FATHERLY AND MOTHERLY.
"In youth change appears to be certain gain;
Age knows that it is generally certain loss."
"The worst wounds are those our own hands inflict."
"Like as a father pitieth his children."
"A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive."
--COLERIDGE.
Ten days of the methodical serenity of Burrell Court wearied Roland,
and with money in his pocket the thought of London was again a
temptation. He was quickly satisfied with green gardens and
sea-breezes; the pavements of Piccadilly and Regent Street were more
attractive. And for Roland, the last wish or the last plan held the
quality of fascination. When he turned his back upon Burrell Court,
Elizabeth faded from his thoughts and affections; it was Denasia who
then drew him through every side of his vivid imagination and reckless
desires.
He had written to her as soon as Elizabeth promised him the money he
needed; for he believed when Denasia was free from care she would
speedily recover her health and strength. He pleased himself all the
way home with the anticipation of his wife's smiles and welcome, and
he was a little frightened not to see her face at the window the
moment his cab arrived. He expected her to be watching; he was sure,
if she were able, she would not have disappointed him. He had a
latch-key in his pocket, and he opened the door and went rapidly to
the room they occupied. It was empty; it was cleaned and renovated and
evidently waiting for a new tenant.
Full of trouble and amazement, he was going to seek his landlady, when
she appeared. She was as severely polite as people who have got the
last penny they hope to get out of one can be. Mrs. Tresham had gone
to the sea-side. She had left five days ago--gone to Broadstairs. The
address was in the letter which she gave him. Greatly to Roland's
relief she said nothing about money, and he certainly had no wish to
introduce the subject.
But he was amazed beyond measure. Where had Denasia got money? How had
she got it? Why had she said nothing to him? He had had a letter two
days before, and he took it out of his pocket and re-read it. There
was no allusion to the change, but he saw that the postmark showed it
to have been mailed on the way to the Chatham and Dover Railway.
However, he was not anxious enough to pursue his journey that night.
He went to a hotel, had a good dinner, slept off his fatigue, and
started for Broadstairs at a comfortable hour in the morning.
Nothing like jealousy troubled him. He had no more fear of Denasia's
honour and loyalty than he had of the sun rising; and with a hundred
pounds in his pocket curiosity was a feeble feeling. "Some way all is
right, and when a thing is right there is no need to worry about it."
This was his ultimate reflection, and he slept comfortably upon it.
Broadstairs was a new place, and to Roland novelty of any kind had a
charm. A fine morning, a good cigar, a change of scene, and Denasia at
the end, what more was necessary to a pleasant trip? His first
disillusion was the house to which he was directed. It was but a
cottage, and in some peculiar way Roland had persuaded himself that
Denasia had not only got money, but also a large sum. The cottage in
which he found her did not confirm his anticipations. And in the small
parlour Denasia was taking a dancing-lesson. An elderly lady was
playing the violin and directing her steps. Of course the lesson
ceased at Roland's entrance; there was so much else to be talked
over.
"Why did you come to this out-of-the-way place?" asked Roland with a
slight tone of disapprobation.
"Because both my singing and dancing teachers were here for the summer
months, and I longed for the salt air. I felt that it was the only
medicine that would restore me. You see I am nearly well already."
"But the money, Denasia? And do you know that old harpy in London
never named money. Is she paid?"
"Why do you say harpy? She only wanted what we really owed her. And
she was good and patient when I was ill. Yes, I paid her nine
pounds."
"I have one hundred pounds, Denasia."
"You wrote and told me so."
"Elizabeth gave it to me; and I must say she gave it very kindly and
pleasantly."
"Of course Elizabeth gave you it. Why not? Is there any merit in her
doing a kindness to her own brother pleasantly? How else should she do
it?"
"It was given as much for you as for me."
"Decidedly not. If Elizabeth has the most ordinary amount of sense,
she knows well I would not touch a farthing of her money; no, I would
not if I was dying of hunger."
"That is absurd, Denasia."
