." She had not even been aware of nourishing anything
wrong. Was it wrong? She lay tossing on her bed in the small warm
room, and argued the question out while fever burned in her veins and
gave to all things abnormal and extravagant aspects.
She was really ill, and she almost wished she could be more ill. No
one quite believed she was suffering much. The headache and languor
incident to her condition did not win much sympathy until their
ravages became apparent. Then Joan honestly believed that a little
exercise in the fresh salt air would have cured, perhaps even
prevented, the illness. So that at this time Denas thought herself
very unkindly used.
This apparent lack of interest in her condition added greatly to that
dissatisfaction with her life which she now constantly dwelt upon. She
felt that she must do something to escape from an existence which
repelled her; and yet what could she do? Somehow she had suddenly lost
faith in Elizabeth. Elizabeth changed before she went away; who could
say how much greater the change would be when she returned after four
months' travel?
Denas at this time pitied herself greatly, and taking women as they
are, and not as they ought to be, she deserved some pity. For though
it may not be a lofty ambition to long after a finely appointed house,
and delicate food delicately served, and elegant clothing and refined
society, and, with all and above all, a lover who fits into such
externals, yet Denas did long for these things; and the circumstances
of her own life were common, and vulgar, and hateful to her.
True, she had her father and mother, and she loved them dearly; but,
then, she could undoubtedly love them quite as well if she were rich,
while they would not love her any the less. As for Tris Penrose and
his tiresome devotion, what was Tris to Roland? Tris did not even know
how to woo her. He never told her how beautiful she was, and how he
adored her, and longed for her, and thought all women wearisome but
her. He never kissed her hands and her hair, her cheeks and her lips,
as Roland did. He never said to her, "You are fit to be a duchess or a
queen; you sing like a nightingale and charm my soul out of me, and
you have hands and feet like a fairy." Poor Tris! He was stupid and
silent. He could only look and sigh, or, if he did manage to speak, he
was sure to plunge into such final questions as, "Denas, will you
marry me? When will you marry me?" Or to tell her of his stone
cottage, and his fine boat, and the money he had in the St. Merryn's
Savings Bank.
For three weeks this silent conflict went on in the mind and heart of
Denas, an unsatisfactory fight in which no victory was gained. At the
end she was no more mistress of her inclinations than at the
beginning, and her returning health only intensified her longings for
the things she had not. One morning she awoke with the conviction that
there was a letter for her at St. Clair. She determined to go and see.
She said to her mother that she felt almost well and would try to take
a walk. And Joan was glad and encouraged the idea.
"Go down to the sea-shore, Denas, and breathe the living air; do, my
sweetheart!"
"No, mother. There are crowds there and the smell of fish, and--I
can't help it, mother--it turns me sick; it makes me feverish. I want
to go among the trees and flowers."
"Aw, my dear, you will be climbing and climbing up to St. Penfer; and
you be weak yet and not able to."
"I will not climb at all. I will walk near the shingle; and I will
take a bit of bread with me and a drink of milk; then I can rest all
day on the grass, mother."
"God bless you, dear! And see now, come home while the sun is
warm--and take care of yourself, Denas."
Then Joan went to the curing-sheds. She had a light heart, for Denas
was more like her old self, and after going a hundred yards she turned
to nod to her girl, and was glad that she was watching her and that
she waved her kerchief in reply. Something heavy slipped from Joan's
heart at that moment and her work went with her all day long.
It was two miles to St. Clair, but Denas walked there very rapidly.
She remembered that Pyn's cottage was the first cottage; and as she
approached it the boatman came to the door. He looked at her with a
grave curiosity, and she went straight up to him and said: "Have you a
letter for me?"
"I do think I have. You be John Penelles' little girl?"
"Yes."
"I knew John years ago. We sat in the same boat. I like John--he is a
true man. Here be three letters. At first I thought these letters be
going to bring a deal of potter and bother--maybe something worse--and
I will put them in the fire. Then I thought, they bean't your letters,
Pyn, and if you want to keep yourself out of a mess, never interfere
and never volunteer. So here they be. But if you will take an old
man's advice, I do say to you, burn the letters. It will be better far
than to be reading them."
"Why will it be better?"
"There be letters worse than death drugs. If you do buy a bottle of
arsenic, the man will put its character on the bottle. You see
'poison' and you be warned. But young men do write poison, and worse
than poison, to young women, and no warning outside the letter. It
isn't fair, now, is it?"
"Why did you take charge of the poison?"
"To be sure! Why did I? Just because it was for John Penelles' little
girl, and I thought mayhap she'd take a warning from me. Don't you
read them letters, my dear. If you do, let the words go in at one ear
and out of the other. Roland Tresham! he be nothing to trust to! Aw,
my dear--a leaky boat--a boat adrift; no man at the helm; no helm to
man; no sail; no compass; no anchor; no anything for a woman to trust
to! There, then, I have had my say; if this say be of no 'count,
twould be the same if I talked my tongue away. If you come again and
there be any letters, you will find them under the turned boat--slip
your hand in--so. Dear me! You be fluttering and wuttering like a
bird. Poor dear! Step into my boat and I'll put you back home. You
look as quailed as a faded flower."
Thus Pyn talked as he helped Denas into the boat and slowly settled
himself to the oars. Afterward he said nothing, but he looked at Denas
in a way that troubled her and made her thankful to escape his silent,
pitiful condemnation. Her mother was still absent when she reached the
cottage, and she was so weary that she was very grateful for the
solitude. She shut her eyes for a few minutes and collected her
strength, and then opened Roland's letters.
They were full of happiness--full of wonders--full of love. He was
going to Switzerland with his father. Elizabeth was there, and Miss
Caroline Burrell, and a great many people whom they knew. But for him,
no one was there. "Denas was all he longed for, cared for, lived for!"
Oh, much more of the same kind, for Roland's love lay at the point of
his pen.
And he told her also that he had heard many singers, many famous
singers, and none with a voice so wildly sweet, so enthralling as her
voice. "If you were only on the stage, Denas," he wrote, "you could
sing the world to your feet; you could make a great fortune; you could
do anything you liked to do."
The words entered her heart. They burned along her veins, they filled
her imagination with a thousand wild dreams. She put the fatal letters
safely away, and then, stretching her weary form upon her bed, she
closed her eyes and began to think.
Why should she cure fish, and mend nets, and clean tables and
tea-cups, if she possessed such a marvellous gift? Why should her
father go fishing with his life in his hand, and her mother work hard
from dawn to dark, and she herself want all the beautiful things her
soul craved? And how would Elizabeth feel? Perhaps they might be glad
enough yet if she married Roland. And as the possibility of returning
social slights presented itself, she remembered many a debt of this
kind it would be a joy to satisfy. And then Roland! Roland! Roland! He
had always believed in her; always loved her. She would repay his
trust and love a thousand-fold. What a joy it would be!
So she permitted herself to grasp impossibilities, to possess
everything she desired. Well, in this life, what mortals know is but
very little; what they imagine--ah, that is everything!