A Singer from the Sea Part 7

Denas gave herself freely to the moment. The presence of Roland made all things easy to her. He contrived many an unseen meeting; her lips never lost the sense of his stolen kisses; her hands were constantly pink with the pa.s.sing clasp or the momentary pressure. No one could have supposed he was planning anything, for he was continually with someone or with all of the four bridesmaids; yet there was not an hour in which he did not manage to give Denas her part, though it were but an upward glance at the open window where she sat sewing, or a kiss flung backward to her; or a lifted hat, or a rose left where she alone could find it; or a little love-letter crushed into her hand in pa.s.sing.

Such a week to stir a young heart to love's sweet fever! It pa.s.sed like a dream, and went finally with the clas.h.i.+ng of wedding-bells and the trampling of horses carrying away the bride. Then the guests followed one by one until the house was lonely and deserted; and the servants began to remove the remnants of the feast and to take down the fading wreaths and roses.

Mr. Tresham took Roland with him to Burrell Court. He seemed determined to keep his son by his side, and the drive to Burrell was an effectual way. No one thought of Denas. She had now no place nor office in the house. But she remained until near sundown, for she trusted that Roland would find out a way to meet her at their usual trysting-place. And just when she had given him up he came. Then he told her that he was going to London in the morning, because his father had suddenly resolved upon a short pleasure-trip, and he had promised to go with him as far as Paris. But he had provided for their correspondence.

"There is a man in St. Clair called Pyn, a boatman living in the first cottage you come to, Denas," he said. "I have given him money, and my letters to you will go to him. Can you walk to St. Clair for them?" It was a foolish question; Roland knew that Denas would walk twenty miles for a letter from him. He then gave her some addressed envelopes in which to enclose her letters to him. "Pyn will post them," he said, "and the handwriting will deceive everyone. And I shall come back to you, Denas, as soon as I can get away from my father; and Pyn will bring a message to St. Penfer and let you know, in some way, when I get home."

These particulars being fully arranged and understood, he talked to her of her own loveliness. He told her she was more beautiful in her plain white frock than the bride in her bride-robes. He said all that lovers have said from the beginning of time; all that lovers will say until time ends. Denas believed him, believed every word, for the nature of true love is to be without doubt or fear. And Roland thought he loved her quite well enough for their future life together. If she was to become a public singer, it would not be wise for him to have too exclusive and jealous affection for her. Roland had always been prudent for himself; he thought of everything which might affect his own happiness. This night, however, he gave up all for love. He kept Denas by his side until the gloaming was quite gone, and then he walked with her down to the very s.h.i.+ngle. They parted with tears and kisses and murmured protestations of fidelity. And Denas watched her lover until he reached the first bend in the upward path. There he turned, and she stretched out her arms to him, and Roland lifted his hat and kissed his hand, and then vanished among the thick trees.

The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could see the fis.h.i.+ng-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. She knew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottage she saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were folded across her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent or anxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart, though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. She tried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almost angry at the stubborn indifference which she was unable to conquer.

"You be long in getting home, Denas. Father went to sea quite put out.

Jane Serlo says the bride did go away at two o'clock. Well, then, it be long after nine now, Denas!"

"I had a lot to do after Mrs. Burrell left, mother--things she would not trust anyone else to look to."

"Hum-m! 'Tis no good way, to take such charge. Who knows what she may be saying after-times? I do feel glad she be married at last, and done with. Mayhap we may see a bit of comfort ourselves now."

"She gave me twenty pounds before she left, mother."

"There be things twenty pound can't buy nor pay for; I tell you that, Denas. And to see your father go off with the boat to-night, without heart in him and only care for company! I do not feel to like it, Denas. If your lover be dear to you, so be my old husband to me."

"What lover are you talking about, mother?"

"The lover that kept you on the cliff-breast--Roland Tresham, he be the lover I mean."

"Who told you I was with Roland?"

"I know that you were not at Mr. Tresham's, for one called there to put you safely home."

"I suppose Tris Penrose has been spying me and telling tales to father and you."

"There be no need for Tris nor for anyone else to speak. Say to me, plain and straight, that you were not with Roland Tresham to-night.

Say that to me, if you dare."

"I have had such a happy day, mother, and now you have taken all the pleasure out of it--a mean thing to do! I say that."