"Call it what you will. I hate Elizabeth and Elizabeth hates me, and I
will not touch her money or anything that is bought with it. For you
it is different. Elizabeth loves you. She is rich, and if she desires
to give you money I see no reason why you should refuse it--that is,
if you see none."
"And pray what are you going to do?"
"Have I suffered in your absence? You left me sick, nervous, without a
shilling. I have made for myself a good engagement and received fifty
pounds in advance."
"A good engagement! Where? With whom?"
"I am learning to sing a part in 'Pinafore.' I am engaged at the
Olympic."
"Denasia!"
She flushed proudly at his amazement, and when he took her in his arms
and kissed her, she permitted him to see that her eyes were full of
happy tears.
"Yes," she resumed in softer tones, "I went to see Colonel Moss, and
he was delighted with my voice. Mr. Harrison says I learn with
extraordinary rapidity and have quite wonderful dramatic talent, and
madame has almost as much praise for my dancing. I had to pay some
bills out of the fifty pounds; but I am sure I can live upon the
balance and pay for my lessons until September. As soon as I am strong
enough to look after my costumes, my manager will advance money for
them."
"Do you mean that you are to have fifty pounds a week?"
"I am to have thirty pounds a week. That is very good pay, indeed, for
a novice."
"For six nights and a matinee? You ought to have had far more; it is
not five pounds a performance. You ought to have ten pounds. I must
see about this arrangement. Moss has taken advantage of you."
"I have given my promise, Roland, and I intend to keep it. You must
not interfere in this matter."
"Oh, but I must!"
"It will be useless. I shall stand to my own arrangement."
"It is a very poor one."
"It is better than any you ever made for me."
"Of course! I had all the preparatory work to do, getting you
known--getting a hearing for you, in fact. Now the harvest is ripe, it
is easy enough to get offers. You had better let me have a talk with
Moss."
"I have signed all the necessary papers. I have accepted fifty pounds
in advance. I will not--no--I will not break a letter of my promise
for anyone."
"Then I shall have nothing to do with the affair. It is a swindle on
Moss' part."
"No, it is not. He made me a fair offer; I, of my own free will and
judgment, accepted it."
"Thirty pounds a week! What is that for a first-class part?"
"It is a good salary. I can pay my expenses and buy my wardrobe out
of it. You have Elizabeth's money. When it is done she will
probably give you more. She ought to, as you preferred trusting to
her." But though the words were laughingly said, they sprang from a
root of bitterness.
In fact, Roland quickly discovered that those ten days he had so idly
passed at Burrell Court with his sister had been ten days of amazing
growth in every direction to Denasia. She had wept when Roland so
suddenly left her; wept at his want of faith in her, at his want of
care for her, at his indifference to her weakness and poverty. But to
sit still and cry was not the way of her class. She had been
accustomed to reflect, when trouble came, whether it could be helped
or could not be helped. If the former, then it was "up and about it;"
if the latter, tears were useless, and to make the best of the
irrevocable was the way of wisdom.
In an hour she had conquered the physical weakness which spoke by
weeping. A suspicion of cruelty gave her the salutary stimulus of a
lash; she sat upright and began to plan. The next day she went out,
sold a bracelet, hired a cab, and went from one manager to another
until she succeeded. Brought face to face with the question of work
and wage, all the shrewd calculating instincts of a race of women
accustomed to chaffer and bargain awoke within her. She sold her wares
to good advantage, and she knew she had done so. Then a long-nascent
distrust of Roland's business tact and ability sprang suddenly to
vigorous life. She realised in a moment all the financial mistakes of
the past winter. She resolved not to have them repeated.
The sea air soon restored all her vigour and her beauty. She gave
herself to study and to practice with an industry often irritating to
Roland. It reproached his own idleness and it deprived him of her
company. He did indeed rehearse his characters, and in a stealthy way
he endeavoured to find a better engagement for Denasia. He was sure
that if he were successful there would be no difficulty in inducing,
or if necessary compelling, his wife to accept it. He could as easily
have made Queen Victoria accept it. For with the inherited shrewdness
of her class she had also their integrity. She would have kept any
engagement she made even if it had ruined her.
