A VISIT TO ST. PENFER.
"Oh, waly waly, but love be bonny
A little while while it is new;
But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld
And fades away like morning dew."
--OLD SONG.
"Oh, and is all forgot--
All school days' friendship, childhood's innocence?
. . . . . . . . . .
Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury."
--SHAKESPEARE.
Denasia made her _debut_ in the last ten days of January, and she
retained the favour of that public which frequented Willis Hall for
three months. Then her reputation was a little worn; people whistled
and sang her songs and were pleased with their own performance of
them. And Roland, also, had tired a little of the life--of its
regularity and its obligations. He was now often willing to let any
other performer who desired to do so take his place at the piano. He
began to have occasional lookings-backward to Burrell Court and the
respectability it represented.
Then at the close of April Denasia fell ill. The poor girl fretted at
the decline of enthusiasm in her audience. She made stupendous efforts
to regain her place in the popular favour, and she failed because of
the natural law which few are strong enough to defy--that change is as
necessary to amusement as fidelity is to duty. Denasia did not indeed
reason about the event; the simple fact that she had no recalls and no
clamorous approval made her miserable, and then sickness followed.
She was very ill indeed, and for four weeks confined to her room; and
when she was able to consider a return to the hall, Roland found that
her place had been taken by a Spanish singer with a mandolin and a
wonderful dance. That was really a serious disappointment to the young
couple, for during the month money had been going out and none coming
in. For even when Denasia had been making twenty-five pounds a week,
they had lived and dressed up to the last shilling; so that a month's
enforced idleness and illness placed them deeply in debt and
uncomfortably pressed for the wherewithal to meet debt.
Denasia also had been much weakened by her illness. Her fine form and
colour were impaired, she was nervous and despondent; and a
suffering, sickly wife was quite out of Roland's calculations and
very much out of his sympathies. Poverty had a bad effect upon him. To
be without money to buy the finest brand of cigars, to be annoyed by
boarding-house keepers, tailors, and costumers, to have to buy
medicines with cash when he was without his usual luxuries, was a
condition of affairs that struck Roland as extremely improper for a
young man of his family and education.
And he disliked now to interview managers. Mademoiselle Denasia was a
recognised member of the profession which more than any other demands
that everyone stand upon their merits; and Denasia had not been a very
pronounced success. She remained just about where she had begun, and
managers naturally thought that she had done the best of which she was
capable. That best was not a phenomenal one, and Roland, as her
husband and business agent, received no extraordinary amount of
respect. He was offended where he had no reason for offence--offended
often because everyone did not recognise him as a member of an old
Cornish family and the son of an ex-lord mayor of London. Often he
felt obliged, in order to satisfy his own self-respect, to make the
fact known; and the chaff, or indifference, or incredulity, with which
his claims were received made him change his opinions regarding the
"jolly company of actors." In fact, he was undoubtedly at this period
of Denasia's career her very worst enemy; for whatever Denasia might
be, Roland and his pretensions were usually regarded as a great bore.
One afternoon in May he became thoroughly disgusted with the life he
had chosen for himself. The bright sunshine made the shabby carpet and
tawdry furniture and soiled mirrors intolerably vulgar. They had just
finished a badly cooked, crossly served, untidy dinner, and Roland had
no cigar to mend it. Denasia had not eaten at all; she lay on the
bright blue sofa with shut eyes, and her faded beauty and faded dress
were offensive to the fastidious young man.
She was thinking of her father's cottage, of the love at its hearth,
and of the fresh salt winds blowing all around it. Roland half-divined
her thoughts, and his own wandered to Burrell Court and his
long-neglected sister.
Suddenly he resolved to go and see her. Elizabeth had always plenty
of money, then why should he be without it? And the desire having
entered his heart, he was as imperative as a spoiled child for its
gratification. Denasia's physical condition did not appeal to him in
any degree; he could not help her weakness and suffering, and
certainly it was very inconvenient for him. He felt at that hour as
if Denasia had broken her part of their mutual compact, which had
not included illness or loss of prestige and beauty. He turned
sharply to her and said:
"Denasia, I am going to St. Penfer. I shall have to sell a ring or
something valuable in order to get the fare, but I see no other way.
Elizabeth never disappointed my expectations; she will give me money,
I am sure."