"Your father and I had a happy day, thinking of your happiness. And then to please that bad young man, who is not of your kind and not of your kin, you do stay out till bad birds and night creatures are prowling; till the dew be wetting you; till you have sent your father off to the deep sea with a heart heavy enough to sink his boat--a mean thing that to do! Yes! yes! cruel mean thing!"

"Mrs. Burrell gave me twenty pounds. I had to do something to earn it."

"My faith! I'd fling the twenty pound to the fishes. Aw, then, 'tis a poor price for my girl's love, and her innocent heart, and the proud content she once had in her own folk. Only fishers! but G.o.d's folk, for all that! But there! What be the use of talking? After Mr.

Tresham's flim-flams, my words be only muddling folly."

"I am going to bed, mother."

"To be sure. Go your ways."

Then Joan also rose, and went to the fireside, and drew the few coals together, and lit a lamp. For a moment she stood still, looking at the closed door between her and her child; then she lifted a large book from the window-sill, laid it on the small round table, opened it wide, and sat down before it. It was a homely, workaday-looking book, and she did not read a word of it, though her eyes were upon the page.

But it was the Bible. And the Bible is like the suns.h.i.+ne, it comforts and cheers us only to sit down in its presence.

And very soon Joan lifted her hand and laid it across the open page.

It was like taking the hand of a friend. G.o.d knows what strength, what virtue, there was in that movement! For she immediately covered her face with her other hand and tears began to fall, and anon mighty whispered words parted her lips--words that went from the mother's heart to the heart of G.o.d! How can such prayer ever fail?

In the morning John Penelles met his daughter, not with the petulant anger of a wounded woman, but with a graver and more reasonable reproof. "Denas, my dear," he said, and he gently stroked her hair as he spoke, "Denas, you didn't do right yesterday; did you now? But you do be sorry for it, I see; so let the trouble go. But no more of it!

No more out in the dark, my girl, either for bride-making or for corpse-waking, and as for the man who kept you out, let him ask G.o.d to keep him from under my hand. That is all about it. Come and give father his tea, and then we will mend the nets together; and if Sat.u.r.day be fair, Denas, we will go to St. Merryn and see your Aunt Agnes. 'You don't want to go?' Aw, yes, my dear, you do want to go.

You be vexed now; and not you that should be vexed at all, but your mother and I. There, then! No more of it!"

He spoke the last words as if he was at the end of his patience, and then turned sharply toward the broiled fish and hot tea which Joan was placing on the table. The face of Denas angered him, it was so indifferent and so wretched. He could have laughed away a little temper and excused it, for he was not an unjust nor even an unsympathetic man; and he realized his daughter's youth and her natural craving for those things which youth considers desirable.

But the utter hopelessness of her att.i.tude, her refusal to eat, her silence, her sighs, the unsuitableness of the dress she wore to the humble duties of her station, her disinclination to talk of what troubled her, or indeed to talk at all--both John and Joan felt these things to be a wrong, deliberate and perpetual, against their love and their home and their daily happiness.

It was certainly a great and sudden change in the life of Denas. For the past eight weeks she had been in an atmosphere of excitement, tinctured with the subtle hopes and expectations of love. In it she had grown mentally far beyond the realization of her friends. She had observed, a.s.similated, and translated her new ideas through her own personality as far as her means permitted. If her mother and father had looked carefully at their daughter, they would have seen how much more effectively her hair was arranged; what piquancy of mode had been observed in the making of her new dresses; what careful pride had dictated the fas.h.i.+on and fit of her high-heeled shoes; what trouble was systematically taken to preserve her delicate skin and to restore the natural beauty of her hands--in short, they must have noticed that their child's toilet and general appearance was being gradually but still rapidly removed from all fitness with her present surroundings.

And just after Elizabeth's marriage came on the hardest and most distinctive part of the fisher's year. All along the rocky coast the "huers" were standing watching for the shoals of pilchard, and the men were in the boats beneath, waiting for their signal to shoot the seines. Every fisher had now, in an intense degree, the look which always distinguishes him--the look of a man accustomed to reflect and to be ready for emergencies. This year the shoals were so large that boat-loads were caught easily in fifty feet of water.

Then every wife in the hamlet had her hands full and busy from dawn till dark; and Joan went to the work with an exuberant alacrity and good nature. In former years Denas had felt all the enthusiasm of the great sea harvest. This year she could not endure its clamour and its labour. What had happened to her that the sight of the beautiful fish was offensive and the smell of its curing intolerable? She shut her eyes from the silvery heaps and would gladly have closed her ears against the jubilant mirth, the shouting and laughing and singing around her.

