A SEA OF SORROW.
"Time the shuttle drives; but we
Give to every thread its hue
And elect our destiny."
--BURLEIGH.
"Life does not make us, we make life."
"He gave me trust, and trust has given me means
Once to be false for all."
--DRYDEN.
"He at the news
Heart-struck, with chilling gripe of sorrow, stood,
That all his senses bound."
--MILTON.
It had been raining a little when Denas bade her mother farewell, but
by the time she reached the top of the cliff the rain had become fog.
She stood still awhile and turned her face to the sea, and saw one
drift after another roll inland, veiling the beach, and the boats, and
the cottages, and leaving the whole scene a spectacle of desolation.
It affected her painfully. The love and hope in her heart did not
lift her above the depressing influence of that mournful last view
of her home. Was the thing that she was going to do worth while? Was
anything in life worth while? The little town had a half-awakened
Monday-morning look. Every one seemed to be beginning another week
with an "Oh, dear me!" sort of feeling. Miss Priscilla was just
dressing her shop window, and as cross as crossed sticks over her
employment. She said that Denas was late, and wondered "for
goodness' sake why she was so dressed up."
It gave Denas a kind of spiteful pleasure to answer: "She was dressed
to go to Burrell Court and spend a day with Mrs. Burrell. When she
sent Mr. Burrell word the day she would come the carriage would call
for her."
"If you mean the day I can spare you best, I cannot spare you at all
this week. There now!"
"I am not thinking of you sparing me, Priscilla. I am waiting for a
fine day."
"Upon my word! Am I your mistress or are you mine? And what is more,
that Roland Tresham is not coming here again. I have some conscience,
thank goodness! and I will not sanction such ways and such carryings
on any longer. He is a dishonourable young man."
"Has he not paid you, Priscilla?"
Before Priscilla could find the scathing words she required, an
hostler from the Black Lion entered the shop and put a letter into the
hand of Denas.
Priscilla turned angrily on the man and ordered him to leave her shop
directly. Then she said: "Denas Penelles, you are a bad girl! I am
going to write to Mrs. Burrell this day, and to your father and mother
also."
"I would not be a fool if I was you, Priscilla."
Denas was reading the letter, and softly smiling as she uttered the
careless words. For indeed affairs were at a point now where
Priscilla's interference would hurt herself more than others. The note
was, of course, from Roland. It told her that all was ready, and that
the weather being so bad as to render walking very tiresome and
miserable, he had engaged a carriage which would be waiting for her on
the west side of the parish church at seven o'clock that night; and
her lover would be waiting with it, and if Roland was to be believed,
everything joyful and marvellous was waiting also.
This letter was the only sunshine throughout the day. Priscilla's bad
temper was in the ascendant, both in the shop and in the workroom. She
scolded Denas for working so slowly, she made her unrip whatever she
did. She talked at Denas in talking to the other girls, and the girls
all echoed and shadowed their mistress' opinions and conduct. Denas
smiled, and her smile had in it a mysterious satisfaction which all
felt to be offensive. But for the certain advent of seven o'clock, the
day would have been intolerable.
About half-past six she put on her hat and cloak, and Miss Priscilla
ordered her to take them off. "You are not going outside my house
to-night, Denas Penelles," she said. "If you sew until ten o'clock,
you will not have done a day's work."
"I am going home, Priscilla. I will work for you no more. You have
behaved shamefully to me all day, and I am going home."
Priscilla had not calculated on such a result, and it was inconvenient
to her. She began to talk more reasonably, but Denas would listen to
no apology. It suited her plans precisely to leave Priscilla in anger,
for if Priscilla thought she had gone home she would not of course
send any word to her parents. So she left the workroom in a pretended
passion, and shut the shop door after her with a clash that made Miss
Priscilla give a little scream and the forewoman ejaculate:
"Well, there then! A good riddance of such a bad piece! I do say that
for sure."
