A Singer from the Sea. Amelia E. Barr
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and they were all put out of memory.
Roland and the Treshams were not spoken of. John and Joan both had the fisher’s dislike to name a person or a thing they considered unlucky or unpleasant. “If you name evil you do call evil” was their simple creed; and it saved many a household worry. They sat down to their breakfast of tea, and fresh fish, and white loaf, and the wide-open door let in the sea wind, and the sea smell, and the soft murmur of the turning tide. John’s heart was full of holy joy; he could feel it singing: “Bless the Lord, O my soul!” And though he was only a poor Cornish fisher, he was sure that the world was a very good world and that life was well worth the living.
“Joan, my dear,” he said, “the Bible do tell us 43 that there shall be a new earth. Can it be a sweeter one than this is?”
“Aw, John, it may be a sight better, for we be promised ‘there shall be no sea there,’ thank God! no freezing, drowning men and no weeping wives. I do think of that when you are out in the frost and storm, John, and the thought be heaven itself.”
“My dear, the sea be God’s own highway. There be wonders by the sea. Was not St. John sent to the sea-side for the Revelations? ’Twas there he heard the angels, whose voices were like the sound of many waters. Heaven will be wonderful! wonderful! if it do make us forget the sea. Aw, my dear Joan, ’twill be something added to this earth, not something taken away, and the good thing added will make both the sea and the ‘bounds of the everlasting hills’ to be blessed.”
“John, who told you that? And if the cruel, hungry, awful sea is not to be taken away, nor yet the ‘everlasting hills,’ what will make it a new earth?”
“God’s tabernacle will be in it. Aw, my dear, that will make everything new––sea and land, men and women; and then there will be no more tears. My dear, when I think of that I love this old world, not only for what it is, but also for what it is going to be.”
“Father, you are preaching and not eating your breakfast; and I want to get breakfast over and the cups washed, for I have to dress myself yet, and a new dress to put on, too,” and Denas smiled and nodded and touched her father’s big hand with 44 her small one, and then John smiled back, and with a mighty purpose began to eat his fish and bread and drink his tea.
The whole day took its colour from this happy beginning. In after-years John often spoke of that Easter Sabbath; of their quiet walk all together up the cliff to St. Penfer Chapel; of the singing, and the sermon, and the Sunday-school in the afternoon for the fisher children; of the walk to St. Swer with Denas by his side and the walk back, singing all the way home; of the nice supper ready for them, and how they had eaten and talked till the late moon made a band of light across the table, and John said hurriedly:
“Well, there now! The tide will be calling me before I do have time to get sleep in my eyes.”
Then Joan rose quickly and Denas began to put away the bread and cheese and milk, and though none recognised the fact at the time, the old life passed away for ever when the three rose from that midnight supper.
Yet for several days afterward nothing seemed to be changed. John went to his fishing and had unusual good fortune; and Joan and Denas were busy mending nets and watching the spring bleaching. It was the duty of Denas to take the house linen to some level grassy spot on the cliff-breast and water and watch it whiten in the sunshine. Monday she had gone to this duty with a vague hope that Roland would seek her out. She watched all day for him. She knew that she was looking pretty, and she felt that her employment was picturesque.
45
As she stood over the breadths of damask, with the water-can making mimic rain upon them, she was well aware that all her surroundings added charm to her charm. The soft winds blowing her hair and her pink skirt; the green leaves whispering above and around her; the rippling of the brook running down the hillside––all these things belonged as much to her as the frame belongs to the picture. Why did not Roland come to see her thus? Was he afraid for the words he had said to her? Were they not true words? Did he intend, by ignoring them, to teach her that he had only been playing with her vanity and her credulity?
Tuesday was too wet and blowy to spread the linen, and Denas felt the morning insufferably long and tedious. Her father, who had been on the sea all night, dozed in his big chair on the hearthstone. Joan was silent, and went about her duties in a tiptoeing way that was very fretful to the impatience of Denas. Denas herself was knitting a guernsey, and as she sat counting the stitches Tristram Penrose came to the door and, after a moment’s pause, spoke to her. He was a fine young fellow with an open-air look on his brown face and an open-love look in his brown eyes.
“My dear Denas,” he said, “is your father in?”
“Tris, who gave you license to call me dear? and my father is asleep by the fireside.”
“Aw, then, the One who gave me license to live gave me the license to love; and dear you be and dear you always will be to Tris Penrose. The word may be shut in my heart or I may say it in 46 your ear, Denas; ’tis all the same; dear you be and dear you always will be.”
She shrugged her shoulders petulantly, and yet could not resist the merry up-glance which she knew went straight to the big fellow’s heart. Then she began to fold up her knitting. While Tris was talking to her father, she would ask for permission to go and see Elizabeth. While Tris was present, she did not think he would refuse her request, for if he did so she could ask him for reasons and he would not like to give them.
Denas had all the natural diplomacy of a clever woman, and she knew the power of a fond word and a sunny smile. “Father”––is there any fonder word?––“Father, I want to go and see Miss Tresham. She told me a very important secret on Saturday, and I know she was expecting me yesterday to talk it over with her;” then she went close to his side and put her hand on his shoulder and snuggled her cheek in his big beard, and called poor Tris’ soul into his face for the very joy of watching her.
John was not insensible to her charming. He hesitated, and Denas felt the hesitation and met it with a bribe: “You could come up the cliff to meet me before you go to the boats––couldn’t you, father?”
“Nay, my dear, I’ll not need to look for you on the cliff, for you will stay at home, Denas; it rains––it blows.”
“Miss Tresham was expecting me all through yesterday, but it was so fine I took the linen to bleach. She will be so disappointed if I do not come to-day. We have a secret, father––a very particular secret.”
47
It was hard to resist the pretty, pleading, coaxing girl, but John had a strength of will which Denas had never before put to the test.
“My dear girl,” he answered, “if Miss Tresham be longing to talk her secrets to you, she can come to you. There be nothing in the world to hinder her. Here be a free welcome to her.”
“I promised, father.”
“ ’Tis a pity you did.”
“I must go, father.”
“You must stay at home. ’Twould be like putting my girl through the fire to Baal to send her into the company there be now at Mr. Tresham’s.”
“I care nothing for the company. I want to see Miss Tresham.”
“Now, then, I am in earnest, Denas. You shall not go. Take your knitting and sit down to your own work.”
She lifted her knitting, but she did not lift a stitch. Where there is no positive compulsion the hand is only handmaid to the heart, and it does the work only which the heart wishes. At this hour Denas hated her knitting, and there being no necessity on her to perform it, her hands lay idle upon her lap. After a few minutes’ conversation John went out with Tris Penrose, and then Denas began to cry with anger and disappointment.
“My father has insulted me before Tris Penrose,” she said, “and I will never speak to Tris again. Many a time and oft he has let me go to St. Penfer when it was