WHAT SHALL BE DONE FOR ROLAND?
“When, lulled in passion’s dream, my senses slept,
How did I act?––E’en as a wayward child.
I smiled with pleasure when I should have wept,
And wept with sorrow when I should have smiled.”
––Moncrieff.
“Love not, love not! O warning vainly said
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,
Faultless, immortal––till they change or die.”
––Hon. Mrs. Norton.
Hope has a long reach, and yet it holds fast. So, though Roland’s return was far enough away, Denas possessed it in anticipation. The belief that he would come, that he would give her sympathy and assistance, helped her through the long sameness of uneventful days by the witching promise, “Anon––anon!”
There was little to vary life in that quiet hamlet. The pilchard season went, as it had come, in a day; men counted their gains and returned to their usual life. Denas tried to accept it cheerfully; she felt that it would soon be a past life, and this conviction helped her to invest it with some of that tender charm which clings to whatever enters the pathetic realm of “Nevermore.”
Her parents were singularly kind to her, and John tried to give a little excitement to her life by coaxing her to share with him the things he considered quite stirring. But visits to her aunt at St. Merryn, and Sunday trips to hear some new preacher, and choir practisings with Tris dangling after them wherever they went, were not interesting to the wayward girl. She only endured them, as she endured her daily duties by keeping steadily in view the hope Roland had set before her. However, as she sang nearly constantly, Joan’s mind was easy; she was sure Denas could not be very discontented, for it never entered Joan’s thought that people could sing unless there was melody in their heart. And undoubtedly Denas was cheered by her own music, for if song is given half a chance it has the miraculous power of turning the water of life into wine.
Only two more letters repaid her for many walks to the turned boat, and she did not see Pyn again. She was sure, however, that he knew of her visits and wilfully avoided her. The last of these letters contained the startling intelligence of Mr. Tresham’s death. He had foolishly insisted upon visiting Rome in the unhealthy season and had fallen a victim to fever. Roland wrote in a very depressed mood. He said that his father’s death would make a great difference to him. In a short time the news arrived by the regular sources. Lawyer Tremaine had been advised to take charge of Mr. Tresham’s personal estate, and the newspaper of the district had a long obituary of the deceased gentleman.
John said very little on the subject. He had not liked Mr. Tresham while living, but he was particularly careful to avoid speaking ill of the dead. He said only that he had heard that “the effects left would barely cover outstanding debts, and that Mr. Tresham’s income died with him. ’Tis a good thing Miss Tresham be well married,” he added, “else ’twould have been whist hard times for her now.”
Denas did not answer. Her sudden and apparently unreasonable indifference to her former friend was one of the many mental changes which she could not account for. But she waited impatiently for some word about Roland. John appeared to have nothing to say. Joan hesitated with the question on her lips, and at last she almost threw it at her husband.
“What did you hear about young Mr. Tresham?”
“I asked no questions about him. People do say that he will have to go to honest work now. ’Twill do him no harm, I’m sure.”
“Honest work will be nothing strange to him, father. He has been in a great many offices. I have heard Elizabeth speaking of many a one.”
“I’ll warrant––many a one––and he never stays in any. He has a bad temper for work.”
“Bad temper! That is not true. Mr. Roland has a very good temper.”
“Good temper! To be sure, after a fashion, a kind of Hy-to-everybody fashion. But a good business temper, Denas, be a different thing; it be steady, patient, civil, quiet, hard-to-work temper, and the young man has not got it. No, nor the shadow of it. If he was worth thousands this year he wouldn’t have a farthing next year unless he had a guider and a withholder by his side constantly.”
“You ought not to speak of Mr. Roland at all, father, you hate him that badly.”
“Right you be, Denas. I ought not to speak of the young man. I will let him alone. And I’ll thank every one in my house to do the same thing.”
For some weeks John’s orders were carefully observed. Denas got no more letters, and the summer weather became autumn weather; and then the leaves faded and began to fall, and the equinoctial storm set the seal of advancing winter on the cliff-breast. Yet through all these changes the clock ticked the monotonous days surely away, and one morning when Denas was standing alone in the cottage door a little lad slipped up and put a letter into her hand.
