A Singer from the Sea. Amelia E. Barr
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and as I am a father you must permit me to speak very plainly. I believe you are in love with Elizabeth?”
There was no answer from the young man, and his face was pale and angry.
“Well, sir! Am I right or wrong?”
“Sir, I respect and like Miss Tresham. Everyone must do so, I think.”
“Have you asked her to marry you?”
“Oh, dear, no! Nothing of the kind, sir; nothing of the kind!”
“I thought not. Well, you see, sir, your dangling about my house keeps honest men outside, and I would be obliged to you, sir––in fact, sir, I require you at once to make Miss Tresham understand that your protestations are lies––simple and straightforward lies, sir. I insist on your telling her that your 26 love-making is your amusement and girls’ hearts the pawns with which you play. You will tell her that you are a scoundrel, sir! And when you have explained yourself to Miss Tresham, you had better give the same information to Miss Trelawny, and to Miss Rose Trefuses, and to that poor little sewing-girl you practise your recitations on. Sir, I have the greatest contempt for you, and when you have spoken to Miss Tresham, you will leave my house and come here no more.”
“It will give me pleasure to obey you, sir.”
With these words he turned from the contemptuous old man, and in a hurried, angry mood sought Elizabeth in her usual sitting-room.
She opened her eyes as he opened the door and looked at him. Then she rose and went toward him. He waved her away imperatively and said:
“No, Elizabeth! No! I have no caress for you to-day! I do not think I shall ever feel lovingly to you again. Why did you tell your father anything? I thought our love was a secret, sacred affair. When I am brought to catechism about my heart matters, I shut my heart close. I am not to be hectored and frightened into marrying any woman.”
“Will you remember whose presence you are in?”
“If you wanted to be my wife–––”
“I do not want to be your wife.”
“If you loved me in the least–––”
“I do not love you in the least.”
“I shall come here no more. O Elizabeth! Only to think!”
27
“I am glad you come here no more. I see that you judge the honour and fulness of my heart by the infidelity and emptiness of your own. Go, sir, and remember, you discard not me––I discard you.”
Thus speaking she passed him haughtily, and he put out his hand as if to detain her, but she gathered her drapery close and so left him. Mr. Tresham heard her footsteps and softly opened the door of his library. “Come in here, Elizabeth,” he said with some tenderness.
“I have seen him.”
“And he brought you the news of his own dishonour. Let him go. He is as weak as a bent flax-stalk, and to be weak is to be wicked. Bury your disappointment in your heart, do not even tell Denas––girls talk to their mothers and mothers talk to all and sundry. Turn your face to Burrell Court now––it is a fair fortune.”
“And it may be a good thing for poor Roland.”
“It may. A respectable position and a certain income is often salvation for a man. Write to Mr. Burrell at once, and send the letter by the gardener.”
That was an easy direction to give, but Elizabeth did not find it easy to carry out. She wrote half-a-dozen letters, and none of them was satisfactory. So she finally asked her lover to call and see her at seven o’clock that evening. And it was very natural that, in the stress of such an important decision, the visit of Denas and their intention of dressing the altar should be forgotten. It was a kind of unpleasant surprise to her when Denas came and she remembered the obligation. Of course she could 28 not now refuse to fulfil it. The offering was surely to God, and no relation between herself and the rector could interfere with it. But it was a great trial. She said she had a headache, and perhaps that complaint as well as any other defined the hurt and shock she had received.
Denas wondered at Elizabeth’s want of interest. She did not superintend as usual the cutting of the flowers, so carefully nursed and saved for this occasion; and though she went to the church with Denas and really did her best to make a heart offering with her Easter wreaths, the effort was evident. Her work lacked the joyous enthusiasm which had always distinguished Elizabeth’s church duties.
The rector pointedly ignored her, and she felt keenly the curious, and in some cases the not kindly, glances of the other Easter handmaidens. In such celebrations she had always been put first; she was now last––rather, she was nowhere. It would have been hard to bear had she not known what a triumph she held in abeyance. For Mr. Burrell was the patron of St. Penfer’s church; he had given its fine chime of bells and renovated its ancient pews of black oak. The new organ had been his last Christmas gift to the parish, and out of his purse mainly had come the new school buildings. The rector might ignore Miss Tresham, but she smiled to herself when she reflected on the salaams he would yet make to Mrs. Robert Burrell.
Now, Denas was not more prudent than young girls usually are. She saw that there was trouble, and she spoke of it. She saw Elizabeth was slighted, 29 and she resented it. It was but natural under such circumstances that the church duty was made as short as possible; and it was just as natural that Elizabeth should endeavour to restore her self-respect by a confidential revelation of the great matrimonial offer she had received. And perhaps she did nothing unwomanly in leaving Denas freedom to suppose the rector’s insolent indifference the fruit of his jealousy and disappointment.
In the midst of these pleasant confidences Roland unexpectedly entered. He had written positively that he was not coming. And then here he was. “I thought I could not borrow for the trip, but I managed it,” he said with the bland satisfaction of a man who feels that he has accomplished a praiseworthy action. For once Elizabeth was not quite pleased at his visit. She would rather it had not occurred at such an important crisis of her life. She was somewhat afraid of Roland’s enthusiasms and rapid friendships, and it was not unlikely that his first conception of Mr. Burrell’s alliance would be “a good person to borrow money from.”
Also she wished time to dress herself carefully and solitude to get the inner woman under control. After five o’clock Denas and Roland were both in her way. They were at the piano singing as complacently and deliberately as if the coming of her future husband was an event that could slip into and fit into any phase of ordinary life. It was a strange, wonderful thing to her, something so sacred and personal she could not bear to think of discussing it while Roland laughed and Denas sang. It 30 was not an every-day event and she would not have it made one.
She knew her father would not interfere, and she knew one way in which to rid herself of Denas and Roland. Naturally she took it. A little after six she said: “I have a headache, Roland, and shall not walk to-night. Will you take Denas safely down the cliff?”
Roland was delighted, and Denas was no more afraid of the gay fellow than the moth is of the candle. She was pleasantly excited by the idea of a walk all alone with Roland. She wondered what he would say to her: if he would venture to give voice to the inarticulate love-making of the last two years––to all that he had looked when she sang to him––to all that he meant by the soft, prolonged pressure of her hand and by that one sweet stolen kiss which he had claimed for Christmas’ sake.
They walked a little apart and very silently until they came into the glades of the cliff-breast. Then, suddenly, without word or warning, Roland took Denas in his arms and kissed her. “Denas! sweet Denas!” he cried, and the wrong was so quickly, so impulsively committed that for a moment Denas was passive under it. Then with flaming cheeks she freed herself from his embrace. “Mr. Tresham, you must go back,” she said. “I can walk no further with you. Why were you so rude to me?”
“I am not rude, Denas, and I will not go back.