For Joan Penelles was not only a good wife, she was a pious, truthful, sensible, patient woman. The days of her youthful beauty were over, but her fine face left the heart satisfied with her. There was room in her eyes, light upon her face, strength and mature grace in her tall figure--the grace of a woman who has grown up like a forest tree in fresh air and winds and liberty--the physical grace that never comes by the dancing-master. And her print dress and white kerchief and neatly braided hair seemed as much a part of her charm as the thatched roof, the yellow stone-wort, and the dainty little mother of millions creeping over the roof and walls were a part of the picturesque cottage. The beauty of Joan Penelles was the beauty of fitness in every part, of health, of good temper, of a certain spiritual perception. Penelles loved her with a sure affection; he trusted in her. In every strait of his life he went to her for comfort or advice. He could not have imagined a single day without Joan to direct it.
For his daughter Denas he had a love perhaps not stronger, but quite different in kind. Denas was his only living child. Denas loved the sea. Penelles could remember her small pink feet in the tide, when they were baby feet scarce able to stand alone. As she grew older she often begged to go to sea with the fishers, and on warm summer nights she had lain in the boat, and talked to him and his mates, and sung them such wild, sweet songs that the men vowed she charmed the fish into the nets. For they had always wondrous takes when Denas leaned over the gunwale, and in sweet, piercing notes sang the old fishing-call:
"Come, gray fish! gray fish! Come from the gray cold sea! Fathoms, fathoms deep is the wall of net. Haddock! haddock! herring! herring! Halibut! bass! whatever you be, Fish! fish! fish! come pay your debt."
And while the men listened to the shrill, imperative voice mingling with the wash of the waves, and watched the child's long yellow hair catching the glory of the moonlight, they let her lead them as she would. She did not fear storms. It was her father who feared them for her, though never after one night when she was twelve years old.
"You cannot go to-night, Denas," he said; "the tide is late and the wind is contrary."