He was gone in a moment, and Denas, even while answering a remark of her mother’s, who was busy at the fireside, hid the message in her bosom. Of course it was from Roland. He said that they had all returned to Burrell Court and that he could not rest until he had seen her. Wet or fine, he begged she would be at their old trysting-place that evening.
Then she began to consider how this was to be managed, and she came to the conclusion that a visit to St. Penfer was the best way. She knew well how to prepare for it––the little helps, and confidences, and personal chatter Joan was always pleased and flattered by were the wedge. Then as they washed the dinner dishes and tidied the house together, Denas said:
“Mother, it is going to storm soon, and then whole days to sit and sew and nothing to talk about. Priscilla Mohun promised me some pretty pieces for my quilt, and Priscilla always knows everything that is going on. What do you think? Shall I go there this afternoon? I could get the patches and hear the news and bring back a story paper, and so be home before you would have time to miss me.”
“Well, my dear, we do feel to be talked out.”
“Priscilla will tell me all there is to hear, and if I get the patches, a few days’ sewing and the quilt will be ready for you to cross-stitch; and a story paper is such a comfort when the storm is beating you back to house every hour of the day.”
“You say right––it be a great comfort. But you will have to be busy all, for it is like enough to rain within an hour––the tide will bring it, I’ll warrant.”
“I will wear my waterproof. Mother, dear, I do want a little change so much––just to see some new faces and hear tell of the St. Penfer people.”
“Well, then, go your way, Denas, a wetting will do you no harm; and I do know the days be long days, and the nights do never seem to come to midnight and then wear to cock-crow. ’Twould be a whist poor life, my dear, if this life were all.”
Denas was now very anxious to get off before her father came back from his afternoon gossip at the boats. With a gay heart she left her home and hastened to St. Penfer to execute the things that had been her ostensible reason for the visit. As it happened, Priscilla Mohun was full of news. The first thing she said to Denas related to the return of the Burrells, and then followed all the gossip about the treasures they had brought with them and changes to be made in the domestic life of the Court.
“Mrs. Burrell be going to turn things upside down, I can tell you, Denas. They do say four new servants are hired, two men and two women; and the horses brought down are past talking about, with silver trimmings on their harness––that, and no less––and carriages of all kinds, and one kind finer than the other! I do suppose Mrs. Burrell’s gowns will be all London or Paris bought now; though to be sure poor Priscilla did make her wedding-dress––but there, then! what be the use of talking?”
“How long have they been at home?” asked Denas.
“La! I thought if anybody knew that it would be you. I was just taking a walk last Wednesday, and I happened to see them driving through the town; Mr. Burrell and his sister, and Mrs. Burrell and her handsome brother––how happy they looked, and everyone lifting their hats or making a respectful move to them.”
Last Wednesday! and it was now Monday. Denas was dashed by the news. But she chattered away about everyone they knew, and got her patches, and her story paper, and then, just as the gloaming was losing itself in the fog from the sea, she started down the cliff. Roland was waiting for her. He took her in his arms and kissed her with an eager and delighted affection; and though the fog had changed to a soft rain, neither of them appeared to be uncomfortably aware of the fact. Denas drew the hood of her waterproof over her head and Roland the heavy collar of his coat about his ears, and they sat close together on the damp rock, with Roland’s umbrella over them.
There was so much to say that they really said nothing. When they had but half finished repeating “Sweet Denas!” and “Dear Roland!” Denas had to go. It was only then she found courage to intimate, in a half-frightened way, that she had been thinking and wondering about her voice, and if she really could learn to sing. Roland flushed with delight to find the seed he had sown with so much doubt grown up to strength and ripeness.
“My lovely one!” he answered, “you must go to London and have lessons; and I will take care of you. I will see that you have justice and that no one hurts you.”
“But where could I live? And how? I have one hundred pounds of my own. Will that be enough?”
“You little capitalist! How did you get a hundred pounds?”
