"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 a.s.sumption 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 embarra.s.sed, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 amus.e.m.e.nt; 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.