Her intense repugnance did really at last breed in her a low fever, which she almost gladly succ.u.mbed to. She thought it easier to lie in bed and suffer in solitude than to put her arms to her white elbows in fresh fish and bear the familiar jokes of the busy, merry workers in the curing-sheds. Denas was not really responsible for this change. It had grown into her nature, day by day and week by week, while she was unconscious of any transforming power. The little reluctances which had marked its first appearance had been of small note; her father and mother had only laughingly reproved them, telling her "not to nourish prideful notions." She had not even been aware of nouris.h.i.+ng anything wrong. Was it wrong? She lay tossing on her bed in the small warm room, and argued the question out while fever burned in her veins and gave to all things abnormal and extravagant aspects.

She was really ill, and she almost wished she could be more ill. No one quite believed she was suffering much. The headache and languor incident to her condition did not win much sympathy until their ravages became apparent. Then Joan honestly believed that a little exercise in the fresh salt air would have cured, perhaps even prevented, the illness. So that at this time Denas thought herself very unkindly used.

This apparent lack of interest in her condition added greatly to that dissatisfaction with her life which she now constantly dwelt upon. She felt that she must do something to escape from an existence which repelled her; and yet what could she do? Somehow she had suddenly lost faith in Elizabeth. Elizabeth changed before she went away; who could say how much greater the change would be when she returned after four months' travel?

Denas at this time pitied herself greatly, and taking women as they are, and not as they ought to be, she deserved some pity. For though it may not be a lofty ambition to long after a finely appointed house, and delicate food delicately served, and elegant clothing and refined society, and, with all and above all, a lover who fits into such externals, yet Denas did long for these things; and the circ.u.mstances of her own life were common, and vulgar, and hateful to her.

True, she had her father and mother, and she loved them dearly; but, then, she could undoubtedly love them quite as well if she were rich, while they would not love her any the less. As for Tris Penrose and his tiresome devotion, what was Tris to Roland? Tris did not even know how to woo her. He never told her how beautiful she was, and how he adored her, and longed for her, and thought all women wearisome but her. He never kissed her hands and her hair, her cheeks and her lips, as Roland did. He never said to her, "You are fit to be a d.u.c.h.ess or a queen; you sing like a nightingale and charm my soul out of me, and you have hands and feet like a fairy." Poor Tris! He was stupid and silent. He could only look and sigh, or, if he did manage to speak, he was sure to plunge into such final questions as, "Denas, will you marry me? When will you marry me?" Or to tell her of his stone cottage, and his fine boat, and the money he had in the St. Merryn's Savings Bank.

For three weeks this silent conflict went on in the mind and heart of Denas, an unsatisfactory fight in which no victory was gained. At the end she was no more mistress of her inclinations than at the beginning, and her returning health only intensified her longings for the things she had not. One morning she awoke with the conviction that there was a letter for her at St. Clair. She determined to go and see.

She said to her mother that she felt almost well and would try to take a walk. And Joan was glad and encouraged the idea.

"Go down to the sea-sh.o.r.e, Denas, and breathe the living air; do, my sweetheart!"

"No, mother. There are crowds there and the smell of fish, and--I can't help it, mother--it turns me sick; it makes me feverish. I want to go among the trees and flowers."

"Aw, my dear, you will be climbing and climbing up to St. Penfer; and you be weak yet and not able to."

"I will not climb at all. I will walk near the s.h.i.+ngle; and I will take a bit of bread with me and a drink of milk; then I can rest all day on the gra.s.s, mother."

"G.o.d bless you, dear! And see now, come home while the sun is warm--and take care of yourself, Denas."

Then Joan went to the curing-sheds. She had a light heart, for Denas was more like her old self, and after going a hundred yards she turned to nod to her girl, and was glad that she was watching her and that she waved her kerchief in reply. Something heavy slipped from Joan's heart at that moment and her work went with her all day long.

It was two miles to St. Clair, but Denas walked there very rapidly.

She remembered that Pyn's cottage was the first cottage; and as she approached it the boatman came to the door. He looked at her with a grave curiosity, and she went straight up to him and said: "Have you a letter for me?"

"I do think I have. You be John Penelles' little girl?"

"Yes."