A PIECE OF MONEY AND A SONG.
"Tis but a Judas coin, though it be gold;
The price of love forsworn, 'tis full of fears
And griefs for those who dare to hold;
And leaves a stain, only washed clean with tears."
"Behold and listen while the fair
Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air;
She raised her voice so high, and sang so clear,
At every close she made the attending throng
Replied, and bore the burthen of the song;
So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note,
It seemed the music melted in the throat."
--DRYDEN.
The piece of money left by Pyn might have been a curse; no one would
touch it. While the women stood in groups talking of poor John
Penelles and Denas, the men held an informal meeting around the table
on which it lay.
"This be the communion table," said Jacob Trenager; "some one ought to
take the money off it. And I think it be best to carry the gold to the
superintendent; he will tell us what to do with it;" and, after some
objections, Jacob took charge of the sinful coin, and the next morning
he went up the cliff to St. Penfer with it.
The preacher heard the story with an intense interest. "Jacob," he
answered, "I suppose there be none so poor in your village as to feel
it might do them good?"
"Man, nor woman, nor child, would buy a loaf with it, sir; none of us
men would let them. If Denas Penelles have gone out of the way, sir,
she be a fisher's daughter, and the man and the money that beguiled
her be hateful to all of us."
"Your chapel--is it not very poor?"
"Not poor enough to take the devil's coin, sir."
"Well, Jacob, I cannot say that I feel any more disposed to use it
than you do. We know it was the wage of sin, and neither the service
of God nor the poor will be the better for it. I think we will give it
back to the young man. It may help to show him how his fellows regard
the thing he did."
"That be the best way of all, sir. But he be in London, and hard to
find no doubt."
"I will take it to his sister. I do not hold her quite guiltless."
So Jacob threw the sovereign on the preacher's desk, and it lay on the
green baize, a yellow, evil-looking thing. For men love to make their
thoughts palpable to their senses, and this bit of gold was visible
sin--part of the price of a desolated home.
It was singular to see this same personification troubling the
educated preacher as well as the unlearned fisherman. The Rev. William
Farrar, when left alone with the unwelcome coin, looked askance at it.
He did not like to see it on his desk, he had a repugnance to touch
it. Then he forced himself to lift the sovereign, and by an elaborate
fingering of the coin convince his intellect that he had no foolish
superstition on the subject. Anon he took out his purse for its safe
keeping, but suddenly, after a moment's hesitation, he snapped the
clasp tight, and threw the bit of money on the chimney-piece. For a
momentary flash of thought had brought vividly before him the sinful
Babylonish garment which troubled the camp of Israel. Perhaps that
sinful money might be equally malign to his own household.
He had resolved to take it to Mrs. Burrell in the afternoon, for the
morning was his time for study and writing. But he found it impossible
to think of his sermon. That sovereign on the mantelpiece was in all
his thoughts. His back was to it, and yet he saw the dull shining
disc. In spite of his reason and his faith, in spite of a very strong
will and of a practiced command over himself, he felt the presence of
the rejected coin to be a weight and an influence he could not pretend
to ignore.
So he resolved to leave every other duty and go to Burrell Court,
though it was a long walk, and the thick misty Cornish rain had begun
to fall. Indeed, there was nothing but a vapourish shroud, a dim, grey
chaos, as far as his eye could reach. The strip of road on which he
trod was apparently the only land left to tread on--all the rest of
creation had disappeared in a spectral mist. But above the mist the
lark was singing joyously, singing for the song's sake, and the melody
went down into his heart and preached him a better sermon than he was
ever likely to write.
Listening to it, he reached, before he was aware, the great gates of
the Court. Mrs. Burrell was at home, and he sent a request for an
interview. Elizabeth instantly suspected that he had come on some
affair relating to that wretched business. She was in trouble enough
about it, but she was also proud and reticent, and not inclined to
discuss Roland with a stranger.
Quite intentionally she gave to her manner a good deal of that
haughtiness which young wives think dignity, but which is in reality
the offensive freshness of new-made honour. The preacher offered her
his hand, but she did not see it, being fully occupied in arranging
the long train of cashmere, silk, and lace which, in those days, made
morning dresses a misnomer.