The winter was a profitable one, though not as happy as Denasia had
hoped it would be. They had no debts and were able to indulge in many
luxuries, and yet Roland was irritable, gloomy, and full of unpleasant
reminiscences and comparisons. He thought it outrageous for Moss to
refuse the payment of his wife's salary to him. And Denasia had a
disagreeable habit of leaving a large portion of her income with the
treasurer of the company, and then sending her costumer and other
creditors to the theatre for payment. Indeed, she was developing an
independence in money matters that was extremely annoying to Roland.
He felt that his applications to Elizabeth were perpetual offences to
Denasia, and if he had been a thoughtful man he would have understood
that this separation of their interests in financial matters was the
precursor of a much wider and more dangerous one.
Roland had other unpleasant experiences to encounter. It seemed
incredible that the handsome, witty, fascinating Mr. Tresham could
possibly be a bore, and yet the authorities in various green-rooms
either said so in plain English or made him aware of the fact through
every other sense but hearing. He felt himself to be politely or
sarcastically quizzed. Stars ignored him; meaner lights gave him a
bare tolerance. A few inquired if his grand relatives had yet forgiven
him. One or two affected to have heard he had an offer from Henry
Irving, or some other histrionic luminary; in fact, he gradually was
made to understand that Roland Tresham was by no means a name to
conjure with.
He did not tell Denasia of these humiliations, and she believed that
his chagrin and ill-temper arose from his continual disappointments.
He could get no chance worthy of his efforts for a trial of his new
Shakespearian interpretations. He felt sure there was a coalition
against him. "Let a man have a little more beauty or talent than the
crowd, and the crowd are determined to ruin him, naturally," he said,
and he believed his own dictum thoroughly. Toward the end of the
season, however, he did obtain a hearing under what were undoubtedly
favourable circumstances; and then the press was his enemy. And he
knew positively that the adverse criticisms were the results of
venality, or ignorance, or want of taste, or of that brutal
conservatism which makes Englishmen suspicious of everything not
endorsed by centuries of use and wont.
It may be easily seen how these personal irritations made an unhappy
atmosphere in which to dwell. And Roland had another disappointment
also which he hardly liked to admit to himself--Denasia was changing
so rapidly. The society into which he himself had brought her forced
the simple, trustful, ignorant girl into observations and calculations
which lifted her unconsciously to a level, perhaps in some respects to
a plane above her husband. She was naturally clever, and she learned
how to dress herself, how to take care of herself, how to look out for
her own interests. Roland had intended to dictate to her, and she
began to smile at his dictations and to take her own way, which she
charmingly declared was the only reasonable way for her to take.
During this interval Roland wrote often to Elizabeth. He wanted some
one to complain to, and Elizabeth was the only person he knew who was
willing to listen to his complaints. She perceived very early the
little rift between husband and wife which might be bridged by love or
might become an abyss in which love would be for ever lost. It must,
however, be noted to her credit that she avoided any word likely to
widen it. She did not like Denasia, but she had a controlling sense
of honour. She had also a lofty ideal of the sacredness of the
marriage tie. To have made trouble between a man and his wife would,
in Elizabeth's opinion, have been as wicked a thing as to break into a
church vestry and steal the sacramental silver. But she did sympathize
with her brother, and advise him, and send him money. And naturally
Denasia, who thought badly of Elizabeth, resented her interference in
her life at all; so that there was usually a coolness between Roland
and Denasia after the arrival of a letter from Burrell Court.
In truth, any letter from St. Penfer at this period of Denasia's life
hurt her. She longed for her own people. She felt heart-sick for a
word from them. In some moment of confidence or ill-temper, Roland had
given his wife his own version of the visit to his mother-in-law. And
whatever else he remembered or forgot, he was clear and positive about
Joan's message to her daughter. She had broken her good father's life
in two and her mother was sorry she had ever given her suck. Denasia
knew her mother's passionate nature, and she could understand that
some powerful aggravation had made her speak so strongly, but the
words, after all allowances, were terrible words. They haunted her in
the midst of her professional excitements, and still more in the
solitude of her frequently restless nights.
