“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 56 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.