THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
“O blesséd sounds of wiser life
Contented with its day,
How ye rebuke the inner strife
That wears the soul away.”
“The Eden we live in is our own heart,
And the first thing we do of our free choice
Is sure to be sin.”
––Festus.
John Penelles was one of those strong religious characters whose minds no questions disturb, whose spiritual aspirations are never put out of breath. He had not yet been a yoke-fellow with sorrow. Hard work, the cruelty of the elements, the self-denials of poverty, these things he had known; but love had never smitten him across the heart.
When he rose that Easter Sunday he rose singing. He sang as he put on his chapel broadcloth; he was trying over the different metres and the Easter anthem as he walked about the sanded floor of his cottage, and thought over the heads of his sermon. For he was to preach that night in the little chapel of St. Swer, a fishing hamlet four miles to the northward; indeed, John preached very often, being a local preacher in the circuit of St. Penfer, and rather famous for his ready, short sermons, full of the breath of the sea and of the savour of the fisher’s life upon it.
Denas had gone to a neighbouring farm for milk. He heard her quick step on the shingle, and he stood still in the middle of the floor to meet her. She had on a short dress of pink calico and a square of blue-and-white-plaided flannel thrown over her head. She came in like the breath of the spring Sabbath. Her face was rosy, her lovely lips slightly apart, her blue eyes dewy and soft and bright and brimming with love. She lifted her face to her father’s face, and he forgot in a moment all his fears. He saw only Denas, and not any of her faults; if she had faults, he buried them that moment in his love, and they were all put out of memory.
Roland and the Treshams were not spoken of. John and Joan both had the fisher’s dislike to name a person or a thing they considered unlucky or unpleasant. “If you name evil you do call evil” was their simple creed; and it saved many a household worry. They sat down to their breakfast of tea, and fresh fish, and white loaf, and the wide-open door let in the sea wind, and the sea smell, and the soft murmur of the turning tide. John’s heart was full of holy joy; he could feel it singing: “Bless the Lord, O my soul!” And though he was only a poor Cornish fisher, he was sure that the world was a very good world and that life was well worth the living.
“Joan, my dear,” he said, “the Bible do tell us that there shall be a new earth. Can it be a sweeter one than this is?”
“Aw, John, it may be a sight better, for we be promised ‘there shall be no sea there,’ thank God! no freezing, drowning men and no weeping wives. I do think of that when you are out in the frost and storm, John, and the thought be heaven itself.”
“My dear, the sea be God’s own highway. There be wonders by the sea. Was not St. John sent to the sea-side for the Revelations? ’Twas there he heard the angels, whose voices were like the sound of many waters. Heaven will be wonderful! wonderful! if it do make us forget the sea. Aw, my dear Joan, ’twill be something added to this earth, not something taken away, and the good thing added will make both the sea and the ‘bounds of the everlasting hills’ to be blessed.”
“John, who told you that? And if the cruel, hungry, awful sea is not to be taken away, nor yet the ‘everlasting hills,’ what will make it a new earth?”
“God’s tabernacle will be in it. Aw, my dear, that will make everything new––sea and land, men and women; and then there will be no more tears. My dear, when I think of that I love this old world, not only for what it is, but also for what it is going to be.”
“Father, you are preaching and not eating your breakfast; and I want to get breakfast over and the cups washed, for I have to dress myself yet, and a new dress to put on, too,” and Denas smiled and nodded and touched her father’s big hand with her small one, and then John smiled back, and with a mighty purpose began to eat his fish and bread and drink his tea.
The whole day took its colour from this happy beginning. In after-years John often spoke of that Easter Sabbath; of their quiet walk all together up the cliff to St. Penfer Chapel; of the singing, and the sermon, and the Sunday-school in the afternoon for the fisher children; of the walk to St. Swer with Denas by his side and the walk back, singing all the way home; of the nice supper ready for them, and how they had eaten and talked till the late moon made a band of light across the table, and John said hurriedly:
“Well, there now! The tide will be calling me before I do have time to get sleep in my eyes.”
Then Joan rose quickly and Denas began to put away the bread and cheese and milk, and though none recognised the fact at the time, the old life passed away for ever when the three rose from that midnight supper.
