WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR ROLAND?
"When, lulled in passion's dream, my senses slept,
How did I act?--E'en as a wayward child.
I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept,
And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled."
--MONCRIEFF.
"Love not, love not! O warning vainly said
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal--till they change or die."
--HON. MRS. NORTON.
Hope has a long reach, and yet it holds fast. So, though Roland's
return was far enough away, Denas possessed it in anticipation. The
belief that he would come, that he would give her sympathy and
assistance, helped her through the long sameness of uneventful days by
the witching promise, "Anon--anon!"
There was little to vary life in that quiet hamlet. The pilchard
season went, as it had come, in a day; men counted their gains and
returned to their usual life. Denas tried to accept it cheerfully; she
felt that it would soon be a past life, and this conviction helped her
to invest it with some of that tender charm which clings to whatever
enters the pathetic realm of "Nevermore."
Her parents were singularly kind to her, and John tried to give a
little excitement to her life by coaxing her to share with him the
things he considered quite stirring. But visits to her aunt at St.
Merryn, and Sunday trips to hear some new preacher, and choir
practisings with Tris dangling after them wherever they went, were not
interesting to the wayward girl. She only endured them, as she endured
her daily duties by keeping steadily in view the hope Roland had set
before her. However, as she sang nearly constantly, Joan's mind was
easy; she was sure Denas could not be very discontented, for it never
entered Joan's thought that people could sing unless there was melody
in their heart. And undoubtedly Denas was cheered by her own music,
for if song is given half a chance it has the miraculous power of
turning the water of life into wine.
Only two more letters repaid her for many walks to the turned boat,
and she did not see Pyn again. She was sure, however, that he knew of
her visits and wilfully avoided her. The last of these letters
contained the startling intelligence of Mr. Tresham's death. He had
foolishly insisted upon visiting Rome in the unhealthy season and had
fallen a victim to fever. Roland wrote in a very depressed mood. He
said that his father's death would make a great difference to him. In
a short time the news arrived by the regular sources. Lawyer Tremaine
had been advised to take charge of Mr. Tresham's personal estate, and
the newspaper of the district had a long obituary of the deceased
gentleman.
John said very little on the subject. He had not liked Mr. Tresham
while living, but he was particularly careful to avoid speaking ill of
the dead. He said only that he had heard that "the effects left would
barely cover outstanding debts, and that Mr. Tresham's income died
with him. 'Tis a good thing Miss Tresham be well married," he added,
"else 'twould have been whist hard times for her now."
Denas did not answer. Her sudden and apparently unreasonable
indifference to her former friend was one of the many mental changes
which she could not account for. But she waited impatiently for some
word about Roland. John appeared to have nothing to say. Joan
hesitated with the question on her lips, and at last she almost threw
it at her husband.
"What did you hear about young Mr. Tresham?"
"I asked no questions about him. People do say that he will have to go
to honest work now. 'Twill do him no harm, I'm sure."
"Honest work will be nothing strange to him, father. He has been in a
great many offices. I have heard Elizabeth speaking of many a one."
"I'll warrant--many a one--and he never stays in any. He has a bad
temper for work."
"Bad temper! That is not true. Mr. Roland has a very good temper."
"Good temper! To be sure, after a fashion, a kind of _Hy-to-everybody_
fashion. But a good business temper, Denas, be a different thing; it
be steady, patient, civil, quiet, hard-to-work temper, and the young man
has not got it. No, nor the shadow of it. If he was worth thousands
this year he wouldn't have a farthing next year unless he had a
guider and a withholder by his side constantly."
"You ought not to speak of Mr. Roland at all, father, you hate him
that badly."
"Right you be, Denas. I ought not to speak of the young man. I will
let him alone. And I'll thank every one in my house to do the same
thing."
For some weeks John's orders were carefully observed. Denas got no
more letters, and the summer weather became autumn weather; and then
the leaves faded and began to fall, and the equinoctial storm set the
seal of advancing winter on the cliff-breast. Yet through all these
changes the clock ticked the monotonous days surely away, and one
morning when Denas was standing alone in the cottage door a little lad
slipped up and put a letter into her hand.