“Father has put a few pounds in the bank at St. Merryn every year since I was born for me, and I have put there all the money your sister paid me. Father said it was to furnish my home when I got married, but I would rather spend it on my voice.”
“I should think so. Well, Beauty, you are to come and see Elizabeth off Wednesday; then I shall have something sweet and wonderful to say to you.”
“Will Elizabeth send for me? That would make it easy.”
“I do not think Elizabeth will send for you. I have been hoping for that. She has not named you at all. For my sake, come to the Court on Wednesday.”
“It is a long way to walk, but for your sake I will come.”
Then they parted, and she hastened back and reached home just as John and Joan were beginning to be uneasy at her delay. The sight of her happy face, the charming little fuss she made about her dripping waterproof and her wet shoes, the perfectly winning way in which she took possession of her father’s knee and from it warmed her bare rosy feet at the blaze scattered all shadows. She took their fears and nascent anger by storm; she exhibited her many-coloured bits of cloth, and showed John the pictures in the story paper, and coaxingly begged her mother for a cup of tea, because she was cold and hungry. And then, as Joan made the tea and the toast, Denas related all that Priscilla had told her. And Joan wondered and exclaimed, and John listened with a pleased interest, though he thought it right to say a word about speaking ill of people, and was snubbed by Joan for doing so.
“Mrs. Burrell is putting on grand airs, it seems, so then it will go that people of course will speak ill of her,” said Joan.
“Aw, my dear,” answered John, “few are better spoken of than they deserve.”
“I do think Denas ought to call on the bride,” said Joan. “It would only be friendly, and many will make a talk about it if she does not go.”
“She must find out, first, if the young man be there.”
“No,” said Denas warmly, “I will not find out. If you cannot trust your little maid, father, then do not let her go at all. If people could hear you talk they would say, ‘What a bad girl John Penelles has! He dare not let her go to see her friend if there be a young man in the house.’ ’Tis a shame, isn’t it, mother?”
“I think it be, Denas. Father isn’t so cruel suspicious as that, my dear. Are you, father?”
And what could John answer? Though sorely against his feeling and his judgment, he was induced to agree that Denas ought perhaps to call once on the bride. There were so many plausible arguments in favour of such a visit; there was nothing but shadowy doubts and fears against it.
“Go to-morrow, then,” said John, a little impatiently; “and let me be done with the fret of it.”
“The day after-to-morrow, or Wednesday, father. To-morrow it will be still raining, no doubt, and I have something to alter in my best dress. I want to look as fine as I can, father.”
“Look like yourself and your people, Denas. That be the best finery. If roses and lilies did grow on the dusty high-road, they would not be as fitly pretty as blue-bells and daisies. I do think that, Denas; and it be the very same with women. Burrell Court is a matter of two miles beyond St. Penfer; ’tis a long walk, my dear, and dress for the walk and the weather. Do, my dear!”
Then the subject was changed, and Denas, having won her way, was really grateful and disposed to make the evening happy for all. She recollected many a little bit of pleasantry; she mimicked Priscilla to admiration, merrily and without ill-will, and then she took the story paper and read a thrilling account of some great shipwrecks and a poem that seemed to John and Joan’s simple minds “the sweetest bit of word music that could be.”
At the same hour Elizabeth and Roland were playing an identical rôle under different circumstances. Roland had hoped to slip away to his room unobserved. He knew Miss Burrell had gone to a friend’s house for a day or two, and he thought Robert and Elizabeth would be sufficiently occupied with each other. But some gentlemen were with Robert on parish business, and Elizabeth was alone and well inclined to come to an understanding with her brother.
“Caroline had to go without an escort, Roland. It was too bad,” she said reproachfully as she stood in the open door of a parlour and waited for his approach.
“You see I am wet through, Elizabeth. I will change my clothing and come to you. Where is Robert?”
“With the churchwardens. I want to talk to you seriously. We shall be alone for an hour. Come as soon as you can.”
“In five minutes. It will be delightful to have you all to myself once more.”