Yet for several days afterward nothing seemed to be changed. John went to his fishing and had unusual good fortune; and Joan and Denas were busy mending nets and watching the spring bleaching. It was the duty of Denas to take the house linen to some level grassy spot on the cliff-breast and water and watch it whiten in the sunshine. Monday she had gone to this duty with a vague hope that Roland would seek her out. She watched all day for him. She knew that she was looking pretty, and she felt that her employment was picturesque.
As she stood over the breadths of damask, with the water-can making mimic rain upon them, she was well aware that all her surroundings added charm to her charm. The soft winds blowing her hair and her pink skirt; the green leaves whispering above and around her; the rippling of the brook running down the hillside––all these things belonged as much to her as the frame belongs to the picture. Why did not Roland come to see her thus? Was he afraid for the words he had said to her? Were they not true words? Did he intend, by ignoring them, to teach her that he had only been playing with her vanity and her credulity?
Tuesday was too wet and blowy to spread the linen, and Denas felt the morning insufferably long and tedious. Her father, who had been on the sea all night, dozed in his big chair on the hearthstone. Joan was silent, and went about her duties in a tiptoeing way that was very fretful to the impatience of Denas. Denas herself was knitting a guernsey, and as she sat counting the stitches Tristram Penrose came to the door and, after a moment’s pause, spoke to her. He was a fine young fellow with an open-air look on his brown face and an open-love look in his brown eyes.
“My dear Denas,” he said, “is your father in?”
“Tris, who gave you license to call me dear? and my father is asleep by the fireside.”
“Aw, then, the One who gave me license to live gave me the license to love; and dear you be and dear you always will be to Tris Penrose. The word may be shut in my heart or I may say it in your ear, Denas; ’tis all the same; dear you be and dear you always will be.”
She shrugged her shoulders petulantly, and yet could not resist the merry up-glance which she knew went straight to the big fellow’s heart. Then she began to fold up her knitting. While Tris was talking to her father, she would ask for permission to go and see Elizabeth. While Tris was present, she did not think he would refuse her request, for if he did so she could ask him for reasons and he would not like to give them.
Denas had all the natural diplomacy of a clever woman, and she knew the power of a fond word and a sunny smile. “Father”––is there any fonder word?––“Father, I want to go and see Miss Tresham. She told me a very important secret on Saturday, and I know she was expecting me yesterday to talk it over with her;” then she went close to his side and put her hand on his shoulder and snuggled her cheek in his big beard, and called poor Tris’ soul into his face for the very joy of watching her.
John was not insensible to her charming. He hesitated, and Denas felt the hesitation and met it with a bribe: “You could come up the cliff to meet me before you go to the boats––couldn’t you, father?”
“Nay, my dear, I’ll not need to look for you on the cliff, for you will stay at home, Denas; it rains––it blows.”
“Miss Tresham was expecting me all through yesterday, but it was so fine I took the linen to bleach. She will be so disappointed if I do not come to-day. We have a secret, father––a very particular secret.”
It was hard to resist the pretty, pleading, coaxing girl, but John had a strength of will which Denas had never before put to the test.
“My dear girl,” he answered, “if Miss Tresham be longing to talk her secrets to you, she can come to you. There be nothing in the world to hinder her. Here be a free welcome to her.”
“I promised, father.”
“’Tis a pity you did.”
“I must go, father.”
“You must stay at home. ’Twould be like putting my girl through the fire to Baal to send her into the company there be now at Mr. Tresham’s.”
“I care nothing for the company. I want to see Miss Tresham.”
“Now, then, I am in earnest, Denas. You shall not go. Take your knitting and sit down to your own work.”
She lifted her knitting, but she did not lift a stitch. Where there is no positive compulsion the hand is only handmaid to the heart, and it does the work only which the heart wishes. At this hour Denas hated her knitting, and there being no necessity on her to perform it, her hands lay idle upon her lap. After a few minutes’ conversation John went out with Tris Penrose, and then Denas began to cry with anger and disappointment.
“My father has insulted me before Tris Penrose,” she said, “and I will never speak to Tris again. Many a time and oft he has let me go to St. Penfer when it was raining and blowing. He is very cross, cruel cross! Mother, you give me leave––do! I will tell you a secret. Elizabeth is going to be married, and she wants me to help in getting her things ready. Mother, let me go; it is cruel hard to refuse me!”
