pieces if I’d only give him the chance. That’s the way I know Roland Tresham is a bad one. I see the devil in the glinting of his eyes and the mock of his smile, and I wouldn’t have been more sick frightened to-night if I’d seen a tiger purring around Denas than I was when I got the first glimpse of Tresham bending down, coaxing and flattering our little girl. He’s a bad man, sent with sorrow and shame wherever he goes, and I know it just as I know the long dead roll of the waves and the white creeping mist––like a dirty thief––which makes me cry out at sea ‘All hands to reef! Quick! All hands to reef!’ ”
“There then, John, if wrong and danger there be, what must be done?”
“Keep the little maid out of it. Don’t let her go to Mr. Tresham’s. I wouldn’t hear tell of it. If Denas would only listen a bit to Tris Penrose, he’d be the man for her––a good man, a good sailor, and he do love the very stones Denas steps on, he do for sure.”
“She used to like Tris, but these few months her love has all quailed away.”
“ ’Tis dreadful! dreadful! Why did God Almighty make women so? Here be good love going a-begging to them and getting nothing but a frown and a hard word, while devil’s love is fretted for and heart-nursed. Whatever is a woman’s love made of, I do wonder?”
As he asked the question he knocked his pipe 21 against the jamb to clean it out, and then quickly turned his head, for an inner door opened and Denas peeped out and then came forward and put her arm around his neck and said:
“Woman’s love or man’s love, who knows how God makes it, father? And the fisherman’s poet––a far wiser man than most men––asks and answers the same troublesome question in his way. What is love? How does it come?
| “ ‘Is it sucked with your milk? is it mixed with your flesh? Does it float about everywhere like a mesh, So fine you can’t see it? Is it blast? Is it blight? Is it fire? Is it fever? Is it wrong? Is it right? Where is it? What is it? The Lord above, He only knows the strength of love; He only knows, and He only can, The root of love that is in a man.’[1] |
For a woman; that’s harder still, isn’t it, father? But never fret yourself, father, for Denas loves you and mother first of all and best of all.” And she slipped on to his knee and stretched out her hand to her mother, and so, kissing the tears off her father’s face and the smiles off her mother’s lips, she went happily to her sleep.
And a great trust came into the father’s and mother’s hearts; they spoke long of their hopes and plans for her happiness, and then, stepping softly to her bedside, they blessed her in her sleep. And she was dreaming of Roland Tresham. So mighty is love, and yet so ignorant; so strong, and yet so weak; so wise, and yet so easily deceived.
22
CHAPTER II.
OH, THE PITY OF IT!
| “One love is false, one love is true: Ah, if a maiden only knew!” |
| “It is dear honey that is licked off a thorn.” |
The thing Elizabeth Tresham had done her best to prevent had really happened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quite unexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unable to keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth’s own love-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacy and decision.
Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of most women––the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and the eligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. The first was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabeth ascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthly goods had not been well considered by the church he served. The living of St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itself was early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old. Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under such conditions; and at nineteen years of 23 age poverty has a romantic colouring if only love paint it.
Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, not even poverty. He was unpoetically rich––he even trafficked in money. The rector was a very young man; Burrell was thirty-eight years old. The rector wrote poetry, and understood Browning, and recited from Arnold and Morris. Burrell’s tastes were for social science and statistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent; small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, on the contrary, was tall and fair, and so exceedingly handsome that women especially never perceived that the portal to all his senses was small and low and that he was incapable of receiving a great idea.
On that Saturday morning Robert Burrell resolved to test his fate, and he wrote to Miss Tresham. It was a letter full of that passionate adoration he was too timid to personally offer, and his protestations were honourably certified by the offer of his hand and fortune. It was a noble letter; a letter no woman could easily put aside. It meant to Elizabeth a sure love to guard and comfort her and an absolute release from the petty straits and anxieties of genteel poverty. It would make her the mistress of the finest domestic establishment in the neighbourhood––it would give her opportunities for helping Roland to the position in life he ought to occupy; and this thought––though an after one––had a great influence on Elizabeth’s mind.
After some consideration she took the letter to 24 her father. He was in one of his most querulous moods, ill-disposed to believe in any good thing coming to him. He read the letter under such influence, and yet he could not but be sensible of its importance.
“It is a piece of unexpected good fortune for you, Elizabeth,” he said with a sigh. “Of course it will leave me alone here, but I do not mind that now; all else has gone––why not you? I thought, however, the rector was your choice. I hope you have no entanglement there.”
“He has never asked me to be his wife, but he has constantly shown that he wished it. He is poor––I think he felt that.”
“He has made love to you, called you the fairest girl on earth, made you believe he lived only in your presence, and so on, and so on?”
“Yes, he has talked in that way for a long time.”
“He never intends to ask you to marry him. He asked Dr. Eyre if you had any fortune. Oh, I know his kind and their ways!”
“I think you are mistaken, father. If he knew Mr. Burrell wished to marry me he would venture to–––”
“You think he would? I am sure he would not––but here the gentleman comes. I will speak a few words to him and then he will speak to you, and after that you can answer Mr. Burrell’s letter. Stay a moment, Elizabeth. It is only fair to tell you that I have no money but my annuity. When I die you will be penniless.”
So Elizabeth went out of the room silent and with 25 her head drooping a little. The word “penniless” was a shock to her. She sat down in a large chair with her back to the light and shut her eyes. She wished to set the two men clearly before her. It would be easy to love Robert Burrell if she did not love the other. Did she love the other? She examined her heart pitilessly, and found always some little “if” crouching in a corner. In some way or other it was evident she did not believe “the other” would stand trial.
Mr. Tresham had the same opinion in a more positive form, and he was quite willing to test it. He met the rector with more effusion than