Very little did Denas care for the opinions of Priscilla and her
work-maidens. She knew that the word of any girl there could be bought
for a day's wage; she was as willing they should speak evil as well of
her. Yet it was with a heart full of anger at the day's petty slights
and wrongs that she hastened to the place mentioned by Roland. As she
turned into the street at one end the carriage entered it at the
other. It came to meet her; it stopped, and Roland leaped to her side.
In another moment she was in the carriage. Roland's arm was around
her; he was telling her how grateful he was; how happy! how proud! He
was promising her a thousand pleasures, giving her hope after hope;
vowing an unalterable and never-ending love.
And Denas surrendered herself to his charm. After the last three
dreadful days, it did seem a kind of heaven to be taken right out of a
life so hard and unlovely and so full of painful emotions; to be
kissed and flattered and to be treated like a lady. The four miles she
had expected to walk went like a happy dream; she was sorry when they
were passed and the bare railway station was reached. It was but a
small place lit by a single lamp, but Roland improvised a kind of
couch, and told her to sleep while he watched and smoked a cigar.
In a short time he returned, and said that there was no train to
Plymouth until midnight; but an express for London would pass in half
an hour, and they had better take it. Denas thought a moment, and
answered with a decision that made Roland look curiously at her: "No.
I will not go to London to be married. I know the preacher at
Plymouth. We will wait for the Plymouth train." It was not a very
pleasant wait. It was cold and damp and inexpressibly dreary, and
Roland could not avoid showing that he was disappointed in not taking
the London train.
But the hours go by, no matter to what measure, and midnight came, and
the train came, and the comfort and privacy of a first-class carriage
restored the lover-like attitude of the runaways. Early in the morning
they reached Plymouth, and as soon as possible they sought the house
of the Wesleyan preacher. It stood close to the chapel and was readily
found. A written message on Roland's card brought him at once to the
parlour. He looked with interest and curiosity and some disapproval at
the couple.
"Mr. Tresham," he said, glancing at the card which he held in his
hand, "you wish me to marry you. I think----" He was going to make
some inquiries or objections, but he caught the expression of anxiety
in the face of Denas, and then he looked carefully at her and asked:
"Have I not seen you before?"
"Yes, sir, when you preached at St. Penfer last summer. I am the
daughter of John Penelles."
"The fisher Penelles?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh! Yes, Mr. Tresham, I will marry you at once. It will be the best
thing, under the circumstances, I am sure. Follow me, sir." As they
went along a narrow covered way, he called a servant and gave her an
order, and then opening a door ushered the would-be bride and
bridegroom into the chapel, and straight to the communion rail.
Denas knelt down there, and for a few moments lost herself in sincere
prayer. After all, in great emotion prayer was her native tongue. When
she stood up and lifted her eyes, the preacher's wife and two
daughters were at her side, and the preacher himself was at the
communion table, with the open book in his hand. The bare chapel in
the grey daylight; the strange tones of the preacher's voice in the
empty place; the strange women at her side--it was all like a dream.
She felt afraid to move or to look up. She answered as she was told,
and she heard Roland answer also. But his voice did not sound real and
happy, and when he took the plain gold ring from the preacher's hand
and said after him, "With this ring I thee wed," she raised her eyes
to her husband's face. It was pale and sombre. No answering flash of
love met hers, and she felt it difficult to restrain her tears.
In truth, Roland was smitten with a sudden irresolution that was
almost regret. As Denas knelt praying, there had come to his mind many
a dream he had had of his own wedding. He had always thought of it in
some old church that would be made to glow with bride-roses and ring
with bride-music. Young maidens and men of high degree were to tread
the wedding march with him. Dancing and feasting, gay company and rich
presents, were to add glory to some fair girl wife, whom he would
choose because, of all others, she was the loveliest; and the
wealthiest, and the most to be desired.
And then his eyes fell upon the girl at his feet, in her plain dark
dress crushed and disordered with a night's travel; the bare, empty
chapel; the utter want of music, flowers, company, or social support
of any kind; the small, rigid-looking preacher without surplice or
insignia of holy office; the half-expressed disapproval on the
countenances of the three women present as witnesses--it was not thus
Elizabeth was married; it was not thus he himself ought to have been
married. How the surroundings might affect Denas he did not even
think; and yet the poor girl also had had her dreams, which this cold,
dreary reality in no measure redeemed.
