Amelia E. Barr “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 200 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 201 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 203 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 matinÉe? 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 205 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 206 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 207 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 208 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 209 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 210 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 211 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, 212 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, 213 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, 214 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 215 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 216 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 217 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 219 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 220 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 221 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 223 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 224 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.