"Don't leave me, Roland. I will get well, I will indeed, dear. I am
better this afternoon. In a few days--in a week, Roland, I can find
some place to sing. Please have a little patience. Oh, do, my dear!"
"Little patience! What are you saying, Denasia? You are very
ungrateful! Have I not had patience for a whole month? Have I not
spent even my cigar-money for you? Patience, indeed!"
"Is there nowhere but St. Penfer? No person but Elizabeth?"
"I can go to St. Merryn's, if you like. Give me an order for the money
in your name at St. Merryn's Bank."
She turned sullen in a moment. "I have told you a thousand times,
Roland, I would rather die of hunger than rob my father."
"Very well, then, why do you complain if I go to my own people? I hope
when I return you will be better."
"Roland! Roland! You are surely not going to leave me--in a
moment--without anything?"
Her cry so full of anguish brought him back to her side; but his
purpose had taken full possession of him; only he left her with those
kisses and promises which women somehow manage to live upon. He still
loved her in his way of loving, but his way demanded so many pleasant
accidentals that it was impossible for Denasia always to provide them.
And yet, having once realised, in a great measure, his ideal of her
value to his happiness, he did feel that her sudden break-down in
health was a failure he ought to show disapproval of.
However, there was method even in Roland's selfish plans. He did not
wish to find Mr. Burrell at St. Penfer, so he went to the bank and
ascertained his whereabouts. He was told that Mr. Burrell had just
left for Berlin, and was likely to be a week or ten days away. This
information quite elated Roland. He sold his watch and took the first
train to Cornwall. And as he was certain that Elizabeth would have
settled his bill at the Black Lion, he went there with all his old
swaggering good-humour and thoroughly refreshed himself before going
out to Burrell Court.
Elizabeth gave him a hearty welcome; she was indeed particularly glad
to see him just then. She was lonely in the absence of her husband;
she had just had a slight disagreement with the ladies at a church
meeting; she was feeling her isolation and her want of family support;
and she had met, for the first time since their interview, the Rev.
Mr. Farrar, who had presumed to arrest her coachman and, in the
presence of her servants, congratulate her on the marriage of her
brother and her friend. Under the circumstances, she had judged it
best to make no remarks; but she was very angry, and not sorry to have
the culprit in her presence and tell him exactly what she thought of
his folly and disgrace.
She kept the lecture, however, until they had dined and were alone;
then, as he sat serenely smoking one of Mr. Burrell's finest cigars,
she said:
"I hope you are come back to me, Roland. I hope you have left that
woman for ever."
"Who do you mean by 'that woman,' Elizabeth?"
"De--You know who I mean."
"Denas! Left Denas! Left my wife! That is absurd, Elizabeth! I wanted
to see you. I could not bear to be 'out' with you any longer. You
know, dear, that you are my only blood relative. Denas is my relative
by marriage. Blood is thicker than--everything."
"Roland, you know how I love you. You are the first person I remember.
All my life long you have been first in my heart. How do you think I
liked to be put aside for--that fisher-girl? It nearly broke my heart
with shame and sorrow."
"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I did behave badly to you. I am
ashamed of myself. Forgive me, darling sister." And he pulled his
chair to her side, and put his arm around her neck, and kissed her
with no simulated affection. For he would indeed have been heartless
had he been insensible to the true love which softened every tone in
Elizabeth's voice and made her handsome face shine with tender
interest and unselfish solicitude.
"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I believe you are noble enough
to have accepted Denas for my sake."
"I am not, Roland. Nothing could have made me accept her. I have taken
a personal dislike to her. I am sure that I cannot even do her
justice."
"She has been very ill. She is still very weak. I have been unable to
get her all the comforts she ought to have had--unable to take her to
the sea-side, though the doctor told me it was an imperative
necessity. We have been very poor, but not unhappy."
"I understood she was making a great deal of money with her trashy,
vulgar little songs."
"She was until she fell ill. And whatever her songs are, they have
been very much admired."
"By her own class. And you let her sing for your living! I am amazed
at you, Roland!"