But the ring was on her finger; she was Roland's wife. Nothing could
ever make her less. She heard the preacher say: "Come into the vestry,
Mrs. Tresham, and sign the register." And then Roland gave her his arm
and kissed her, and she went with the little company, and took the pen
from her husband's hand, and wrote boldly for the last time her
maiden name:
"Denasia Penelles."
Roland looked inquiringly at her, and she smiled and answered: "That
is right, dear. I was christened Denasia."
Very small things pleased Roland, and the new name delighted him. All
the way to London he spoke frequently of it. "You are now Denasia, my
darling," he said. "Let the old name slip with the old life. Besides,
Denasia is an excellent public name. You can sing under it splendidly.
Such a noble name! Why did you let everyone spoil it?"
"Everyone thought Denas was my name. Father and mother always called
me Denas, and people forgot that it was only part of my name.
Fisher-folk have short names, or nicknames."
"But, really, Denasia Penelles is a very distinguished name. A
splendid one for the public."
"Why not Denasia Tresham?"
"Because, my dear, there are Treshams living in London who would be
very angry at me if I put their name on a bill-board. The Treshams are
a very proud family."
"Roland, it would kill my father if I put his name on anything that
refers to a theatre. You don't know how he feels on that subject. It
is a thing of life and death--I mean the soul's life or death--to
him."
A painful discussion, in which both felt hurt and angry and both spoke
in very affectionate terms, followed. It lasted until they reached the
great city which stretches out her hands to every other city. Roland
had secured rooms in a very dull, respectable house in Queen's Square,
Bloomsbury. He had often stayed there when his finances did not admit
of West End luxuries, and the place was suitable for many other
reasons.
Then followed two perfectly happy weeks for Denas. She had written a
few lines to her parents while waiting for a train at Exeter, and she
then resolved not to permit herself to grieve about their grief,
because it could do them no good and it would seriously worry and
annoy Roland. And Roland was so loving and generous. At his command
modistes and milliners turned his plebeian bride into a fashionable,
and certainly into a very lovely lady. She had more pretty costumes
than she had ever dreamed of; she had walking-hats and dress-hats, and
expensive furs, and she grew more beautiful with each new garment.
They went to theatres and operas; they went riding and walking; they
had cosey little dinners at handsome restaurants; and Roland never
once named money, or singing, or anything likely to spoil the charm of
the life they were leading.
During this happy interval Denas did not quite forget her parents. She
wrote to them once, and she very often wondered through whom and in
what manner they received the news of their loss. It was her own hand
which dealt the blow. Miss Priscilla really thought Denas had gone
back to her home, and she resolved on the following Sunday afternoon
to walk down to the fishing village and "make it up" with her. About
Wednesday, however, there began to be floating rumours of the truth.
Several people called on Priscilla and asked after the whereabouts of
Denas; and the landlord of the Black Lion was talking freely of the
large bill Roland had left unsettled there. But none of these rumours
reached the ears of the fisher-folk, nor were they likely to do so
until the St. Penfer _Weekly News_ appeared. The first three days of
the week had been so foggy that no boat had cared to risk a sail over
the bar; but on Thursday morning all was clear, and the men were eager
to get out to sea. John Penelles was hastening toward his boat, when
he heard a voice calling him. It was the postman, and he turned and
went to meet him.
"Here be a letter for you, John Penelles. Exeter postmark. I came a
bit out of my way with it. I thought you would be looking for news."
The man was thinking of Denas and the reports about her flight; but
John's unconcern puzzled him, and he did not care to say anything more
definite to the big fisherman. And, as it happened, a letter was
expected from Plymouth, on chapel business; for the very preacher who
had married Roland and Denas had been asked to come to St. Penfer and
preach the yearly missionary sermon. John had no doubt this letter
from Exeter referred to the matter. He said so to the postman, and
with the unconscious messenger of sorrow in his hand went back to his
cottage.