And if Joan had felt this a year ago, Denasia knew that she now felt
much more bitterly; for in one of her letters to Roland Elizabeth had
written freely of the passionate anger of John Penelles when he
learned that his daughter had become a public dancer. Indeed,
Elizabeth affected to think it very cruel of Denasia to send to her
old ignorant parents the illustrated paper which contained her picture
in the dance act. She thought Denasia's vanity had overstepped all
bounds and become positive cruelty, etc., etc. And Denasia, in a
passion which matched any outbreak of her father's, vowed not only
that she had never sent such a paper to St. Penfer, but that Elizabeth
herself must have been the perpetrator of the cruelty, unless--and she
then gave Roland a glance which made him wonder where his willing and
obedient Denasia of former days had gone.
In all essential points this story was a false one. It was indeed true
that some person had sent to the Penelles cottage a London paper, in
which there was a large picture of Denasia and the admiral dancing the
famous hornpipe. But the manner of its reception was matter of
speculation only, and the speculative had founded their tale upon the
known hastiness of John and Joan's tempers, without taking into
consideration the presence of unknown influences.
As it happened, the pictured girl was received in the St. Penfer
post-office during a storm. John had been called in the grey dawn to
the life-boat, and Joan, in spite of wind and rain, went down to the
beach with him. With a prayer in her heart, she saw him buckle on his
buoyant armour and set his pale blue oar like lance athwart his rest,
and then make straight out into the breakers that dashed and surged
around. Joan saw the boat's swift forward leaping, its downward plunge
into the trough of the sea, its perilous uplifting, its perpendicular
rearing, its dread descent. And John felt its human reel and shudder,
its desperate striving and leaping and plunging, and its sad
submission when the waters half filled it and the quivering men clung
for very life under the deluge pouring over them.
So for three hours John was face to face with awful death, and Joan on
her knees praying for his safety, and John had but just got back to
his home, and the cry of thanksgiving for her old dear's return was
yet on Joan's lips, when the postman brought the fateful newspaper.
Fortunately they did not open it at once. Joan laid it carefully aside
and brought on their belated breakfast. And as they ate it they talked
of the lives that were lost and saved. Then John smoked his pipe, and
Joan tidied up her house and sat down beside him with her knitting in
her hands. Both their hearts were solemn and tender. John felt as if
his life was a new gift to him; Joan, as if her husband's love had
some miraculous sweetness never known before. They spoke seldom and
softly, finding in their responsive silence a language beyond words.
It was, then, in this gentle mood that John reached to the shelf above
his head and took down the paper. He opened it, and Denas in her
pretty dancing dress, with her bare arms lifted above her head, looked
her father full in the face. She was laughing; she was the incarnation
of merriment and of consciously graceful, captivating vivacity. The
miserable father was, however, fascinated; he gazed and gazed until
his eyes overflowed, and his hands trembled, and the paper fell with a
rustle to the floor.
Joan lifted it and looked at her husband. His eyes were shut, he was
sobbing inwardly as punished children sob in sleep. She spoke to him,
and he opened his eyes and pointed to the paper. Then Joan met the
same well-beloved face. The mother's cheeks burned red and redder, her
eyes flashed, she straightened out every crease, as if the pictured
satin and lace had been real; and then turning to the printed page,
she read aloud every word of adulation.
They had talked together of the men and women drowned within sight of
land that morning, but here was their only child dancing in sight of
eternal death, and they could not say a word to each other about her.
For it must be remembered that these simple, God-fearing fisher-folk
had been strictly and straitly reared in a creed which regarded
dancing as one of the deadly sins. They honestly believed that there
was but a step between their darling and eternal death, and if she
should take that step while dancing! To have known that she was on the
ship which had just gone to pieces on the rocks would not have made
them so heart-sick. Their very souls shivered as they thought of her.
As for John, he could find only those two words that spring
instinctively to every soul in trouble, "O God!"