"I am the Wesleyan preacher from St. Penfer, Mrs. Burrell."
"Can I do anything for you, sir? though really, if yours is a
charitable visit, I must remind you that my own church looks to me for
all I can possibly afford."
"I do not come, Mrs. Burrell, to ask for money. I bring you this
sovereign, which belongs to Mr. Roland Tresham."
The gold fell from his fingers, spun round a few times, and, dropping
upon the polished mahogany table, made a distinct clink.
"I do not understand you, Mr. Farrar."
The preacher hastened to make the circumstance more intelligible. He
related the scene at the St. Clair chapel with a dramatic force that
sprang from intense feeling, and Elizabeth listened to his solemn
words with angry uneasiness. Yet she made an effort to treat the
affair with unconcern.
"What have I to do with the sovereign, sir?" she asked. "I am not
responsible for Mr. Tresham's acts. I did my best to prevent the
disgrace that has befallen the fisherman's daughter."
"I think you are to blame in a great measure."
"Sir!"
"Yes. I am sure you are. You made a companion of the girl--I may say a
friend."
"No, sir, not a friend. She was not my equal in any respect."
"Say a companion then. You taught her how to dress, how to converse,
how to carry herself above her own class. You permitted her to wander
about the garden with your brother."
"I always watched them."
"You let her talk to him--you let her sing with him."
"Never but when I was present. From the first I told her what Roland
was--told her to mind nothing at all he said."
"If you had put a glass of cold water before a man dying of thirst,
would you have been justified in telling him not to drink? You might
even have added that the water contained poison; all the same, he
would have drunk it, and your blame it would be for putting it within
his reach."
"Indeed, Mr. Farrar, I will not take the blame of the creature's
wickedness. It is a strange thing to be told that educating a girl and
trying to lift her a step or two higher is a sin."
"It is a sin, madam, unless you persevere in it. God does not permit
the rich, for their own temporary glory or convenience, to make
experiments with an immortal soul, and then abandon it like a soiled
glove or a game of which they have grown weary. What you began you
ought in common justice to have carried on to such perfection as was
possible. No circumstances could justify you in beguiling a girl from
her natural protectors and then leaving her in the midst of danger
alone."
"Sir, this is my affair, not yours. I beg leave to say that you know
nothing whatever of the circumstances."
"Indeed, I know a great deal about them, and I can reasonably deduce a
great deal more."
"And pray, sir, what do you deduce?"
"The right of Denas Penelles to have been retained as your companion.
Having made a certain refinement of life necessary to her, you ought
in common justice to have supplied the want you created."
"All this trouble arose when I was on my wedding-trip."
"I think you ought to have taken her with you."
"Sir!"
"I think so. It was hard to be suddenly deprived of every social
pleasure and refinement and sent back to a fisher's cottage to cure
fish, and knot nets, and knit fishing-shirts. How could you have borne
it?"
"Mr. Farrar, such a comparison is an insult."
"I mean no insult; far from it. Even my office would give me no right
to insult you. I only wish to awaken your conscience. Even yet it may
take up your abandoned duty."
"Perhaps you do not know that I endeavoured last week to see Denas. I
wrote to her. I asked her to come and see me. I told her I wanted to
talk with her about Mr. Tresham. She did not even answer my letter. I
consider myself clear of the ungrateful girl--and as I am busy this
morning I will be obliged to you, sir, to excuse my further
attendance. Take the sovereign with you; give it to the poor."
"God will feed His poor, madam."
She made a little scornful laugh and asked: "Do you really inquire
into the character of all the money your church receives?"
"No further, madam, than you inquire into the character of the
visitors you receive. Plenty of thieves and seducers are in every
society, but it is not until a man is publicly known to be a thief or
a seducer that we are justified in refusing him a courteous reception.
A great deal of money is the wages of sin, and it passes through our
hands and we are not stained by its contact; but if I give you a piece
of gold and say, 'It is the price of a slain soul, or a slain body, or
a slain reputation,' would you like to put it in your purse, or buy
bread for your children with it, or take it to church and offer it to
God? I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Burrell."