He came back quickly and placed his chair close to hers, and lifted her face to his face and kissed her, saying fondly, “My dear little sister.”
“Where have you been, Roland?”
“I could have bet on the words ‘Where have you been?’ That is always a woman’s first question.”
“Have you been with Denas?”
“I have been at the Black Lion and at Tremaine’s. We will suppose that I wished to see Denas––is this pouring rain a fit condition? Do think of something more likely, Elizabeth.”
“Say to me plainly: ‘I have not seen Denas.’”
“If you wish me to say the words, consider that I have done so. Why have you taken a dislike to Denas? You used to be very fond of her.”
“I have not taken any dislike to the girl. I have simply passed out of the season of liking her. In the early spring we find the violet charming, but when summer comes we forget the violet in the rose and the lily and the garden full of richer flowers. The time for Denas has passed––that is all, Roland. What are you going to do about Caroline? When will you ask her to marry you?”
“I have asked her twice already; once in Rome, when she put me off; and again in London, when she decidedly refused me.”
“What did she say?”
“That she believed she could trust herself to my love, because she did not think I would be unkind to any woman; but she was sure she could not trust me with her fortune, because I would waste it without any intention of being wasteful. Caroline wants a financier, not a lover.”
“The idea!”
“She talked about the responsibilities of wealth.”
“How could she talk to you in that way?”
“She did––really.”
“Then Caroline is out of reckoning.”
“Between ourselves, I think she was right, Elizabeth. I am positive I should spend any sum of money. What I need is a wife who can make money week by week, year by year––always something coming in; like an opera-singer, for instance. Do you understand?”
“Could you expect me to understand such nonsense? I asked Robert to-day about poor father’s estate. He thinks there may be four or five hundred pounds after paying all debts. Of course you will receive it all. Robert is very kind, but I can see that he would prefer that you were not always at the Court.”
“I daresay he put Caroline up to refuse me.”
“I have no doubt of it. He would consider it a brotherly duty; and to tell the truth, Roland, I fear you would give any woman lots of heartache. I cannot tell what must be done. You have had so many good business chances, and yet never made anything of them.”
“That is true, Elizabeth. If I take to a business, it fails. If I dream of some fine prospect, the dream does not come true. In fact, my dear sister,
“‘I never had a piece of toast
Particularly long and wide,
But it fell on the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.’
Still, there is one thing I can do when all else fails: I can take the Queen’s shilling and go in for glory.”
“Roland, you break my heart with your folly. Why will you not be reasonable? How could I ever show my face if you were a common soldier? But the army is a good thought. Suppose you do try the army. I daresay Robert can get you a commission––at the right time, of course.”
“Thanks! I do not think the army would agree with me; not, at any rate, until I had played my last card. And if I have to make a hero of myself, I shall certainly prefer the position of a full private. It is the privates that do the glory business. I would join the army as Private Smith; for though
“‘Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
And of many a great commander
As glorious as these;
If you want to know a hero
Of genuine pluck and pith,
It’s perfectly clear that none come near
The full British private Smith.’”
And he declaimed his mock heroics so delightfully that Elizabeth not only succumbed to his charm, but also wondered in her heart why everyone else did not.
“You see, sweet sister, that wealth is not exactly the same thing as shining virtue, or else Caroline would have been generous. I am sure I should be particularly grateful to any woman who made me rich.”
“Why woman, Roland?”
“Well, because if a man puts any money in my way he expects me to work for it and with it; to invest it and double it; to give an account of it; to sacrifice myself body and soul for it. But a dear little darling woman would never ask me questions and never worry me about interest. She would take love and kisses as full value received––unless she was a girl like Caroline, an unwomanly, mercenary, practical, matter-of-money creature.”
“Do not talk in that way of Caroline.”
“I am talking of her money, and it is no impeachment of its value to say that it is mortal like herself. Still, I am ready to acknowledge
“‘How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!
How pleasant it is to have money!’
and as much of it as possible, Elizabeth.”