For letters were unusual events with John. If this referred to the
missionary service, he would have to read it in public next Sunday,
and he was much pleased and astonished that it should have been sent
to him. He felt a certain importance in the event, and was anxious to
share his little triumph with his "old dear." Joan did not quite
appreciate his consideration. She had her hands in the dough, and her
thoughts were upon the pipeclaying which she was going to give to the
flagged floor of her cottage. She had hoped men-folks with their big
boots would keep away until her work was dry and snow-white.
"Here be a letter from Exeter, Joan, to me. 'Twill be about the
missionary service. I thought you would like to know, my dear."
"_Hum-m-m!_" answered Joan. "I could have done without the news, John,
till the bread was baked and the floor was whitened." She had her back
to John, but, as he did not speak again, she turned her face over her
shoulder and looked at him. The next moment she was at his side.
"What is it, John? John Penelles, speak to me."
John stood on the hearth with his left arm outstretched and holding an
open letter. His eyes were fixed on it. His face had the rigid,
stubborn look of a man who on the very point of unconsciousness
arrests his soul by a peremptory act of will. He stood erect, stiff,
speechless, with the miserable slip of white paper at the end of his
outstretched arm.
Joan gently forced him back into his chair; she untied his many
neckcloths; she bared his broad, hairy chest; she brought him water to
drink; and at length her tears and entreaties melted the stone-like
rigour; his head fell forward, his eyes closed, his hand unclasped,
and the letter fell to the floor. It did not interest Joan; nothing on
earth was of interest to her while her husband was in that horror of
stubborn suffering.
"John," she whispered, with her face against his face--"John! My
John! My good heart, be yourself and tell Joan what is the matter.
Is it sickness of your body, John? Is it trouble of your mind, John?
Be a man, and speak to God and to me. God is our refuge and our
strength--think o' that. A very present help in trouble--present, not
a long way off, John, not in heaven; but here in your heart and on
your hearth. Oh, John! John! do speak to me."
"To be sure, Joan! The letter, dear; read it--read it aloud--I may be
mistaken--it isn't possible, I'm sure. God help us both!"
Joan lifted the letter and read aloud the words written so hastily in
a few moments of time, but which brought to two loving hearts years of
anxious sorrow:
"'DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have just been married to Roland
Tresham, and we are on our way to London. I love Roland so much, I
hope you will forgive me. I will write more from London. Your
loving child,
"'DENAS TRESHAM.'"
"Oh, Joan, my dear! My heart be broken! My heart be broken! My heart
be broken!"
"Now, John, don't you be saying such wisht dismal, ugly words. A heart
like yours is hard to break. Not even a bad daughter can do it. Oh, my
dear, don't you talk like that there! Don't, John."
"'Tis the Lord's will, Joan--I do know that."
"It be nothing of the kind, John. It be the devil's will when a child
do wrong such love as yours and mine. And there, now! Will you break
your brave old heart, that has faced death a hundred times, for the
devil? No, 'tis not like to be, I'm sure. Look at the worst of it.
Denas does say she be married. She does write her name with his name.
What then? Many a poor father and mother have drunk the cup we be
drinking--nothing strange have come to us."
"I do not believe she be the man's wife."
"Aw, my dear, I do believe it. And Denas be my daughter, and I will
not let you or any other man say but that she be all of an honest
woman. 'Tis slander against your awn flesh and blood to say different,
John." And Joan spoke so warmly that her temper had a good effect upon
her husband. It was like a fresh sea-breeze. He roused himself and sat
upright, and began to listen to his wife's words.
"Denas be gone away--gone away for ever from us--never more our little
maid--never more! All this be true. But, John, her heart was gone a
long time ago. Our poor ways were her scorn; she have gone to her awn,
my dear, and we could not keep her. 'Tis like the young gull you
brought home one day, and, when it was grown, no love kept it from
the sea. You gave it of your best, and it left you; it lay in your
breast, John, and it left you. My dear! my dear! she be the man's
wife. Say that and feel that and stick to that. He be no son to us,
that be sure; but Denas is our daughter. And maybe, John, things are
going to turn out better than you think for. Denas be no fool."
