| “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 78 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 79 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.”