"I do not see why. You wanted me to marry Caroline Burrell and let her
support me out of the money old Burrell worked for. Denas loves me,
and the money she gives me is given with love. Old Burrell never saw
me, and if he had I am quite sure he would have hated me and despised
me as a fortune-hunter. Denas is a noble little darling. She has never
inferred, either by word or look, that she sang for my living. It took
you to do that, Elizabeth. Besides, I help Denas to make money. I
arrange her business and I play her accompaniments, and, as I said, I
love her and she loves me. Why, I have done without cigars to buy
medicines for her; and if that isn't a proof of my devotion, I do not
know how to give one! I can tell you that Mademoiselle Denasia is a
great favourite with everyone."
"Mademoiselle Denasia!" cried Elizabeth with the utmost scorn.
"Mademoiselle! and Denasia! However, she might well change her name."
"She did not change her name. She was baptised Denasia."
"Robert went to hear her sing. He says it was in a fourth-rate place,
and I can tell you he was burning with indignation to see his
brother-in-law playing a piano there."
"Then he ought to let his anger burn to some purpose. Signor Maria
says that if Denasia had proper masters and was sent to Italy for two
or three years she could sing in grand opera. Mind, Maria says that;
not I. Suppose you get Robert to send Denas to Italy."
"I will do nothing at all for Denas. And I think, Roland, that you
ought to do something for yourself. I hate to think of my own brother
taking his living from that fisherman's daughter. It is a shame!
Father brought you up like a gentleman, sent you to college, gave you
an opportunity----"
"If father had given me a profession of any kind, if he had put me in
the army or the navy, I should be to blame. If he had bought me a kit
of carpenters' tools and had me taught how to use them, I should be no
man at all if I looked to a woman for a living. But he did not. He
sent me to college, gave me expensive tastes, and then got me a desk
in a bank, where the only prospect before me was to add figures for
the rest of my life for two pounds a week. Naturally I looked around
for something more to my liking. I found Denasia. I loved her. She
loved me. I could play, she could sing, and we made twenty-five pounds
a week. That is the true state of the case."
"And do you intend to spend your life playing accompaniments to
fishing-songs?"
"No. I am studying for the stage."
"Roland Tresham! Roland Tresham!"
"I think I have a new conception of the character of Orlando and I
flatter myself the Romeo is yet to be played. I shall attempt it next
winter. Now, Elizabeth, all the summer is before us. If you will not
ask us to Burrell Court, then do in sisterly kindness send us to some
quiet sea-side place to study. We could, of course, come to Penelles'
cottage----"
"No, you could not. John Penelles would not permit you to enter his
door. He says he will never forgive his daughter until she leaves you
for ever. I understand him. I cannot fully forgive you while you
remain with that woman."
"Who told you John Penelles said such a thing? I do not believe it."
"Priscilla Mohun. He said it to her."
"Ah! He would not say it to Denasia. And it would not be a bad place
to study. I should soon be a favourite with the fishers. I know how to
get around that class of people, and I am fond of the sea and could
spend a month very comfortably there. Cigars make any place
comfortable."
"You are talking simple nonsense, Roland. You know it, too. Penelles
would not endure your presence five minutes."
"I have done his daughter no harm."
"He believes that you have ruined her immortal soul. You are the devil
incarnate to John Penelles. He would not let you put your foot in his
cottage. And he is not a man to trifle with. He knocked Jacob Trenager
down, and the man goes lame ever since, they say."
"I am not going in his way to be knocked down. It is absolutely
necessary, both for Denas and myself, to be near London. If we had the
means I would go to Broadstairs or perhaps Hastings."
"Do you want to ask me for money, Roland? If so, be man enough to ask
me plainly."
"Yes, I want money, Elizabeth. I want you to give it to me. I have not
troubled you for a long time, have I? All my life long I have come to
you for money, and you never yet refused me. My dear sister, I
remember that you once sold a brooch for me when we were both
children." He kissed her and was silent, and Elizabeth's face was wet
with tears.
"I could give the last shilling I had to you, Roland," she said, "but
it is hard to ask me to rob myself for that woman."
"She is my wife. I want her to get strong and well. She is a comfort
and a pleasure to me. You were always glad to give me money for my
comforts and pleasures. You never before asked me what they were or
said: 'You cannot have money for such or such a purpose.' You gave me
money for whatever I wanted. Now I want Denas."
"Mademoiselle Denasia!"