He was gone in a moment, and Denas, even while answering a remark of
her mother's, who was busy at the fireside, hid the message in her
bosom. Of course it was from Roland. He said that they had all
returned to Burrell Court and that he could not rest until he had seen
her. Wet or fine, he begged she would be at their old trysting-place
that evening.
Then she began to consider how this was to be managed, and she came to
the conclusion that a visit to St. Penfer was the best way. She knew
well how to prepare for it--the little helps, and confidences, and
personal chatter Joan was always pleased and flattered by were the
wedge. Then as they washed the dinner dishes and tidied the house
together, Denas said:
"Mother, it is going to storm soon, and then whole days to sit and sew
and nothing to talk about. Priscilla Mohun promised me some pretty
pieces for my quilt, and Priscilla always knows everything that is
going on. What do you think? Shall I go there this afternoon? I could
get the patches and hear the news and bring back a story paper, and so
be home before you would have time to miss me."
"Well, my dear, we do feel to be talked out."
"Priscilla will tell me all there is to hear, and if I get the
patches, a few days' sewing and the quilt will be ready for you to
cross-stitch; and a story paper is such a comfort when the storm is
beating you back to house every hour of the day."
"You say right--it be a great comfort. But you will have to be busy
all, for it is like enough to rain within an hour--the tide will bring
it, I'll warrant."
"I will wear my waterproof. Mother, dear, I do want a little change so
much--just to see some new faces and hear tell of the St. Penfer
people."
"Well, then, go your way, Denas, a wetting will do you no harm; and I
do know the days be long days, and the nights do never seem to come to
midnight and then wear to cock-crow. 'Twould be a whist poor life, my
dear, if this life were all."
Denas was now very anxious to get off before her father came back from
his afternoon gossip at the boats. With a gay heart she left her home
and hastened to St. Penfer to execute the things that had been her
ostensible reason for the visit. As it happened, Priscilla Mohun was
full of news. The first thing she said to Denas related to the return
of the Burrells, and then followed all the gossip about the treasures
they had brought with them and changes to be made in the domestic life
of the Court.
"Mrs. Burrell be going to turn things upside down, I can tell you,
Denas. They do say four new servants are hired, two men and two women;
and the horses brought down are past talking about, with silver
trimmings on their harness--that, and no less--and carriages of all
kinds, and one kind finer than the other! I do suppose Mrs. Burrell's
gowns will be all London or Paris bought now; though to be sure poor
Priscilla did make her wedding-dress--but there, then! what be the use
of talking?"
"How long have they been at home?" asked Denas.
"La! I thought if anybody knew that it would be you. I was just taking
a walk last Wednesday, and I happened to see them driving through the
town; Mr. Burrell and his sister, and Mrs. Burrell and her handsome
brother--how happy they looked, and everyone lifting their hats or
making a respectful move to them."
Last Wednesday! and it was now Monday. Denas was dashed by the news.
But she chattered away about everyone they knew, and got her patches,
and her story paper, and then, just as the gloaming was losing itself
in the fog from the sea, she started down the cliff. Roland was
waiting for her. He took her in his arms and kissed her with an eager
and delighted affection; and though the fog had changed to a soft
rain, neither of them appeared to be uncomfortably aware of the fact.
Denas drew the hood of her waterproof over her head and Roland the
heavy collar of his coat about his ears, and they sat close together
on the damp rock, with Roland's umbrella over them.
There was so much to say that they really said nothing. When they had
but half finished repeating "Sweet Denas!" and "Dear Roland!" Denas
had to go. It was only then she found courage to intimate, in a
half-frightened way, that she had been thinking and wondering about
her voice, and if she really could learn to sing. Roland flushed with
delight to find the seed he had sown with so much doubt grown up to
strength and ripeness.
"My lovely one!" he answered, "you must go to London and have lessons;
and I will take care of you. I will see that you have justice and that
no one hurts you."
"But where could I live? And how? I have one hundred pounds of my own.
Will that be enough?"
"You little capitalist! How did you get a hundred pounds?"