"Oh, Joan, how could she?"
At this point Joan broke down and began to sob passionately, and John
had to turn comforter. And thus the painful hours went by, and the
bread was not baked, and the boats went to sea without John; and the
two sorrowful hearts sat together on their lonely hearth and talked of
the child who had run away from their love. They were uncertain what
to say to their neighbours, uncertain what their neighbours would say
to them. John thought he ought to go to Exeter and see all the
clergymen there, and so find out if Denas had been lawfully married.
Joan thought it "a wisht poor business to go looking for bad news. Sit
at your fireside, old man, or go far out to sea if you like it better,
and if bad news be for you it will find you out, do be sure of that."
The next day it did find them out. The St. Penfer _News_, published on
Thursday, which was market-day, contained the following item: "On
Monday night the daughter of John Penelles, fisher, ran off with Mr.
Roland Tresham. The guilty pair went direct to London. Great sympathy
is felt for the girl's father, who is a thoroughly upright man and a
Wesleyan local preacher of the St. Penfer circuit."
One of the brethren thought it his duty to show this paragraph to
John. And the "old man" in John gained the mastery, and with a
great oath he swore the words were a lie. Then, being sneeringly
contradicted, he felled "the man of duty" prone upon the shingle.
Then he went home and thoroughly terrified Joan. The repressed animal
passion of a lifetime raged in him like a wild beast. He used words
which horrified his wife, he kicked chairs and tables out of his way
like a man drunk with strong liquor. He said he would go to St.
Merryn's and get his money, and follow Roland and Denas to the end
of the world; and if they were not married, they should marry or
die--both of them. He walked his cottage floor the night through,
and all the powers of darkness tortured and tempted him.
For the first time in all their wedded life Joan dared not approach
her husband. He was like a giant in the power of his enemies, and his
struggles were terrible. But she knew well that he must fight and
conquer alone. Hour after hour his ceaseless tramp, tramp, tramp went
on; and she could hear him breathing inwardly like one who has
business of life and death in hand.
Toward dawn she lost hold of herself and fell asleep. When she awoke
it was broad daylight, and all was still in the miserable house.
Softly she opened the door and looked into the living-room. John was
on his knees; she heard his voice--a far-off, awful voice--the voice
of the soul and not of the body. So she went back, and with bowed
head sat down on the edge of her bed and waited. Very cold was the
winter morning, but she feared to make a movement. She knew it was
long past the breakfast hour; she heard footsteps passing, the shouts
of the fishers, the cries of the sea-birds; she believed it to be at
least ten o'clock.
But she sat breathlessly still. John was wrestling as Jacob wrestled;
a movement, a whisper might delay the victory or the blessing. She
almost held her breath as the muttered pleading grew more and more
rapid, more and more urgent. Then there was a dead silence, a pause, a
long deep sigh, a slow movement--and John opened the door and said
softly, "Joan." There was the light of victory on his face; the cold
strong light of a lifted sword. Then he sat down by her side; but what
he told her and how she comforted him belong to those sacred, secret
things which it is a sacrilege against love to speak of.
They went together to the cold hearth, and kindled the fire, and made
the meal both urgently needed, and, as they ate it, John spoke of the
duty before him. He had sworn at Jacob Trenager and knocked him down;
he had let loose all the devils within him; he had failed in the hour
of his trial, and he must resign his offices of class leader and local
preacher.
It was a bitter personal humiliation. How his enemies would rejoice!
Where he had been first, he must be last. After he had eaten, he took
the plan out of the Bible and looked at it. As he already knew, he was
appointed to preach at St. Clair the following evening. He had
prepared his sermon on those three foggy days that began the week. He
then thought he had never been so ready for a preaching, and he had
the desire of a natural orator for his occasion. But how could he
preach to others when he had failed himself? The flight of his
daughter was in every mouth, and in some measure he would be held
responsible for her sin. Was not Eli punished for his son's
transgressions? The duty before him was a terrible one. It made his
brown face blanch and his strong, stern mouth quiver with mental
anguish.