"Well, then, Denasia. I want Denasia as I want my cigars or any other
pleasant thing in life. Does it matter to you, if the money makes me
happy, how I spend it?"
"If you put the question in that light I do not suppose it does
matter." Then after a moment's pause: "Every shilling will be a coal
of fire upon Mademoiselle Denasia's head. There is nothing wrong in
that consideration--it is perfectly Christian."
"I should say it was perfectly unchristian; but, then, I am only a
sinner. However, Elizabeth, if you can help me to get Denasia to the
sea-side the action will be a good one, and we need not go about to
question the motives for it. I think one hundred pounds will keep us
until Denasia is able to sing again or I get an engagement as Romeo. I
shall make up splendidly as Romeo. You must come and see me,
Elizabeth."
"Not for anything in life! And one hundred pounds is a large sum of
money. I cannot afford it."
"But, Elizabeth, I must have one hundred. I need every penny of it. I
cannot do with less. Give me one hundred, Elizabeth."
"I tell you it will trouble me very much to spare a hundred pounds. It
will indeed, Roland."
But Roland stuck to the idea of one hundred pounds, and finally
Elizabeth gave way before his entreaties. She looked at the handsome
fellow and sighed hopelessly. She said, "I will give it to you, and do
as you wish with it." Why should she now look for consideration from
her brother? He had never yet reached higher ground than "I want;" and
to expect Roland to look beyond himself was to expect the great
miracle that never comes.
He remained with his sister ten days, and thoroughly enjoyed the
change of life. And indeed he found himself quite a little hero in St.
Penfer. Miss Mohun met him with smiles; she asked sweetly after Mrs.
Tresham and never once named the fifty pounds Roland had promised her.
The landlady of the Black Lion made a great deal of him. She came
herself of fisher-folk, and she was pleased that the young gentleman
had treated her caste honourably. The landlord gave him cigars and
wine, and all the old companions of his pleasures and necessities
showed him that they approved his conduct. The Rev. Mr. Farrar made a
point of praising him. As he stood with the landlord of the Black Lion
at the open door of the inn, he said to him:
"Mr. Tresham, I respect your strength of character. I know that
in certain circles of society it is considered a slight offence
for a young man to seduce a girl of the lower orders; but that a
_mesalliance_ with her is a social crime almost unpardonable.
You have said boldly to the whole community that it is more
ungentlemanly to wrong a poor girl's honour than to marry a wife
below your own station. Sir, such an example is worth all the
sermons that could be preached on the subject."
And Roland listened to all the spoken and unspoken praise given him
with a smiling appropriation. It really never struck him, or
apparently anyone else, that Denas might have been the person who took
care of her own honour; or that Roland had done right because he could
not induce his companion to do wrong. And there was another popular
view of this marriage which was singularly false--the general
assumption that Denas had been greatly honoured by it, and that John
and Joan Penelles ought to be pleased and satisfied. Why not? Such a
decision was the evident one, and how many people have the time or the
interest in any subject to go below or beyond the evident?
One morning when Roland had been put into a very good humour by the
public approval of his conduct, he saw John Penelles and Tris Penrose
and two other fishers go into the Ship Inn together. They had Lawyer
Tremaine with them, and were doubtless met to complete the sale or
purchase of some fishing-craft. Roland knew that it would be an affair
to occupy two or three hours, and he suddenly resolved to go down the
cliff and interview his mother-in-law. It would please Denasia, and he
was himself in that reckless mood of self-complacency which delights
in testing its influence.
Without further consideration he lit a fresh cigar and went down the
familiar path. It was full of memories of his wooing of Denas, and he
smiled with a soft triumph to them. And the exquisite morning, the
thrushes singing to the sun, the fluting of the blackbirds, the south
wind swinging the blue-bells, the mystical murmur of the sea--all
these things set themselves unconsciously to his overweening
self-satisfaction.
The door of the Penelles cottage was wide open, and he stood a moment
looking into it. The place had an Homeric simplicity and beauty which
touched his sense of fitness. On the snow-white hearth there was a
handful of red fire, and the bright black hob held the shining kettle.
A rug of knitted bits of many-coloured cloths was before it, and on
this rug stood John's big cushioned chair. The floor was white as
pipeclay could make it; the walls covered with racks of showy
crockery; the spotless windows quite shaded with blossoming flowers;
and the deal furniture had been scrubbed with oatmeal until it had
the colour and the beauty of ivory.