"Father has put a few pounds in the bank at St. Merryn every year
since I was born for me, and I have put there all the money your
sister paid me. Father said it was to furnish my home when I got
married, but I would rather spend it on my voice."
"I should think so. Well, Beauty, you are to come and see Elizabeth
off Wednesday; then I shall have something sweet and wonderful to say
to you."
"Will Elizabeth send for me? That would make it easy."
"I do not think Elizabeth will send for you. I have been hoping for
that. She has not named you at all. For my sake, come to the Court on
Wednesday."
"It is a long way to walk, but for your sake I will come."
Then they parted, and she hastened back and reached home just as John
and Joan were beginning to be uneasy at her delay. The sight of her
happy face, the charming little fuss she made about her dripping
waterproof and her wet shoes, the perfectly winning way in which she
took possession of her father's knee and from it warmed her bare rosy
feet at the blaze scattered all shadows. She took their fears and
nascent anger by storm; she exhibited her many-coloured bits of cloth,
and showed John the pictures in the story paper, and coaxingly begged
her mother for a cup of tea, because she was cold and hungry. And
then, as Joan made the tea and the toast, Denas related all that
Priscilla had told her. And Joan wondered and exclaimed, and John
listened with a pleased interest, though he thought it right to say a
word about speaking ill of people, and was snubbed by Joan for doing
so.
"Mrs. Burrell is putting on grand airs, it seems, so then it will go
that people of course will speak ill of her," said Joan.
"Aw, my dear," answered John, "few are better spoken of than they
deserve."
"I do think Denas ought to call on the bride," said Joan. "It would
only be friendly, and many will make a talk about it if she does not
go."
"She must find out, first, if the young man be there."
"No," said Denas warmly, "I will not find out. If you cannot trust
your little maid, father, then do not let her go at all. If people
could hear you talk they would say, 'What a bad girl John Penelles
has! He dare not let her go to see her friend if there be a young man
in the house.' 'Tis a shame, isn't it, mother?"
"I think it be, Denas. Father isn't so cruel suspicious as that, my
dear. Are you, father?"
And what could John answer? Though sorely against his feeling and his
judgment, he was induced to agree that Denas ought perhaps to call
once on the bride. There were so many plausible arguments in favour of
such a visit; there was nothing but shadowy doubts and fears against
it.
"Go to-morrow, then," said John, a little impatiently; "and let me be
done with the fret of it."
"The day after-to-morrow, or Wednesday, father. To-morrow it will be
still raining, no doubt, and I have something to alter in my best
dress. I want to look as fine as I can, father."
"Look like yourself and your people, Denas. That be the best finery.
If roses and lilies did grow on the dusty high-road, they would not be
as fitly pretty as blue-bells and daisies. I do think that, Denas; and
it be the very same with women. Burrell Court is a matter of two miles
beyond St. Penfer; 'tis a long walk, my dear, and dress for the walk
and the weather. Do, my dear!"
Then the subject was changed, and Denas, having won her way, was
really grateful and disposed to make the evening happy for all. She
recollected many a little bit of pleasantry; she mimicked Priscilla to
admiration, merrily and without ill-will, and then she took the story
paper and read a thrilling account of some great shipwrecks and a poem
that seemed to John and Joan's simple minds "the sweetest bit of word
music that could be."
At the same hour Elizabeth and Roland were playing an identical role
under different circumstances. Roland had hoped to slip away to his
room unobserved. He knew Miss Burrell had gone to a friend's house
for a day or two, and he thought Robert and Elizabeth would be
sufficiently occupied with each other. But some gentlemen were with
Robert on parish business, and Elizabeth was alone and well inclined
to come to an understanding with her brother.
"Caroline had to go without an escort, Roland. It was too bad," she
said reproachfully as she stood in the open door of a parlour and
waited for his approach.
"You see I am wet through, Elizabeth. I will change my clothing and
come to you. Where is Robert?"
"With the churchwardens. I want to talk to you seriously. We shall be
alone for an hour. Come as soon as you can."
"In five minutes. It will be delightful to have you all to myself once
more."