But he laid the plan on the table and crossed out carefully all the
figures which represented John Penelles. Then he wrote a few lines to
the superintendent and enclosed his self-degradation. Joan wondered
what he would do about the St. Clair appointment, for he had asked no
one to take his place, and early in the afternoon he told her to get
the lantern ready, as he was going there. She divined what he purposed
to do, and she refused to go with him. He did not oppose her decision;
perhaps he was glad she felt able to spare herself and him the extra
humiliation.
Never had the little chapel been so crowded. All his mates from the
neighbouring villages were present; for everyone had some share of
that itching curiosity that likes to see how a soul suffers. A few of
the leaders spoke to him; a great many appeared to be lost in those
divine meditations suitable to the house of worship. John's first
action awakened everyone present to a sense of something unusual. He
refused to ascend the pulpit. He passed within the rails that enclosed
the narrow sacred spot below the pulpit, drew the small table forward,
and, without the preface of hymn or prayer, plunged at once into his
own confession of unworthiness to minister to them. He read aloud the
letter which he had received from his daughter, and averred his belief
in its truthfulness. He told, with the minutest veracity, every word
of his quarrel with Jacob Trenager. He confessed his shameful and
violent temper in his own home; his hatred and his desire and purposes
of revenge; and he asked the pardon of Trenager and of every member of
the church which had been scandalized by the action of his daughter
and by his own sinfulness.
His voice, sad and visibly restrained by a powerful will, throbbed
with the burning emotions which made the man quiver from head to feet.
It was impossible not to feel something of the anguish that looked out
of his large patient eyes and trembled on his lips. Women began to sob
hysterically, men bent their heads low or covered their faces with
their hands; an irresistible wave of sorrow and sympathy was carrying
every soul with it.
But, even while John was speaking, a man rose and walked up the aisle
to the table at which John stood. He turned his face to the
congregation, and, lifting up his big hand, cried out:
"Be quiet, John Penelles. I be to blame in this matter. I be the
villain! There isn't a Cornishman living that be such a Judas as I be.
'Twas under my old boat Denas Penelles found the love-letters that
couldn't have come to her own home. Why did I lend my boat and myself
for such a cruel bad end? Was it because I liked the young man? No, I
hated him. What for, then?" He put his hand in his pocket, took out a
piece of gold, and, in the sight of all, dashed it down on the table.
"That's what I did it for. One pound! A wisht beggarly bit of money!
Judas asked thirty pieces. I sold Paul Pyn for one piece, and it was
too much--too much for such a ghastly, mean old rascal. I be cruel
sorry--but there then! where be the good of 'sorry' now? That bit of
gold have burnt my soul blacker than a coal! dreadful! aw, dreadful! I
wouldn't touch it again to save my mean old life. And if there be a
man or a woman in Cornwall that will touch it, they be as uncommon bad
as I be! that is sure."
"Paul, I forgive you, and there is my hand upon it. A man can only be
'sorry.' 'Sorry' be all that God asks," said John Penelles in a low
voice.
"I be no man, John. I be just a cruel bad fellow. I never had a child
to love me or one to love. No woman would be my wife. I be kind of
forsaken--no kith or kin to care about me," and, with his brown,
rugged face cast down, he began to walk toward the door. Then Ann Bude
rose in the sight of all. She went to his side; she took his hand and
passed out of the chapel with him. And everyone looked at the other,
for Paul had loved Ann for twenty years and twenty times at least Ann
had refused to be his wife. But now, in this hour of his shame and
sorrow, she had gone to his side, and a sigh and a smile passed from
heart to heart and from face to face.