Joan sat with her back to the door. She was perfectly still. At her
feet there was a pile of nets, and she was mending the broken meshes.
When Roland tapped she let them fall and stood upright. She knew him
at once. Her fine rosy face turned grey as ashes. She folded her arms
across her breast and stood looking at the intruder. For a moment they
remained thus--the gay, handsome, fashionably-dressed young man
smiling at the tall grave woman in her neat print gown and white linen
cap. Roland broke the silence.
"I am Roland Tresham," he said pleasantly.
"I do know you. What be you come for? Is Denas--where be my child? Oh,
man, why don't you say the words, whatever they be?"
"I am sorry if I frightened you. I thought you might like to know that
Denas was well and happy."
Then Joan went back to her nets and sat down without a word.
"I was in St. Penfer on business, and I thought you would like to
know--might like to know--you see, I was here on business--"
He was growing every moment more uncomfortable and embarrassed, for
Joan bent busily over her work and her back was to him.
"You see, I was here on business. I wanted to see my sister. I thought
you would like to know about Denas."
She turned suddenly on him and asked: "Where be my child?"
"I left Denas in London."
"You be a coward. You be a tenfold coward. Why didn' you bring your
wife home with you? Did Denas send me no letter--no word for
myself--for my heart only? Speak then; I want my letter."
"I left in a hurry. She had no time to write."
"Aw, then, why did you come here without a word of comfort? You be
cruel as well as cowardly. No word! No letter! No time! There then!
take yourself away from my door. 'Twas a wisht cruel thought brought
you here. Aw, then, a thought out of your own heart. You be a bad man!
dreadful! dreadful!"
"Come, my good woman, I wish to be kind."
"Good woman! Sure enough! but I have my husband's name, thank God, and
there then! when you speak to me I be called by it--Joan Penelles. And
Joan Penelles do wish you would turn your back on this house; she do
that, for you do have a sight of ghastly mean old ways--more than
either big or little devil means a young man to have. There then! Go
afore John Penelles do find you here. For 'twill be a bad hour for you
if he do--and so it will!"
"I did not expect such a reception, Mrs. Penelles. I have dealt
honourably with your daughter."
"You have made my daughter to sin. Aw, then, I will not talk about my
daughter with you. No indeed!"
"Have you no message to send to Denas?"
"Denas do know her mother's heart and her father's heart, and when
she do find it in her own heart to leave that sinful place--the
the-a-tre--and dress herself like a decent wife and a good woman, and
sing for God and not for the devil, and sing for love and not for
money, aw, then, who will love her as quick and as warm as I will? But
if you do want a message, tell her she have broken her good father's
life in two; and that I do blame myself I ever gave her suck!"
Roland listened to these words with a scoffing air of great amusement;
he looked steadily at Joan with a smile that was intolerable to her,
then he raised his hat with an elaborate flourish and said:
"Good-morning, Mrs. Penelles."
No notice was taken of this salute, and he added with an offensive
mirthfulness:
"Perhaps I ought to say, 'Good-morning, mother.'"
Then Joan leaped to her feet as if she had been struck in the face.
She kicked the nets from her and strode to the open door in a flaming
passion.
"Aw, then!" she cried, "not your mother, thank God! Not your mother,
or you'd be in the boats making your awn living. You! you cruel,
cowardly, lazy, lounging, bad lot! Living on my poor little girl, you
be! You vampire! Living on her body and soul."
"Madam, where is Mr. Penelles?"
"Aw, to be sure. Well you knew he wasn' here, or you would never have
put foot this road. And no madam I be, but honest Joan Penelles. Go!
The Pender men are near by. Go!--and the Trefy men, and Jack
Penhelick, and Reuben Trewillow. Go!--they are close by, I tell you.
Go!--if I call they'll come. Go!--or they will know the reason why!"
Then, still smiling and knocking the end of his cigar against the end
of his cane, Roland leisurely took the road to the cliff. But Joan, in
her passionate sense of intolerable wrong, flung up her arms toward
heaven, and with tears and sobs her cry went up:
"O my God! Look down and see what sin this Roland Tresham be doing!"