He came back quickly and placed his chair close to hers, and lifted
her face to his face and kissed her, saying fondly, "My dear little
sister."
"Where have you been, Roland?"
"I could have bet on the words 'Where have you been?' That is always a
woman's first question."
"Have you been with Denas?"
"I have been at the Black Lion and at Tremaine's. We will suppose that
I wished to see Denas--is this pouring rain a fit condition? Do think
of something more likely, Elizabeth."
"Say to me plainly: 'I have not seen Denas.'"
"If you wish me to say the words, consider that I have done so. Why
have you taken a dislike to Denas? You used to be very fond of her."
"I have not taken any dislike to the girl. I have simply passed out of
the season of liking her. In the early spring we find the violet
charming, but when summer comes we forget the violet in the rose and
the lily and the garden full of richer flowers. The time for Denas has
passed--that is all, Roland. What are you going to do about Caroline?
When will you ask her to marry you?"
"I have asked her twice already; once in Rome, when she put me off;
and again in London, when she decidedly refused me."
"What did she say?"
"That she believed she could trust herself to my love, because she did
not think I would be unkind to any woman; but she was sure she could
not trust me with her fortune, because I would waste it without any
intention of being wasteful. Caroline wants a financier, not a
lover."
"The idea!"
"She talked about the responsibilities of wealth."
"How could she talk to you in that way?"
"She did--really."
"Then Caroline is out of reckoning."
"Between ourselves, I think she was right, Elizabeth. I am positive I
should spend any sum of money. What I need is a wife who can make
money week by week, year by year--always something coming in; like an
opera-singer, for instance. Do you understand?"
"Could you expect me to understand such nonsense? I asked Robert
to-day about poor father's estate. He thinks there may be four or five
hundred pounds after paying all debts. Of course you will receive it
all. Robert is very kind, but I can see that he would prefer that you
were not always at the Court."
"I daresay he put Caroline up to refuse me."
"I have no doubt of it. He would consider it a brotherly duty; and to
tell the truth, Roland, I fear you would give any woman lots of
heartache. I cannot tell what must be done. You have had so many good
business chances, and yet never made anything of them."
"That is true, Elizabeth. If I take to a business, it fails. If I
dream of some fine prospect, the dream does not come true. In fact, my
dear sister,
"'I never had a piece of toast
Particularly long and wide,
But it fell on the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.'
Still, there is one thing I can do when all else fails: I can take the
Queen's shilling and go in for glory."
"Roland, you break my heart with your folly. Why will you not be
reasonable? How could I ever show my face if you were a common
soldier? But the army is a good thought. Suppose you do try the army.
I daresay Robert can get you a commission--at the right time, of
course."
"Thanks! I do not think the army would agree with me; not, at any
rate, until I had played my last card. And if I have to make a hero of
myself, I shall certainly prefer the position of a full private. It is
the privates that do the glory business. I would join the army as
Private Smith; for though
"'Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
And of many a great commander
As glorious as these;
If you want to know a hero
Of genuine pluck and pith,
It's perfectly clear that none come near
The full British private Smith.'"
And he declaimed his mock heroics so delightfully that Elizabeth not
only succumbed to his charm, but also wondered in her heart why
everyone else did not.
"You see, sweet sister, that wealth is not exactly the same thing as
shining virtue, or else Caroline would have been generous. I am sure I
should be particularly grateful to any woman who made me rich."
"Why woman, Roland?"
"Well, because if a man puts any money in my way he expects me to
work for it and with it; to invest it and double it; to give an
account of it; to sacrifice myself body and soul for it. But a dear
little darling woman would never ask me questions and never worry me
about interest. She would take love and kisses as full value
received--unless she was a girl like Caroline, an unwomanly,
mercenary, practical, matter-of-money creature."
"Do not talk in that way of Caroline."
"I am talking of her money, and it is no impeachment of its value to
say that it is mortal like herself. Still, I am ready to acknowledge
"'How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!
How pleasant it is to have money!'
and as much of it as possible, Elizabeth."
