Amelia E. Barr “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.

Denasia made her dÉbut 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 182 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 183 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 184 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 185 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 186 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 187 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, 189 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 190 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 192 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 193 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 194 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 195 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 197 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 198 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!”