But he motioned Joan to take the paper away, and Joan took it into
the room which was still called "Denas' room." She kissed the pictured
face, the hair and eyes and mouth, the lifted arms, the slender
throat. She could not bear to crush the paper together; she opened a
drawer and laid it as gently within as if she had been putting her
baby in its coffin. At this hour there was no anger in her heart;
there was even a little motherly pride in her child's beauty and grace
and cleverness. At this extremity of ill-doing she did not altogether
blame Denas. She was certain that before Denas danced, some one had
somehow persuaded the girl that it was not wicked to dance. "Denas do
have principles," she said stiffly, "and the man do not live who can
make her do wickedly if she do think it be wicked."
She looked with a sad affection around the little room. How lonely it
was! Yes, it is the living who desert us that make lonely rooms, and
not the dead. We know the dead will never come back, but oh, how long
it seems to wait for the living! Month after month to keep the room
ready for the one who does not come for our longing! Month after month
to dress the bed and the table, and lay out the books they loved, and
the little treasures that may tell they were unforgotten. Joan looked
at the small dressing-table holding the shell box, and the satin
pincushion, and the alabaster vase which Denas had once thought
beautiful beyond price. The snowy quilt and pillows, the carefully
kept floor and chairs, the clothing washed and laid with sprigs of
lavender in the tidy drawers--oh, what poetry and eloquence of
untiring, undespairing mother-love were in these things!
But this patient, loving pity for their erring child was an attitude
not easily supposable, and Denasia did not suppose it. She knew from
Roland's report that her appearance as a public singer had caused her
parents great sorrow and anger, and she could only imagine a still
deeper anger when she added the sin of dancing to other causes of
offence. But this alienation from her own people was the bitter drop
in all her success and in all her pleasure. For now that the illusions
and selfishness of her bride-days were past, the faithful home
affection that never wounded and never deceived resumed its
importance, and she longed for her father's kiss and her mother's
breast.
But every day the day's work is to face, and Denasia's days were fully
occupied by their obvious duties. So week after week and month after
month wore on in alternations of hope and despair, happiness and
vexation, loving and quarrelling. Roland certainly, with his
discontent and abiding sense of wrong, threw a perpetual shadow over
life. She did not even dare to take, with any show of pleasure, such
poor satisfaction as her passing fame awarded. A man may be jealous of
the praise given to his own wife, and there were times when Roland
could not understand Denasia's success and his own failure--bitter
hours in which the poor girl felt that whether she pleased her
audience or did not please them, her husband was sure to be offended
and angry.
She was almost glad when, at the close of the season, the company
disbanded and she was at liberty to retire. She had saved money and
was resolved to resume her studies. There was at least nothing in that
to irritate her husband, and she had a strong desire to improve her
talent in every direction. One evening Roland entered their
sitting-room in that hurry of hope and satisfaction once common enough
to him, but of which he had shown little during the past winter.
Denasia looked up from her writing with a smile, to meet his smile.
"Denasia," he cried impulsively, "what do you think? We are going to
America! The United States is the place for me. How soon can you be
ready?"
"But, Roland? What?"
"It is true, dear. Whom are you writing to?"
"I was writing to Mr. Harrison and to madame. I want to know if they
are going to Broadstairs this summer, for where they go I wish to go
also; that is, if they can give me lessons."
"A waste of money, Denasia. I have had a long talk with some of the
men who are here with the American company. Splendid fellows! They
tell me that my Shakespearian ideas will set New York agog. New
Yorkers give every one a fair hearing; at least 'there's nothing beats
a trial!' That is a New York motto, and these people are sure I would
have a fair trial there. And the country is so big! So big, Denasia,
that the parts you know will last you for years. There is not a bit of
need for you to study new songs and dances. Sing the old ones in new
places. Why, you may travel thousands of miles in all directions--big
cities everywhere, little ones scattered thick as blackberries on all
the railroad routes, and railroad routes are spread like spider-webs
all over the United States! That is the country for us! New York first
of all, then Chicago, St. Louis, Salt Lake, San Francisco, New
Orleans--oh, hundreds of cities! And money, my dear! Money for the
picking up--that is, for the singing for."