"We come to no definite results by talking in this way, Roland. When
you get to singing snatches of song I may as well be quiet. And yet I
am so unhappy about you. O Roland! Roland! my dear, dear brother, what
can I do for you?"
She covered her face with her hands, and Roland took them away with
gentle force. "Elizabeth, do not cry for me. I am not worth a tear.
Darling, I will do anything you want me to do."
"If I get Robert to give you a desk in the bank?"
"Well, love, anything but that. I really cannot bear the confinement.
I should die of consumption; besides, I have a moral weakness,
Elizabeth, that I am bound to consider--there are times, dear, when I
get awfully mixed and cannot help
"'Confounding the difference 'twixt _meum_ and _tuum_
By kindly converting it all into _suum_.'"
"O Roland, I really do not know what you are fit for!"
"If I had been born three or four centuries ago I could have been
a knight-errant or a troubadour. But alas! in these days the
knight-errants go to the Stock Exchange and the troubadours write
for the newspapers. I am not fitted to wrestle with the wild beasts of
the money market; I would rather go to Spain and be a matador."
"Roland, here comes Robert. Do try and talk like a man of ordinary
intelligence. Robert wants to like you--wants to help you if you will
let him."
"Yes, in his way. I want to be helped in my own way. Good-evening,
Robert! I am glad you were not caught in the rain."
The grave face brightened to the charm of the young man, and then for
an hour Roland delighted his sister by his sensible consideration, by
his patient attention to some uninteresting details, by his prudence
in speaking of the future; so that Robert said confidentially to his
wife that night:
"Roland is a delightful young man. There must be some niche he can
fill with honour. I wonder that Caroline could resist his attentions.
Yet she told me to-day that she had refused him twice."
"Caroline is moved by her intellect, not by her heart. Also, she is
very Vere-de-Vereish, and she has set her mark for a lord, at least."
"What can be done for Roland?"
"He talked of going into the army."
"Nonsense! Going into the army means, for Roland, going into every
possible temptation and expense--that would not do. But he ought to be
away from this little town. He will be making mischief if he cannot
find it ready-made."
"I am very uneasy about that girl from the fishing village, the girl
whom I used to have with me a great deal."
"Denas--the girl with the wonderful voice?"
"Yes. Did you think her voice wonderful?"
"Perhaps I should say haunting voice. She had certainly some unusual
gift. I do not pretend to be able to define it. But I remember every
line of the first measure I heard her sing. Many a time since I have
thought my soul was singing it for its own pleasure, without caring
whether I liked it or not; for when mentally reckoning up a
transaction I have heard quite distinctly the rhythmical rolling
cadence, like sea wave, to which the words were set. I hear it now."
"Upon my word, Robert, you are very complimentary to Denas. I shall be
jealous, my dear."
"Not complimentary to Denas at all. I hardly remember what the girl
looked like. And it is not worth while being jealous of a voice, for I
can assure you, Elizabeth, a haunting song is a most unwelcome visitor
when your brain is full of figures. And somehow it generally managed
to come at a time when the bank and the street were both in a tumult
with the sound of men's voices, the roll of wagons, and the tramp of
horses' feet."
"A song of the sea in the roar of the city! How strange! I am curious
to hear it: I have forgotten most of the songs Denas sang."
"The roar of the city appeared to provoke it. When it was loudest I
usually heard most clearly the sweet thrilling echo, asking
"'What is the tale of the sea, mother?
What is the tale of the wide, wide sea?'
'Merry and sad are the tales, my darling,
Merry and sad as tales may be.
Those ships that sail in the happy mornings,
Full of the lives and souls of men,
Some will never come back, my darling;
Some will never come back again!'"
And as Elizabeth listened to her husband half singing the charmful
words, she took a sudden dislike to Denas. But she said: "The song is
a lovely song, and I must send for Denas to sing it again for us." In
her heart she resolved never to send for Denas; "though if she does
come"--and at this point Elizabeth held herself in pause for a minute
ere she decided resolutely--"if she does come I will do what is right.
I will be kind to her. She cannot help her witching voice--only--only
I must step between her and Roland--that is for the good of both;" and
she fell asleep, planning for this emergency.