The news of an approaching marriage can never be heard by any woman with indifference. Joan stayed her needle and looked at Denas with an eager curiosity.
“’Tis to the rector, I’ll warrant, Denas,” she said.
“No, it is not; but the rector is fine and angry, I can tell you. It was too much for him to speak to Miss Tresham on Saturday afternoon at the church. But won’t he be sorry for his disknowledging her when he knows who is to be the bridegroom? He will, and no mistake.”
“I don’t understand you, Denas. Who is going to marry Miss Tresham? Say the man’s name, and be done with it.”
“’Tis a great secret, mother; but if you will let me go to St. Penfer I will tell you.”
“Aw, my dear, I can live without Miss Tresham’s secrets. And I do know she can’t be having one I would go against your father to hear tell of, not I.”
“Father is unjust and unkind. What have I done, mother?”
“Your father is afraid of that young jackanapes, Roland Tresham, and good reason, too, if all be true that is said to be true.”
“Mr. Roland is a gentleman.”
“Gentleman and gentleman––there be many kinds, and no kind at all for you. You be a fisher’s daughter, and you must choose a husband of your own sort––none better, thank God! The robin would go to the eagle’s nest, and a poor sad time it had there. Gentlemen marry gentlemen’s daughters, Denas, and if they don’t, all sides do be sorry enough.”
“Am I to go no more to Miss Tresham’s?”
“Not until the young man is back in London.”
“Then I wish he would hurry all and be off.”
“So do I, my dear. I would be glad to hear that he was far away from St. Penfer.”
Joan rose with these words and went out of the room, and Denas knew that for this day also there was no hope of seeing Roland. Her heart was hot with anger, and she began to lay some of the blame upon her lover. He was a man. He could have braved the storm. And there was no open quarrel between her father and himself; it would have been easy enough to make an excuse for calling. Elizabeth might have written a letter to her. Roland might have brought it. Sitting there, she could think of half-a-dozen things which Roland might have accomplished. How long the hours were! How would she ever get the days over? Her mother singing in the curing-shed made her angry. The ticking of the big clock accentuated her nervous irritability, and when John returned silent and with that air about him which indicated the master of the house, Denas felt surely that all was over for the present between her and Roland Tresham.
The night became blustery after John and the men had gone to the fishing, and by midnight there was a storm. Joan’s white, anxious face was peering through the windows or out of the open door into the black night continually. And the presence of Denas did not comfort her, as it usually did; the mother felt that her child’s thoughts were with strangers, and not with her father out on the stormy sea.
It was ten o’clock next morning before John got home. He had made a little harbour some miles off, and glad to make it, and had been compelled to lay there until daybreak. He was weary and silent. He said it would have gone hard with him had not Tris been at his right hand. Then he looked anxiously at Denas, and when she did not give him a smile or a word, he sat down by the fire much depressed and exhausted. For he saw that his child had a hard, angry heart toward him, and he felt how useless it was to try and explain or justify his dealings with her.
It was now Wednesday, and Denas burned with shame when she thought how readily she had listened to so careless a lover. No word of any kind came from Elizabeth, who indeed was not to blame under the circumstances. Mr. Burrell was much with her; they had a hundred delightful arrangements to make about their marriage and their future housekeeping. And if in these days Elizabeth was a little proud and important and very much interested in her own affairs, she was innocently so. She was only exhibiting the natural parade of a lovely bud spreading itself into a perfect flower.
She had not the slightest intention of being unkind to Denas; indeed, she looked forward to many pleasant hours with her and to her assistance in all the preparations for her marriage. And Roland had introduced the subject quite as frequently as he felt it to be prudent. Finally Elizabeth had plainly told him that she did not intend to have Denas with her until he returned to London. “I see you so seldom, Roland,” she said, “and we will not have any stranger intermeddling when you are at home.”
“Come, Elizabeth,” he answered, “you are putting up your disapprovals in the shape of compliments. My dear, you are afraid I will fall in love with Denas.”
“I am afraid you will make love to her, which is a very different thing.”