And Elizabeth bowed and stood watching him until the door was closed
and she was alone with the coin. It offended her. It had been the
cause of a most humiliating visit. She looked at it with scorn and
loathing. A servant entered with a card; she took it eagerly, and
pointing to the money said, "Carry it to Mr. Tresham's room and lay it
upon the dressing-table." She was grateful to get it out of her sight,
and very glad indeed to see the visitor who had given her such a
prompt opportunity for ridding her eyes of its gleaming presence.
Thus it is that not only present but absent personalities rule us.
In St. Penfer, Paul Pyn and Ann Bude, John and Joan Penelles, the
Rev. Mr. Farrar and Mrs. Burrell, were all that morning governed in
some degree by Roland's evilly spent sovereign; and he far off in
London was in the hey-day of his honeymoon with Denas. They were so
gay, so thoughtless and happy that people turned to look at them as
they wandered through the bazars or stood laughing before the
splendid windows in Regent Street. Many an old man and woman
smiled sympathetically at them; for all the world loves a lover, and
none could tell that these lovers had forfeited their right to
sympathy by stealing their pleasure from those who ought to have
shared it with them.
But as yet the world was only an accident of their love, and there was
a whole week before them of unbroken and unsatiated delight--a whole
week in which neither of them thought of the past or the future; in
which every hour brought a fresh pleasure, something new to wear, or
to see, or to hear. If it could only have lasted! Alas! the ability to
enjoy went first. Amusements of every kind grew a little--a very
little--tiresome. The first glory was dimmed; the charm of freshness
was duller; the unreasoning delight of ignorance a little less
enthusiastic every day; and about the close of the third week Roland
said one morning, "You look weary, Denasia, my darling."
"I am tired, Roland--tired of going a-pleasuring. I never thought
anything like that could possibly happen. Ought I not to be taking
lessons, learning something, doing something about my voice?"
"It is high time, love. Money melts in London like ice in summer.
Suppose we go and see Signor Maria this morning."
"I would like to go very much."
"Then make yourself very fine and very pretty, and let me hear if your
voice is in good order to-day." He went to the piano and struck a few
chords, and throughout the still, decorous house, people in every room
heard the sweet voice chanting:
"I will go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover of men--the sea"--
heard it again in the weird, startling incantation:
"Weave me the nets for the gray, gray fish"--
and up and down stairs doors were softly opened, and through every
heart there went a breath of the salt sea and a longing for the wide
stretches of rippled sands and tossing blue waters.
Roland perceived the effect of the music and was satisfied. He had no
fear of their future. What if the gold was low in his purse? That
charmful voice was an unfailing bank from which to draw more. He was
so proud of his darling, so full of praises and admiration, that
Denas really put on an access of genius as she robed herself to his
flattering words. Pleasure, and hope, and a pretty pride in her
husband's eulogies lent her new physical graces. She was conscious
that there were eyes at every window watching Roland and herself leave
the house, and she felt certain that their owners were saying: "What a
handsome couple! How fond they are of each other! What a wonderful
voice she has!"
It is easy to be gay, and even beautiful, to such thoughts; and Roland
and Denas reached Signor Maria's in a glow of good-humour and good
hope. The Signor was at home and ready to receive them. He was a
small, thin, dark man with long, curling black hair and bright black
eyes. He bowed to Roland and looked with marked interest into the
fair, sparkling face of Denas. He was much pleased with her appearance
and quite interested in her ambitions. Then he opened the piano and
said, "Will monsieur play, or madame?"
Roland played and Denas sang her very best. The Signor listened
attentively, and Roland was sure of an enthusiastic verdict; on the
contrary, it was one of depressing qualifications. The Signor
acknowledged the quality of the voice, its charmful, haunting
tones--but for the opera! oh, much more--very, very much more was
needed. Madame must go to Italy for three years and study. She must
learn the Italian language; the French; the German. Ah! then there was
the acting also! Had madame histrionic power? That was indispensable
for the grand opera. But in three years--perhaps four--with fine
teachers her voice might be very rich, very charming. _Now_ it was
harsh, crude, unformed. Yes, it wanted the soft, mellowing airs of
Italy. Where had madame been living--what was called "brought up?"
