A Singer from the Sea Part 16

"Mr. Tresham," he said, glancing at the card which he held in his hand, "you wish me to marry you. I think----" He was going to make some inquiries or objections, but he caught the expression of anxiety in the face of Denas, and then he looked carefully at her and asked:

"Have I not seen you before?"

"Yes, sir, when you preached at St. Penfer last summer. I am the daughter of John Penelles."

"The fisher Penelles?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh! Yes, Mr. Tresham, I will marry you at once. It will be the best thing, under the circ.u.mstances, I am sure. Follow me, sir." As they went along a narrow covered way, he called a servant and gave her an order, and then opening a door ushered the would-be bride and bridegroom into the chapel, and straight to the communion rail.

Denas knelt down there, and for a few moments lost herself in sincere prayer. After all, in great emotion prayer was her native tongue. When she stood up and lifted her eyes, the preacher's wife and two daughters were at her side, and the preacher himself was at the communion table, with the open book in his hand. The bare chapel in the grey daylight; the strange tones of the preacher's voice in the empty place; the strange women at her side--it was all like a dream.

She felt afraid to move or to look up. She answered as she was told, and she heard Roland answer also. But his voice did not sound real and happy, and when he took the plain gold ring from the preacher's hand and said after him, "With this ring I thee wed," she raised her eyes to her husband's face. It was pale and sombre. No answering flash of love met hers, and she felt it difficult to restrain her tears.

In truth, Roland was smitten with a sudden irresolution that was almost regret. As Denas knelt praying, there had come to his mind many a dream he had had of his own wedding. He had always thought of it in some old church that would be made to glow with bride-roses and ring with bride-music. Young maidens and men of high degree were to tread the wedding march with him. Dancing and feasting, gay company and rich presents, were to add glory to some fair girl wife, whom he would choose because, of all others, she was the loveliest; and the wealthiest, and the most to be desired.

And then his eyes fell upon the girl at his feet, in her plain dark dress crushed and disordered with a night's travel; the bare, empty chapel; the utter want of music, flowers, company, or social support of any kind; the small, rigid-looking preacher without surplice or insignia of holy office; the half-expressed disapproval on the countenances of the three women present as witnesses--it was not thus Elizabeth was married; it was not thus he himself ought to have been married. How the surroundings might affect Denas he did not even think; and yet the poor girl also had had her dreams, which this cold, dreary reality in no measure redeemed.

But the ring was on her finger; she was Roland's wife. Nothing could ever make her less. She heard the preacher say: "Come into the vestry, Mrs. Tresham, and sign the register." And then Roland gave her his arm and kissed her, and she went with the little company, and took the pen from her husband's hand, and wrote boldly for the last time her maiden name:

"Denasia Penelles."

Roland looked inquiringly at her, and she smiled and answered: "That is right, dear. I was christened Denasia."

Very small things pleased Roland, and the new name delighted him. All the way to London he spoke frequently of it. "You are now Denasia, my darling," he said. "Let the old name slip with the old life. Besides, Denasia is an excellent public name. You can sing under it splendidly.

Such a n.o.ble name! Why did you let everyone spoil it?"

"Everyone thought Denas was my name. Father and mother always called me Denas, and people forgot that it was only part of my name.

Fisher-folk have short names, or nicknames."

"But, really, Denasia Penelles is a very distinguished name. A splendid one for the public."

"Why not Denasia Tresham?"

"Because, my dear, there are Treshams living in London who would be very angry at me if I put their name on a bill-board. The Treshams are a very proud family."

"Roland, it would kill my father if I put his name on anything that refers to a theatre. You don't know how he feels on that subject. It is a thing of life and death--I mean the soul's life or death--to him."

A painful discussion, in which both felt hurt and angry and both spoke in very affectionate terms, followed. It lasted until they reached the great city which stretches out her hands to every other city. Roland had secured rooms in a very dull, respectable house in Queen's Square, Bloomsbury. He had often stayed there when his finances did not admit of West End luxuries, and the place was suitable for many other reasons.

Then followed two perfectly happy weeks for Denas. She had written a few lines to her parents while waiting for a train at Exeter, and she then resolved not to permit herself to grieve about their grief, because it could do them no good and it would seriously worry and annoy Roland. And Roland was so loving and generous. At his command modistes and milliners turned his plebeian bride into a fashionable, and certainly into a very lovely lady. She had more pretty costumes than she had ever dreamed of; she had walking-hats and dress-hats, and expensive furs, and she grew more beautiful with each new garment.

They went to theatres and operas; they went riding and walking; they had cosey little dinners at handsome restaurants; and Roland never once named money, or singing, or anything likely to spoil the charm of the life they were leading.

During this happy interval Denas did not quite forget her parents. She wrote to them once, and she very often wondered through whom and in what manner they received the news of their loss. It was her own hand which dealt the blow. Miss Priscilla really thought Denas had gone back to her home, and she resolved on the following Sunday afternoon to walk down to the fishing village and "make it up" with her. About Wednesday, however, there began to be floating rumours of the truth.

Several people called on Priscilla and asked after the whereabouts of Denas; and the landlord of the Black Lion was talking freely of the large bill Roland had left unsettled there. But none of these rumours reached the ears of the fisher-folk, nor were they likely to do so until the St. Penfer _Weekly News_ appeared. The first three days of the week had been so foggy that no boat had cared to risk a sail over the bar; but on Thursday morning all was clear, and the men were eager to get out to sea. John Penelles was hastening toward his boat, when he heard a voice calling him. It was the postman, and he turned and went to meet him.

"Here be a letter for you, John Penelles. Exeter postmark. I came a bit out of my way with it. I thought you would be looking for news."