“Do you want Denas here?”
“I shall be glad to have her here. I have a great deal of sewing to do, and she is a perfect and rapid needlewoman.”
“Then go to-morrow and ask her to come. I am off to London to-night. In this world no one has pleasure but he who gives himself some. You were my only pleasure at St. Penfer, and I do not care to share your society with Robert Burrell.”
“I will go and see Denas. I must ask her parents to let her stay with me until my marriage.”
But as Denas did not know of this intention, that weary Wednesday dragged itself away amid rain and storm and household dissatisfaction; but by Thursday morning the elements had blustered their passion away and the world was clear-skied and sunshiny. Not so Denas; she sat in a dark corner of the room, cross and silent, and answering her father and mother only in monosyllables. John’s heart was greatly troubled by her attitude. He stood leaning against the lintel of the door, watching his boat rocking upon the tide, for he was thinking that until Denas and he were “in” again he had better stop at home.
“I do leave my heart at home, and then I do lose my head at sea;” and with this unsatisfactory thought John turned to his daughter and said softly: “Denas, my dear, ’tis a bright day. Will you have a walk? But there––here be Miss Tresham, I do know it is her.”
Denas rose quickly and looked a moment at the tall, handsome girl picking her way across the pebbly path. Then she threw down her knitting and went to meet her, and Elizabeth was pleased and flattered by her protégée’s complaints and welcomes. “I thought you would never send me a message or a letter,” almost sobbed Denas. “I never hoped you would come. O Elizabeth, how I have longed to see you! Life is so stupid when I cannot come to your house.”
“Why did you not come?”
“Father was afraid of your brother.”
“He was right, Denas. Roland is too gay and thoughtless a young man to be about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I do not think he will come back here until near the wedding-day.”
Then they were at the door, and John Penelles welcomed the lady with all the native grace that springs from a kind heart and from noble instincts which have become principles. “You be right welcome, Miss Tresham,” he said. “My little maid has fret more than she should have done for you. I do say that.”
“I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, and Denas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if she may stay with me until my marriage in June. No one can sew like Denas, and now I can afford to pay her a good deal of money for her work––for her love I give her love. No gold pays for love, does it, sir?”
John was pleased with her frankness. He knew the value of money, he knew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answered with a candour which brushed away all pretences:
“We be all obliged to you, Miss Tresham. We be all glad that Denas should make money so happily. It will help her own wedding and furnishing, whenever God do send her a good man to love her. It be a great honour to Denas to have your love, but there then! your brother is a fine, handsome young man, and––no offence, miss––it would not be a great honour for my little maid to have his love or the likelihood of it––and out of temptation is out of danger, miss, and if so be I do speak plain and bluff, you will not put it down against me, I’ll warrant.”
“I think, Mr. Penelles, that you are quite right. I have felt all you say for two years, and have shielded the honour and the happiness of Denas as if she was in very deed my sister. Can you not trust her with me now?”
“’Tis a great charge, miss.”
“I am glad to take it. I will keep it for you faithfully.”
“’Tis too much to ask, miss; ’twould be a constant charge, for wrong-doing is often a matter of a few moments, though the repentance for it may last a lifetime.”
“Roland is in London. He went yesterday. I do not expect him to come to St. Penfer again until the wedding. I assure you of this, Mr. Penelles.”
“Then your word for it, Miss Tresham. Take my little maid with you. She be my life, miss. If Denas was hurt any way ’twould be like I got a shot in my backbone; ’twould be as bad for her mother, likewise for poor Tris Penrose.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I am glad to hear there is a lover; Denas never told me of him. Is he good and brave, and handsome and young, and well-to-do?”
“He be all these, and more too; for he do love the ground Denas treads on––he do for sure.”
Denas was in her room putting on her blue merino and her hat, and while she made her small arrangements and talked to her mother, Elizabeth set herself to win the entire confidence of John Penelles. It was not a hard thing to do. Evil and sin had to be present and palpable for John’s honest heart to realize them. And Miss Tresham’s open face, her frank assurances, her straightforward understanding of the position were a pledge John never doubted.