"I do not believe a word of it, Roland. It is all talk. I am going to
Broadstairs to spend the summer in study."
Roland looked a moment at the handsome, resolute woman who had resumed
her writing, and he wondered how this Denasia had sprung from the
sweetly obedient little maid he had once manipulated to his will with
a look or a word. However, he could not spare her. It was not only her
earnings he required; her beauty and talent gave him a kind of
reflected importance, and he expected great things from their united
efforts in the wonderful new world of which he had just begun to
think.
So he set himself to win what it was evident he could not command,
and, Denasia's womanly instincts being stronger than her artistic
instincts, the husband conquered. The sweet words and kisses, the
frank acknowledgment of his faults, the declaration that his whole
future hung now on her support and interest in his American scheme,
moved Denasia to concede where she felt sure she ought to have
refused. But when a man finds all other arguments fail with a woman,
he has only to throw himself upon her unselfishness. To prove it, she
will ruin her own life. Denasia was sure she was going a wrong road,
but then Roland asked her to take it for his sake, and to show her
love for him she offered up her own hopes and desires, and offered
them with smiles and kind words and an affected belief that the change
might be as good for her reputation as for her husband's. She did
indeed--as good women do a kindness--surrender herself entirely, and
pretended that the surrender was her own desire and her husband's
complaisance a thing he deserved praise for.
However, Roland's enthusiasms were undoubtedly partly contagious. Even
Denasia, who had so often been deceived, was partly under their
influence. His words had caught something of the vastness of the land
of his hopes, and he talked so ambitiously and with so much certainty
that the untravelled woman caught his fever once more. Then she also
suffered the idea of America to fascinate her, and she permitted
Roland to bring his new friends to see her, for she desired to be
entirely possessed by the idea which was now to be the ruling motive
of their lives. It was decided that they should sail about the middle
of June. "We shall then have time to become familiar with the country,
and we need not be in a hurry to decide about engagements. Hurry is
such a mistake," said Roland with oracular wisdom. And Denasia hoped
and smiled, and then turned away to hide the sudden frown and sigh.
For the heart is difficult to deceive, and Denasia's heart warned her
morning, noon, and night. But to what purpose? Who heeds the warning
from their higher selves? Though one rose from the dead to point out a
fatal mistake, how many would heed the messenger? For when love says,
"This is the way," wisdom, fate, death itself may speak in vain.
About a week before the voyage, Roland said one night: "I think now,
Denasia, that we have everything packed, I shall run down to St.
Penfer and see my sister. I may never come back from America. Indeed,
I do not think I shall ever want to come back, and I really ought to
bid Elizabeth good-bye. She will doubtless also remember me in money
matters, and in a strange country money is always a good friend. Is it
not, dear? What do you think, Denasia?"
"I have been thinking a great deal of St. Penfer. My heart is like to
break when I think of it. I do want to see my father and mother so
much."
"You would only get a heart-break, my love. They would have no end of
reproaches for you. I shall never forget your mother. Her temper was
awful!"
"You must have said something awful to aggravate her, Roland. Mother
has a quick temper, but it is also noble and generous. I do want to
see her. I must see her once more. Let us go together."
"To St. Penfer? What a foolish idea! You would only give yourself a
wretched memory to carry through your whole life."
"Never mind! I want to go to St. Penfer."
"How can you? I cannot take you to Burrell Court, Denasia."
"I would not put my foot inside Burrell Court."
"Then if I went there and you went to your father's house, that would
look very bad. People would say all kinds of wicked things."
"We could stop together at the Black Lion. From there you could call
upon Elizabeth. From there I could go to my father and mother. Even if
they should be cruel to me, I want to see them. I want to see them. If
father should strike me--well, I deserve it. I will kiss his hand for
the blow! That is how I feel, Roland."
"I shall not permit my wife to go to any place where she expects to be
struck. That is how I feel, Denasia."