Denas answered she had always lived by the sea, and the Signor nodded
intelligently and said: "Yes! yes! that was what he heard in her
voice; the fresh wild winds--yes, wild and salt! It is airs from the
rose gardens, velvety languors off the vineyards, heat and passions of
the sunshine madame wants. Indeed, monsieur may take madame to Italy
for two, three, perhaps four years, and then expect her to sing. Yes,
then, even in grand opera."
This was undoubtedly the Signor's honest opinion, but Roland and Denas
were greatly depressed by it; Denas especially so, for she had an
inward conviction that he was right; she had heard the truth. It was
almost two different beings that left Signor Maria's house. Silently
Roland handed Denas into the waiting cab, silently he seated himself
beside her.
"I am afraid I have disappointed you, Roland."
"Yes, a little. But we are going now to Mr. Harrison's. There is
nothing foreign about him. He is English, and he knows what English
people like. I shall wait for his verdict, Denas."
"It was a long ride to Mr. Harrison's, and Roland did not speak until
they were at his door. This professor was a blond, effusive, large man
of enthusiastic temperament. He was delighted to listen to Mrs.
Tresham, and he saw possibilities for her that Signor Maria never
would have contemplated; though when Roland told him what Maria had
said he endorsed his opinion so far as to admit the excellence of such
a training for a great prima donna.
"But Mrs. Tresham may learn just as well by experience as by method,"
he averred. "She sings as the people enjoy singing. She sings their
songs. She has a powerful voice, which will grow stronger with use. I
think Mr. Willis will give her an immediate engagement. Suppose we go
and see. Willis is at the hall, I should say, about this time."
This seemed a practical and flattering offer, and Roland gladly
accepted it. Willis Hall was soon reached. It was used only for
popular concerts and very slight dramas in which there was a great
deal of singing and dancing. It had a well-appointed stage and
scenery, but the arrangement of the seats showed a general democracy
and a great freedom of movement for the audience.
"Willis is always on the lookout for novelties," said Professor
Harrison, "and I am sure these fishing songs will 'fetch' such an
audience as he has."
As he was speaking Mr. Willis approached. He listened to Professor
Harrison's opinion and kept his eyes on Denas while he did so. He
thought her appearance taking, and was pleased to give her voice a
trial. The hall was empty and very dull, but a piano was pulled
forward to the front of the stage and Roland took his seat before it.
Denas was told to step to the front and sing to the two gentlemen in
the gallery. They applauded her first song enthusiastically, and Denas
sang each one better. But it was not their applause she listened
to--it was the soft praises of Roland, his assurances of her success,
which stimulated her even beyond her natural power.
At the conclusion of the trial Mr. Willis offered Denas twelve pounds
a week, and if she proved a favourite the sum was to be gradually
increased. The sum, though but a pittance of Roland's dreams, was at
least a livelihood and an earnest of advance, and it was readily
accepted. Then the little company sat down upon the empty stage and
discussed the special songs and costumes in which Denas was to make
her debut.
Never before in all his life had Roland found business so interesting.
He said to Denas, as they talked over the affair at their own
fireside, that he thought he also had found his vocation. He felt at
home on the stage. He never had felt at home in a bank or in a
business office. He was determined to study, and create a few great
characters, and become an actor. He felt the power; it was in him, he
said complacently. "Now," he added, "Denas, if you become a great
singer and I a great actor, we shall have the world at our feet. And I
like actors and those kind of people. I feel at home with them. I like
the life they lead--the jolly, come-day go-day, wandering kind of
life. I never was meant for a respectable man of business. No: the
stage! the stage! That is my real life. I am certain of it. I wonder I
never thought of it before."
It had been arranged that Denas was to open with Neil Gow's matchless
song of "_Caller Herrin'!_" and her dress was of course that of an
idealized Newhaven fisher-girl. Her short, many-coloured skirts, her
trig latched shoon, her open throat, and beautiful bare arms lifted to
the basket upon her head was a costume which suited her to admiration.
