A Singer from the Sea. Amelia E. Barr
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ready. Mother, let me go; it is cruel hard to refuse me!”
The news of an approaching marriage can never be heard by any woman with indifference. Joan stayed her needle and looked at Denas with an eager curiosity.
“ ’Tis to the rector, I’ll warrant, Denas,” she said.
“No, it is not; but the rector is fine and angry, I can tell you. It was too much for him to speak to Miss Tresham on Saturday afternoon at the church. But won’t he be sorry for his disknowledging her when he knows who is to be the bridegroom? He will, and no mistake.”
“I don’t understand you, Denas. Who is going to marry Miss Tresham? Say the man’s name, and be done with it.”
“ ’Tis a great secret, mother; but if you will let me go to St. Penfer I will tell you.”
“Aw, my dear, I can live without Miss Tresham’s secrets. And I do know she can’t be having one I would go against your father to hear tell of, not I.”
“Father is unjust and unkind. What have I done, mother?”
“Your father is afraid of that young jackanapes, Roland Tresham, and good reason, too, if all be true that is said to be true.”
“Mr. Roland is a gentleman.”
“Gentleman and gentleman––there be many kinds, and no kind at all for you. You be a fisher’s 49 daughter, and you must choose a husband of your own sort––none better, thank God! The robin would go to the eagle’s nest, and a poor sad time it had there. Gentlemen marry gentlemen’s daughters, Denas, and if they don’t, all sides do be sorry enough.”
“Am I to go no more to Miss Tresham’s?”
“Not until the young man is back in London.”
“Then I wish he would hurry all and be off.”
“So do I, my dear. I would be glad to hear that he was far away from St. Penfer.”
Joan rose with these words and went out of the room, and Denas knew that for this day also there was no hope of seeing Roland. Her heart was hot with anger, and she began to lay some of the blame upon her lover. He was a man. He could have braved the storm. And there was no open quarrel between her father and himself; it would have been easy enough to make an excuse for calling. Elizabeth might have written a letter to her. Roland might have brought it. Sitting there, she could think of half-a-dozen things which Roland might have accomplished. How long the hours were! How would she ever get the days over? Her mother singing in the curing-shed made her angry. The ticking of the big clock accentuated her nervous irritability, and when John returned silent and with that air about him which indicated the master of the house, Denas felt surely that all was over for the present between her and Roland Tresham.
The night became blustery after John and the men had gone to the fishing, and by midnight there was 50 a storm. Joan’s white, anxious face was peering through the windows or out of the open door into the black night continually. And the presence of Denas did not comfort her, as it usually did; the mother felt that her child’s thoughts were with strangers, and not with her father out on the stormy sea.
It was ten o’clock next morning before John got home. He had made a little harbour some miles off, and glad to make it, and had been compelled to lay there until daybreak. He was weary and silent. He said it would have gone hard with him had not Tris been at his right hand. Then he looked anxiously at Denas, and when she did not give him a smile or a word, he sat down by the fire much depressed and exhausted. For he saw that his child had a hard, angry heart toward him, and he felt how useless it was to try and explain or justify his dealings with her.
It was now Wednesday, and Denas burned with shame when she thought how readily she had listened to so careless a lover. No word of any kind came from Elizabeth, who indeed was not to blame under the circumstances. Mr. Burrell was much with her; they had a hundred delightful arrangements to make about their marriage and their future housekeeping. And if in these days Elizabeth was a little proud and important and very much interested in her own affairs, she was innocently so. She was only exhibiting the natural parade of a lovely bud spreading itself into a perfect flower.
She had not the slightest intention of being unkind 51 to Denas; indeed, she looked forward to many pleasant hours with her and to her assistance in all the preparations for her marriage. And Roland had introduced the subject quite as frequently as he felt it to be prudent. Finally Elizabeth had plainly told him that she did not intend to have Denas with her until he returned to London. “I see you so seldom, Roland,” she said, “and we will not have any stranger intermeddling when you are at home.”
“Come, Elizabeth,” he answered, “you are putting up your disapprovals in the shape of compliments. My dear, you are afraid I will fall in love with Denas.”
“I am afraid you will make love to her, which is a very different thing.”
“Do you want Denas here?”
“I shall be glad to have her here. I have a great deal of sewing to do, and she is a perfect and rapid needlewoman.”
“Then go to-morrow and ask her to come. I am off to London to-night. In this world no one has pleasure but he who gives himself some. You were my only pleasure at St. Penfer, and I do not care to share your society with Robert Burrell.”
“I will go and see Denas. I must ask her parents to let her stay with me until my marriage.”
But as Denas did not know of this intention, that weary Wednesday dragged itself away amid rain and storm and household dissatisfaction; but by Thursday morning the elements had blustered their passion away and the world was clear-skied and sunshiny. Not so Denas; she sat in a dark corner 52 of the room, cross and silent, and answering her father and mother only in monosyllables. John’s heart was greatly troubled by her attitude. He stood leaning against the lintel of the door, watching his boat rocking upon the tide, for he was thinking that until Denas and he were “in” again he had better stop at home.
“I do leave my heart at home, and then I do lose my head at sea;” and with this unsatisfactory thought John turned to his daughter and said softly: “Denas, my dear, ’tis a bright day. Will you have a walk? But there––here be Miss Tresham, I do know it is her.”
Denas rose quickly and looked a moment at the tall, handsome girl picking her way across the pebbly path. Then she threw down her knitting and went to meet her, and Elizabeth was pleased and flattered by her protégée’s complaints and welcomes. “I thought you would never send me a message or a letter,” almost sobbed Denas. “I never hoped you would come. O Elizabeth, how I have longed to see you! Life is so stupid when I cannot come to your house.”
“Why did you not come?”
“Father was afraid of your brother.”
“He was right, Denas. Roland is too gay and thoughtless a young man to be about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I do not think he will come back here until near the wedding-day.”
Then they were at the door, and John Penelles welcomed the lady with all the native grace that 53 springs from a kind heart and from noble instincts which have become principles. “You be right welcome, Miss Tresham,” he said. “My little maid has fret more than she should have done for you. I do say that.”
“I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, and Denas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if she may stay with me until my marriage in June. No one can sew like Denas, and now I can afford to pay her a good deal of money for her work––for her love I give her love. No gold pays for love, does it, sir?”
John was pleased with her frankness. He knew the value of money, he knew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answered with a candour which brushed away all pretences:
“We be all obliged to you, Miss Tresham. We be all glad that Denas should make money so happily. It will help her own wedding and furnishing, whenever