“We come to no definite results by talking in this way, Roland. When you get to singing snatches of song I may as well be quiet. And yet I am so unhappy about you. O Roland! Roland! my dear, dear brother, what can I do for you?”
She covered her face with her hands, and Roland took them away with gentle force. “Elizabeth, do not cry for me. I am not worth a tear. Darling, I will do anything you want me to do.”
“If I get Robert to give you a desk in the bank?”
“Well, love, anything but that. I really cannot bear the confinement. I should die of consumption; besides, I have a moral weakness, Elizabeth, that I am bound to consider––there are times, dear, when I get awfully mixed and cannot help
“‘Confounding the difference ’twixt meum and tuum
By kindly converting it all into suum.’”
“O Roland, I really do not know what you are fit for!”
“If I had been born three or four centuries ago I could have been a knight-errant or a troubadour. But alas! in these days the knight-errants go to the Stock Exchange and the troubadours write for the newspapers. I am not fitted to wrestle with the wild beasts of the money market; I would rather go to Spain and be a matador.”
“Roland, here comes Robert. Do try and talk like a man of ordinary intelligence. Robert wants to like you––wants to help you if you will let him.”
“Yes, in his way. I want to be helped in my own way. Good-evening, Robert! I am glad you were not caught in the rain.”
The grave face brightened to the charm of the young man, and then for an hour Roland delighted his sister by his sensible consideration, by his patient attention to some uninteresting details, by his prudence in speaking of the future; so that Robert said confidentially to his wife that night:
“Roland is a delightful young man. There must be some niche he can fill with honour. I wonder that Caroline could resist his attentions. Yet she told me to-day that she had refused him twice.”
“Caroline is moved by her intellect, not by her heart. Also, she is very Vere-de-Vereish, and she has set her mark for a lord, at least.”
“What can be done for Roland?”
“He talked of going into the army.”
“Nonsense! Going into the army means, for Roland, going into every possible temptation and expense––that would not do. But he ought to be away from this little town. He will be making mischief if he cannot find it ready-made.”
“I am very uneasy about that girl from the fishing village, the girl whom I used to have with me a great deal.”
“Denas––the girl with the wonderful voice?”
“Yes. Did you think her voice wonderful?”
“Perhaps I should say haunting voice. She had certainly some unusual gift. I do not pretend to be able to define it. But I remember every line of the first measure I heard her sing. Many a time since I have thought my soul was singing it for its own pleasure, without caring whether I liked it or not; for when mentally reckoning up a transaction I have heard quite distinctly the rhythmical rolling cadence, like sea wave, to which the words were set. I hear it now.”
“Upon my word, Robert, you are very complimentary to Denas. I shall be jealous, my dear.”
“Not complimentary to Denas at all. I hardly remember what the girl looked like. And it is not worth while being jealous of a voice, for I can assure you, Elizabeth, a haunting song is a most unwelcome visitor when your brain is full of figures. And somehow it generally managed to come at a time when the bank and the street were both in a tumult with the sound of men’s voices, the roll of wagons, and the tramp of horses’ feet.”
“A song of the sea in the roar of the city! How strange! I am curious to hear it: I have forgotten most of the songs Denas sang.”
“The roar of the city appeared to provoke it. When it was loudest I usually heard most clearly the sweet thrilling echo, asking
“‘What is the tale of the sea, mother?
What is the tale of the wide, wide sea?’
‘Merry and sad are the tales, my darling,
Merry and sad as tales may be.
Those ships that sail in the happy mornings,
Full of the lives and souls of men,
Some will never come back, my darling;
Some will never come back again!’”
And as Elizabeth listened to her husband half singing the charmful words, she took a sudden dislike to Denas. But she said: “The song is a lovely song, and I must send for Denas to sing it again for us.” In her heart she resolved never to send for Denas; “though if she does come”––and at this point Elizabeth held herself in pause for a minute ere she decided resolutely––“if she does come I will do what is right. I will be kind to her. She cannot help her witching voice––only––only I must step between her and Roland––that is for the good of both;” and she fell asleep, planning for this emergency.