When she came stepping down the stage to the immortal notes, and her
voice thrilled the house with the ringing musical "cry" that none hear
and ever forget:
Cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'!
the assembly broke into rapturous delight. It was a song not above
their comprehension and their feeling. It was interpreted by one to
whom the interpretation was as natural as breathing. She was recalled
again, and again, and again, and the uproar of approval only ceased
when the next singer advanced with a roll of music in his hand. He was
a pale, sentimental young man whose forte was despairing love-songs,
but
"The last links are broken
That bound me to thee"
had little interest after Mademoiselle Denasia's unique melody. For
it was by this name Denas had consented to be known, the French prefix
having but a very indefinite significance to her mind. Roland had
told her that it meant a lady, and that all singers were either
mademoiselle or madame, and that she was too young for madame, and
the explanation had been satisfactory.
Certainly, if signs could be trusted Mademoiselle Denasia was likely
to be a name in many mouths; for her second and third songs were even
more startling in their success than "Caller Herrin'," and Mr. Willis
would permit no further recalls.
"We must give them Denasia in small doses," he said, laughing; "she is
too precious to make common," and Roland winced a moment at the
familiar tone in which his wife's name was spoken. But both alike were
under a spell. The intoxicating cup of public applause was at their
lips. Their brains were full of the wildest dreams, their hearts full
of the wildest hopes. No consideration at that time could have turned
their feet aside from the flower-covered, treacherous path they were
so gayly treading.
Such a life would have simply been beyond the power of John and Joan
Penelles to imagine. Its riot of dress and emotions and its sinful
extravagance in every direction would have been to them an astounding
revelation of the possibilities of life. As it was, their anxiety took
mainly one direction: the uncertainty attending the marriage of their
daughter. Denas had indeed said she was Roland's wife, but the St.
Penfer _News_ implied a very different relationship; and John had all
that superstitious belief in a newspaper which is so often an
attribute of ignorance.
At any rate, the want of authentic data about the marriage humiliated
and made him miserable. Two more weeks had passed since that eventful
Sunday night service at St. Clair, and yet John had no assurance of a
more certain character to rely on. Three or four illustrated papers
had been received with "love from your daughter, Denas Tresham,"
written on the title-page; but the claim thus made satisfied no one
but Joan. Joan believed in the validity of the name, and handed around
the sheets with a confidence few cared to in any degree dispute.
The third Sunday was an important one to the fisher-folk. There was to
be a missionary sermon preached in the St. Clair chapel, and John and
Joan went there. The chapel was crowded. Joan got a seat, but John
lingered in the small vestibule within the door among the few brethren
waiting for the strange preacher. It was the same person who had
married Roland and Denas, and after he had shaken himself free from
his dripping cloak he looked at the men around him, and his eyes fell
upon John. And probably all the circumstances of that marriage were
either well known or accurately divined, for he took the big fisherman
by the hand and said cheerfully:
"John Penelles, I am glad, very glad indeed to meet you. I suppose you
know that it was I who married your daughter?"
If a fixed star had fallen at John's feet he could not have been more
amazed. His large face lightened from within, he clasped firmly the
preacher's hand, but was so slow in forcing speech from his swelling
heart that the preacher continued:
"Yes, they came to me, and I remembered your pretty child. I tied
them true and fast, you may be sure of that, John."
"Where, sir?"
"In Plymouth Wesleyan chapel, to be sure."
"Thank God! Thank you too, sir! You might say so--some people here be
slow to believe, sir, and it be breaking my heart, it be indeed,
sir."
There was only a nod and smile in reply, but John was extremely
happy. He tried to get near to Joan and tell her; but the aisles were
full and the service was beginning. John held his own service, and
the singing, and the prayer, and preaching were just a joyful
accompaniment to the thanksgiving in his heart. At length the
service was over, and the preacher lifted a number of slips of paper
and began to read aloud the announcements made on them. Missionary
meetings, tea meetings for missions, a bazaar at St. Penfer for
missions, a Bible meeting, a class meeting, and the service for that
evening. Then, while the congregation were still expectant, he said
in a clear, pleasant voice:
"I am requested also to say that on December the 17th, on Tuesday
morning at nine o'clock, I united in the holy bands of marriage
Denasia, the daughter of John Penelles, fisher of St. Penfer, to
Roland Tresham, gentleman of that place. The ceremony was performed by
me in the Wesleyan chapel at Plymouth; myself, my wife, and two
daughters being witnesses to it. We will now sing the 444th hymn:
"'Lord over all, if Thou hast made,
Hast ransomed every soul of man.'"