The man was thinking of Denas and the reports about her flight; but John's unconcern puzzled him, and he did not care to say anything more definite to the big fisherman. And, as it happened, a letter was expected from Plymouth, on chapel business; for the very preacher who had married Roland and Denas had been asked to come to St. Penfer and preach the yearly missionary sermon. John had no doubt this letter from Exeter referred to the matter. He said so to the postman, and with the unconscious messenger of sorrow in his hand went back to his cottage.

For letters were unusual events with John. If this referred to the missionary service, he would have to read it in public next Sunday, and he was much pleased and astonished that it should have been sent to him. He felt a certain importance in the event, and was anxious to share his little triumph with his "old dear." Joan did not quite appreciate his consideration. She had her hands in the dough, and her thoughts were upon the pipeclaying which she was going to give to the flagged floor of her cottage. She had hoped men-folks with their big boots would keep away until her work was dry and snow-white.

"Here be a letter from Exeter, Joan, to me. 'Twill be about the missionary service. I thought you would like to know, my dear."

"_Hum-m-m!_" answered Joan. "I could have done without the news, John, till the bread was baked and the floor was whitened." She had her back to John, but, as he did not speak again, she turned her face over her shoulder and looked at him. The next moment she was at his side.

"What is it, John? John Penelles, speak to me."

John stood on the hearth with his left arm outstretched and holding an open letter. His eyes were fixed on it. His face had the rigid, stubborn look of a man who on the very point of unconsciousness arrests his soul by a peremptory act of will. He stood erect, stiff, speechless, with the miserable slip of white paper at the end of his outstretched arm.

Joan gently forced him back into his chair; she untied his many neckcloths; she bared his broad, hairy chest; she brought him water to drink; and at length her tears and entreaties melted the stone-like rigour; his head fell forward, his eyes closed, his hand unclasped, and the letter fell to the floor. It did not interest Joan; nothing on earth was of interest to her while her husband was in that horror of stubborn suffering.

"John," she whispered, with her face against his face--"John! My John! My good heart, be yourself and tell Joan what is the matter.

Is it sickness of your body, John? Is it trouble of your mind, John?

Be a man, and speak to G.o.d and to me. G.o.d is our refuge and our strength--think o' that. A very present help in trouble--present, not a long way off, John, not in heaven; but here in your heart and on your hearth. Oh, John! John! do speak to me."

"To be sure, Joan! The letter, dear; read it--read it aloud--I may be mistaken--it isn't possible, I'm sure. G.o.d help us both!"

Joan lifted the letter and read aloud the words written so hastily in a few moments of time, but which brought to two loving hearts years of anxious sorrow:

"'DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have just been married to Roland Tresham, and we are on our way to London. I love Roland so much, I hope you will forgive me. I will write more from London. Your loving child,

"'DENAS TRESHAM.'"

"Oh, Joan, my dear! My heart be broken! My heart be broken! My heart be broken!"

"Now, John, don't you be saying such wisht dismal, ugly words. A heart like yours is hard to break. Not even a bad daughter can do it. Oh, my dear, don't you talk like that there! Don't, John."

"'Tis the Lord's will, Joan--I do know that."

"It be nothing of the kind, John. It be the devil's will when a child do wrong such love as yours and mine. And there, now! Will you break your brave old heart, that has faced death a hundred times, for the devil? No, 'tis not like to be, I'm sure. Look at the worst of it.

Denas does say she be married. She does write her name with his name.

What then? Many a poor father and mother have drunk the cup we be drinking--nothing strange have come to us."

"I do not believe she be the man's wife."

"Aw, my dear, I do believe it. And Denas be my daughter, and I will not let you or any other man say but that she be all of an honest woman. 'Tis slander against your awn flesh and blood to say different, John." And Joan spoke so warmly that her temper had a good effect upon her husband. It was like a fresh sea-breeze. He roused himself and sat upright, and began to listen to his wife's words.

"Denas be gone away--gone away for ever from us--never more our little maid--never more! All this be true. But, John, her heart was gone a long time ago. Our poor ways were her scorn; she have gone to her awn, my dear, and we could not keep her. 'Tis like the young gull you brought home one day, and, when it was grown, no love kept it from the sea. You gave it of your best, and it left you; it lay in your breast, John, and it left you. My dear! my dear! she be the man's wife. Say that and feel that and stick to that. He be no son to us, that be sure; but Denas is our daughter. And maybe, John, things are going to turn out better than you think for. Denas be no fool."

"Oh, Joan, how could she?"

At this point Joan broke down and began to sob pa.s.sionately, and John had to turn comforter. And thus the painful hours went by, and the bread was not baked, and the boats went to sea without John; and the two sorrowful hearts sat together on their lonely hearth and talked of the child who had run away from their love. They were uncertain what to say to their neighbours, uncertain what their neighbours would say to them. John thought he ought to go to Exeter and see all the clergymen there, and so find out if Denas had been lawfully married.

Joan thought it "a wisht poor business to go looking for bad news. Sit at your fireside, old man, or go far out to sea if you like it better, and if bad news be for you it will find you out, do be sure of that."

The next day it did find them out. The St. Penfer _News_, published on Thursday, which was market-day, contained the following item: "On Monday night the daughter of John Penelles, fisher, ran off with Mr.

Roland Tresham. The guilty pair went direct to London. Great sympathy is felt for the girl's father, who is a thoroughly upright man and a Wesleyan local preacher of the St. Penfer circuit."

One of the brethren thought it his duty to show this paragraph to John. And the "old man" in John gained the mastery, and with a great oath he swore the words were a lie. Then, being sneeringly contradicted, he felled "the man of duty" p.r.o.ne upon the shingle.