"You are ashamed to take me to St. Penfer as your wife. And yet you
owe me this reparation."
"There is no use discussing such a foolish statement. I do not think I
owe you anything, Denasia. I have given you my name; at this very
moment I am considering your welfare. You know that money is
necessary, and as much of it as we can get; but Elizabeth will give me
nothing if you are tagging after me."
"If you are going begging, Roland, that alters the question. I have no
desire to 'tag' after you on that errand. As for Elizabeth, I hate
her."
"Why should you hate her? She was always good to you."
"Good! Do not name the woman. If you want to go to her, go. I hope you
will carry her nothing but sorrow and ill-luck. I do! I do! I hate her
as the sailor hates the sunken reef. I have not asked myself why. I
only know that I have plenty of reason."
"Do not be so excessive, Denasia. I shall leave for the West to-night.
Would you like me to see your father? Your mother I decline to see."
"Leave my father alone. You would not dare to go near him. If you do I
will never speak to you again--never!"
Roland laughed lightly at her passion and answered with a provoking
pleasantry: "You feel too, too, too furiously, Denasia. It is not
ladylike. Your emotions will wear away your beauty."
So Roland went by the night train to St. Penfer, and Denasia took the
train after his for the same place. She was determined to see her
parents once more, and all their habits were so familiar to her that
she had no fear of accomplishing her desire unknown to them. She timed
her movements so well that she arrived at a small wayside station near
St. Penfer about dusk. No one noticed her, and she sped swiftly across
the cliff-path, until it touched the path leading downward to her own
home.
The little village was quite still. The children had gone to bed. The
men were at sea. The women were doing their last daily duties. Denasia
kept well in the shadow of the trees till she was opposite her home. A
few steps across the shingle would bring her to the door. She tried to
remember what her mother might be doing just at that hour, and while
thus employed Joan came to the door, stood a moment on the threshold,
and then went slowly to the next cottage. She had her knitting in her
hand, and she was likely going to sit an hour with Ann Trewillow. When
Joan's footsteps no longer crunched the shingle there was no sound but
the ocean beating on the shore and the wind stirring the tree-tops,
and when Joan and Ann Trewillow went inside Ann's cottage there was
not another human creature visible.
Swiftly, then, Denasia crossed the shingle. She was at the door of her
home. It stood wide open. She entered and looked around. Nothing was
changed; the same glow of red fire on the white hearth, the same order
and spotless cleanliness, the same atmosphere of love and peace and of
life holy and simple. She was not hungry, but she was very thirsty and
exceedingly weary. The bucket was full of freshly drawn water; she
drank and then turned her face to her own room. A strong, sweet
curiosity tempted her to enter it, and its air of visible welcome made
her smile and weep. It was then impossible to resist the desire that
filled her heart; she shut the door, she unclothed herself, and once
more lay down in her home to sleep.
"It is hardly likely mother comes into this room more than once a
week; she will not, at any rate, come into it to-night. I shall hear
her return and go to bed. When she is asleep I will look once
more--once more on her dear face. Father will be home in the dawning.
I will watch for his coming. If he goes to bed at once I may get away
before any person sees me. If he sits and talks to mother, I may hear
something that will give me courage to say, 'I am here! Forgive me!'
I must trust to luck--no, no, to God's pity for me!"
Thinking thus, she lay in weary abandon on her childhood's bed. The
monotonous tick of the old clock, the simmering of the kettle on the
hob, and the deep undertone of the ocean soothed her like a familiar,
unforgotten lullaby. In a few minutes she had fallen into a deep,
dreamless sleep.
She was asleep when Joan returned. Joan had gone to her neighbour's to
ask a question about the boats, and she remained there for more than
an hour. For Ann Trewillow had heard of Roland's arrival in the
village, and she and Joan had some opinions to express on the subject.
So that when Joan returned to her own cottage, it was with her heart
beating to memories of her daughter.