And all the congregation rose, and in the rising the conscious glance
that passed through the chapel was lost in a more general purpose. It
was presumed, at least, that everyone was singing a prayer for the
heathen. Only Joan Penelles made no effort to think of India or
Africa. Her face, full of radiant assurance, looked confidently over
the crowd, seeking her husband's mutual glance of pleasure. Her faith
had been justified. Her girl was an honourable wife--the wife of a
gentleman well known to all. She had no longer any need to hide the
wounding look or doubtful word in a protesting attitude, as painful to
her as it was offensive to others.
Well, it is a very hard thing to rejoice with those that do rejoice;
evidently in that little chapel it was easier for the worshippers to
be sorry for the heathen than to be glad for their brother and sister
Penelles. Never had John and Joan felt themselves so far away from the
sympathy of their fellows. Only a few rough men who handled the nets
with John, and who knew how hard the duty had been to him since his
little girl went away, said a word of congratulation. But one and
another of these, as they passed John and Joan on their way home, said
a hearty "Praise God, brother John," or a "God bless you both, 'twas
good news for you this morning." But, with or without sympathy, the
happy father and mother walked to their house that day up-head and
bravely. Their hearts had been miraculously lightened, and it was not
until the burden had rolled away that they knew how woefully heavy it
had been.
The next afternoon, when the wind was blowing inland too fiercely to
permit boats to leave the harbour, a man who had been up the cliff
brought back with him a letter for the Penelles. It was evidently from
Denas. John looked at the postmark, "London," and turned it around and
around till Joan was nervous. "Aw, then, John, do open it, and read
what be inside--do, my dear!" And John read:
"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have been intending to write to you
every day, but I have been so happy that the days went away like a
dream. I wish you knew my dear Roland as I do. He is the kindest
of men, the most generous, the dearest in the whole world. He does
nothing but try how to give me pleasure. He has bought me such
lovely dresses, and rings, and bracelets, and he takes me
everywhere. I never, never did think life could be so happy. I am
going to have lessons too. I am to be taught how to sing and to do
other things right, and your little Denas is the very happiest
girl in the world. London is such a grand place, the very streets
are all shows. Your loving daughter,
"DENAS TRESHAM.
"P. S.--Perhaps you may wonder where we were married. It was at
Plymouth, by the Wesleyan preacher. Father knows him, I think.
D. T."
A dead silence followed the reading of the letter. Joan sat upright
with a troubled face. She had been washing the dinner dishes; the
towel lay across her lap, and her fingers pleated and unpleated the
bit of coarse linen. John laid his arms across his knees and dropped
a stern face toward them. The bit of white paper was in his big brown
fingers. He did not speak a word; his heart was full, his eyes were
full, his tongue was heavy and dumb. Joan grew restless and hot with
anger, for she was wounded in every sense.
"Aw, my dear, she be so happy with that man she do forget the days she
was happy with you and me, John. She do forget all and everything. Aw,
then, 'tis a cruel, thoughtless letter. Cruel beyond words to
tell--dreadful! aw, dreadful! God help us! And I do wish I could
forget her! And I do be sorry she was ever born."
"Whist! whist! my old dear. She has gone into the wilderness. Our one
little ewe lamb has gone into the wilderness, and aw, my dear, 'twill
keep us busy all night and day to send love and prayer enough after
her. There be wolves there, Joan; wolves, my dear, ready to
devour--and the man she loves, he be one of them. Poor little Denas!"
Then Joan went on with her housework, but John sat silent, bending
down toward the letter. And by and by his white face glowed with a
dull red colour, and he tore the letter up, tore it very slowly into
narrow ribbon-like strips, and let them fall, one by one, at his feet.
He was in a mood Joan did not care to trouble. It reminded her of the
day when he had felled Jacob Trenager. She was glad to see him rise
and go to the inner room, glad to hear that he bolted the door after
him. For in that temper it was better that John should complain to God
than talk with any human being.