John stood still, with his eyes fixed on the piece of gold. It lay on
the table like a guilty thing. All Pyn's sin seemed to have passed
into it. Men and women stood up to look at it where it lay--the
wretched tool of a bad man. It was a relief when Jacob Trenager gave
out a hymn, a greater relief that John Penelles went out while they
were singing it. Brothers and sisters all wished to talk about John
and John's trouble, but to talk to him in his grief and humiliation
was a different thing. Only the old chapel-keeper watched him going
along the rocky coast at a dangerous speed, his lantern swinging
wildly to his big strides.
But a five-minutes' walk brought John to a place where he was alone
with God and the sea. Oh, then, how he cried out for pity! for
comfort! for help! for forgiveness! His voice was not the inaudible
pleading of a man praying in his chamber; it was like the despairing
call of a strong swimmer in the death-billows. It went out over the
ocean; it went out beyond time and space; it touched the heart of the
Divinity who pitieth the sufferers, "even as a father pitieth his
children."
There was a glow of firelight through his cottage window, but no
candle. Joan was bending sorrowfully over the red coals. John was glad
of the dim light, glad of the quiet, glad of the solitude, for Joan
was only his other self--his sweeter and more hopeful self. He told
her all that had passed. She stood up beside him, she held his head
against her breast and let him sob away there the weight of grief and
shame that almost choked him. Then she spoke bravely to the
broken-down, weary man:
"John, my old dear, don't you sit on the ash-heap like Job, and bemoan
yourself and your birthday, and go on as if the devil had more to do
with you than with other Christians. Speak up to your Heavenly Father,
and ask Him 'why,' and answer Him like a man; do now! And go to Exeter
in the morning, and make yourself sure that Denas be a honest woman.
I, her mother, be sure of it; but there then! men do be so bad
themselves, they can't trust their own hearts, nor their own ears and
eyes. 'I believe' will make a woman happy; but a man, God knows, they
must go to the law and the testimony, or they are not satisfied. It's
dreadful! dreadful!"
They talked the night away, and early in the morning John went to
Exeter. With the proofs of his daughter's marriage in his hand, he
felt as if he could face his enemies. Joan was equal to them without
it. She knew they would find her out, and they found her singing at
her work. Her placid face and cheery words of welcome nonplussed the
most spiteful; the majority who came to triumph over her went away
without being able to say one of the many evil thoughts in their
hearts; and not a few found themselves hoping and wishing good things
for the bride.
But it was a great effort, and many times that day Joan went into
the inner room, and buried her face in her pillow, and had her cry
out. Only she confidently expected John to bring back the proofs of
her child's marriage, and in that expectation she bore without
weakening the slant eye, and the shrugged shoulder, and the denying
looks of her neighbours. And of course John found no minister in
Exeter who had married Denas Penelles and Roland Tresham; and it
never once struck him that Denas had been married in Plymouth and
found no time to write until she reached Exeter. Neither did Joan
think of such a possibility; yet when her husband came in without a
word and sat down with a black, stubborn face, she knew that he had
been disappointed.
That night John held his peace, even from good; and Joan felt that for
once she must do the same. So they sat together without candle,
without speech, bowed to the earth with shame, feeling with bitter
anguish that their old age had been beggared of love, and honour, and
hope, and happiness; and, alas! so beggared by the child who had been
the joy and the pride of their lives.
At the same hour Denas sat with Roland in one of the fine restaurants
to be found in High Holborn. They had eaten of the richest viands, the
sparkle of the champagne cup was in both their eyes, and they were
going anon to the opera. Denas had a silk robe on and a little pink
opera cloak. Her long pale gloves and her bouquet of white roses were
by her side. Roland was in full evening dress. Their eyes flashed;
their cheeks flamed with pleasant anticipations. They rose from their
dinner with smiles and whispered love-words; and Roland ordered with
the air of a lord, "A carriage for the opera."
From John and Joan these events were mercifully hidden. It is only God
who can bear the awful light of omniscience and of omnipresence. The
things we cannot see! The things we never know! Let us be unspeakably
grateful for this blessed ignorance! For many a heart would break that
lives on if it only knew--if it only saw--how unnecessary was its love
to those it loves so fondly!