She put a little more coal on her fire and then went for a drink of
water. The tin cup was not in its usual place, for Denas had left
it on the table. Joan looked at the cup with a face full of
questions. Had she left it there? She never before had done such a
thing. Who then had been in her house? Who had been drinking from her
water-bucket? She asked the questions idly, without fear, but with a
certain curiosity as to her unknown visitor. Then she put more water
into the kettle and set a cup and saucer for her husband in case
he wanted a drink of hot tea when he came in from the fishing. All
the time she was thinking of Denas, and the girl seemed to grow
into the air beside her; she felt that if she whispered "Denas"
she might hear the beloved voice answer "Mother."
Unknown to any mortal, Joan had made a kind of idol of the pictured
Denasia. She was sorry for her weakness in this matter, but she was
not able to resist the temptation of very frequently opening the
drawer in which it lay, of looking at it, and of kissing it. Her
conversation, her thoughts, her fancies made her child-sick. She
longed for a sight of her darling's face, and she lifted a candle and
went to the door of the room in which it lay hidden.
There was always an unacknowledged sense of self-indulgence in this
act, and the sense made her go a little softly about it, as if it had
to be done secretly. She opened the door slowly, and the rush candle
showed her clothing scattered about the room. Her heart stood still;
she was breathless; she put down her light and on tiptoes went to the
bedside. Denas was fast asleep. Her long hair lay loose upon the
pillow, her face was pale and faintly smiling, her hands open and at
rest upon the coverlet. Her deep, slow breathing showed her to be far
below conscious being, and Joan knelt down at her child's side and
filled her empty eyes with the fair picture and her empty heart with
the hopes it inspired.
Still Denas slept. Then Joan went into the outer room and sat down to
wait for John. As the dawn came up the East she pushed aside the
foliage of her flowering plants and watched the beach for John's
approach. He came on with his mates, but they scattered to their
cottages, and at last he was alone. Then Joan went to the door and he
smiled when he saw her waiting. She made an imperative motion of
silence; she took his string of fish and his water-bottle out of his
hands and laid them very softly down, and while John was yet lost in
amazement at her actions, she put her hand in his and led him to their
girl's bedside. Without a word both stood looking at her. The dawn
showed every change in her young face, and the pathos of hidden
suffering was revealed unconsciously as she slept.
There is some wonderful magnet in the human eye; no sleeper can long
resist its influence. As John and Joan gazed steadily on their
sleeping daughter she, became restless, a faint flush flew to her
cheeks, she moved her hands. Joan slipped down on her knees; when the
girl opened her eyes she was ready to fold her in her arms. John stood
upright, and it was his wide-open, longing gaze which brought
Denasia's soul back to her. She gazed back silently into her father's
face for a moment and then murmured:
"Father! forgive me! Oh, mother! mother!"
They forgave her with tears of joy. They put her fault out of words
and out of memory. Confession and forgiveness was an inarticulate
service of sorrow; but joy and welcome were eloquent and full of
tender words. For once John locked his door and did not call his
neighbours to share his gladness. He speedily understood the shortness
and secrecy of her visit. After all, it was but a farewell. The joy
was dashed with tears. The hope quickly faded away.
They did not try to turn her from the way she had promised to go. John
said only, "The Lord go with you, Denas," and Joan wept at the
thought of the land so far, far off. But they divined that their child
had her own sorrows, that the lot of woman had found her out, that she
had come to places where their love could not help her. Yet the visit,
short and unsatisfactory as it was, made a great difference in
Penelles' cottage. It lifted much anxiety. It gave the father and
mother hopes which they took to God to perfect, excuses which they
pleaded with Him to accept. Their confidence in their child was
strengthened; they could pray for her now with a more sure hope, with
a more perfect faith.
When the gloaming came on thick with Cornish fog Joan kissed her
darling good-bye with passionate love and grief, and John walked with
his "little dear" through the dripping woods to the wayside station,
and lifted her into the carriage with a great sob. None of the three
could have borne such another day, but oh, how glad was each one that
they had dared, and enjoyed, and suffered through this one! It left a
mark on each soul that eternity would not efface.