Certainly Elizabeth meant all she promised. She was as desirous to prevent any love-making as John Penelles was. And when interest and conscience are in the same mind, people do at least try to keep their promises. Denas went gayly back with her to St. Penfer. It was something to be in Roland’s home; she would hear him spoken of, and she would exchange the monotonous common duties of her own home for the happy bustle and the festive preparations of a house where a fine wedding was to be celebrated.
Her expectations in this respect were more than gratified. Every hour of the day brought something to discuss, to exclaim over, to wonder about, to select, to try on. Notes and flowers, and sweetmeats, and presents of all kinds were continually reminding Elizabeth of her lover; and she grew beautiful and generous in the sunshine of such a magnificent love. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed like a happy dream. On Saturday evening Denas was to return home until after the Sabbath. For Saturday night and Sunday were John’s holiday, and a poor one indeed it would be to him without his daughter. Nor was Denas averse to go home. She looked forward to the pleasure of telling her mother everything she had seen and done; she looked forward to going to chapel with her father, and showing a pretty hat and collar and a pair of kid gloves which Elizabeth had given her.
About five o’clock she started down the cliff. Her heart was light in spite of Roland’s silence. Indeed, she had begun to feel a contempt for him and greater contempt for herself because she had for a moment believed in a man so light of love and so false of heart. Elizabeth’s affairs were full of interest to her. Elizabeth had been so sisterly and kind. She had paid her well and promised her many things that made life seem full of hope to the ambitious fisher-girl. How the birds did sing! How still the green glades were! In that one week of rain and sunshine, how the leaves had grown!
She went gayly forward, humming softly to herself––none of the songs Roland sang with her, but a little love-song Elizabeth had learned from Robert Burrell. Her foot had that spring to its lift and fall that shows there is a young innocent heart above it. In and out among the glades she went, almost as brightly and musically as the brook whose sparkling and darkling course she followed. When but a few hundred yards down the path, someone called her. She thought it was a fancy and went onward, nevertheless feeling a sudden silence and trouble. Immediately she heard footsteps and the rustling swish of parting leaves and branches.
Then she stood still and looked toward the place of disturbance. A moment afterward Roland Tresham was at her side. He took her hand; he said softly, “This way, darling!” and before she could make the slightest resistance he had drawn her into a little glade shut in by large boulders and lofty trees. Then he had his arms around her, and was laughing and talking a thousand sweet, unreasonable things.
“Oh, Mr. Tresham, let me go! Let me go!” cried Denas.
“Not while you say ‘Mr. Tresham.’”
“Oh, Roland!”
“Yes, love, Roland. Say it a thousand times. Did you think I had forgotten you?”
“You were very cruel.”
“Cruel to be kind, Denas. My love! they think I am in London. Everyone thinks so. I did go to London last Wednesday. I left London this morning very early. I got off the train at St. Claire and walked across the cliff, and found out this pretty hiding-place. And I am going to be here every Saturday night––every Saturday night, wet or fine, and if you do not come here to see me, I will go to Australia and never see St. Penfer again.”
He would talk nothing but the most extravagant nonsense, and finally Denas believed him. He gave her a ring that looked very like Elizabeth’s betrothal ring, and was even larger than Elizabeth’s, and he told her to wear it in her breast until she could wear it on her hand. And for this night, and for many other Saturday nights, he never named the plot in his shallow head and selfish heart; he devoted himself to winning completely the girl’s absorbing love––not a very difficult thing to do, for the air of romance and mystery, at once so charming and so dangerous, enthralled her fancy; his eager, masterful, caressing wooing made her tremble with a delicious fear and hope; and in the week’s silence and dreaming, the folly of every meeting grew marvellously.
Nor was the loving, ignorant girl unaffected by the apparently rich gifts her lover brought her––brooch and locket and bracelet, many bright and sparkling ornaments, which poor Denas hid away with joy and almost childish delight and prideful expectations. And if her conscience troubled her, she assured it that “if it was right for Elizabeth to receive such offerings of affection, it could not be wrong for her to do likewise.”
Alas! alas! She did not remember that the element of secrecy made the element of sin. If she had only entertained this thought, it would have made her understand that the meeting which cannot be known and the gift which cannot be shown are wicked in their essence and their influence, and are incapable of bringing forth anything but sorrow and sin.