A Singer from the Sea Part 20

Denasia made her _debut_ in the last ten days of January, and she retained the favour of that public which frequented Willis Hall for three months. Then her reputation was a little worn; people whistled and sang her songs and were pleased with their own performance of them. And Roland, also, had tired a little of the life--of its regularity and its obligations. He was now often willing to let any other performer who desired to do so take his place at the piano. He began to have occasional lookings-backward to Burrell Court and the respectability it represented.

Then at the close of April Denasia fell ill. The poor girl fretted at the decline of enthusiasm in her audience. She made stupendous efforts to regain her place in the popular favour, and she failed because of the natural law which few are strong enough to defy--that change is as necessary to amus.e.m.e.nt as fidelity is to duty. Denasia did not indeed reason about the event; the simple fact that she had no recalls and no clamorous approval made her miserable, and then sickness followed.

She was very ill indeed, and for four weeks confined to her room; and when she was able to consider a return to the hall, Roland found that her place had been taken by a Spanish singer with a mandolin and a wonderful dance. That was really a serious disappointment to the young couple, for during the month money had been going out and none coming in. For even when Denasia had been making twenty-five pounds a week, they had lived and dressed up to the last shilling; so that a month's enforced idleness and illness placed them deeply in debt and uncomfortably pressed for the wherewithal to meet debt.

Denasia also had been much weakened by her illness. Her fine form and colour were impaired, she was nervous and despondent; and a suffering, sickly wife was quite out of Roland's calculations and very much out of his sympathies. Poverty had a bad effect upon him. To be without money to buy the finest brand of cigars, to be annoyed by boarding-house keepers, tailors, and costumers, to have to buy medicines with cash when he was without his usual luxuries, was a condition of affairs that struck Roland as extremely improper for a young man of his family and education.

And he disliked now to interview managers. Mademoiselle Denasia was a recognised member of the profession which more than any other demands that everyone stand upon their merits; and Denasia had not been a very p.r.o.nounced success. She remained just about where she had begun, and managers naturally thought that she had done the best of which she was capable. That best was not a phenomenal one, and Roland, as her husband and business agent, received no extraordinary amount of respect. He was offended where he had no reason for offence--offended often because everyone did not recognise him as a member of an old Cornish family and the son of an ex-lord mayor of London. Often he felt obliged, in order to satisfy his own self-respect, to make the fact known; and the chaff, or indifference, or incredulity, with which his claims were received made him change his opinions regarding the "jolly company of actors." In fact, he was undoubtedly at this period of Denasia's career her very worst enemy; for whatever Denasia might be, Roland and his pretensions were usually regarded as a great bore.

One afternoon in May he became thoroughly disgusted with the life he had chosen for himself. The bright sunshine made the shabby carpet and tawdry furniture and soiled mirrors intolerably vulgar. They had just finished a badly cooked, crossly served, untidy dinner, and Roland had no cigar to mend it. Denasia had not eaten at all; she lay on the bright blue sofa with shut eyes, and her faded beauty and faded dress were offensive to the fastidious young man.

She was thinking of her father's cottage, of the love at its hearth, and of the fresh salt winds blowing all around it. Roland half-divined her thoughts, and his own wandered to Burrell Court and his long-neglected sister.

Suddenly he resolved to go and see her. Elizabeth had always plenty of money, then why should he be without it? And the desire having entered his heart, he was as imperative as a spoiled child for its gratification. Denasia's physical condition did not appeal to him in any degree; he could not help her weakness and suffering, and certainly it was very inconvenient for him. He felt at that hour as if Denasia had broken her part of their mutual compact, which had not included illness or loss of prestige and beauty. He turned sharply to her and said:

"Denasia, I am going to St. Penfer. I shall have to sell a ring or something valuable in order to get the fare, but I see no other way.

Elizabeth never disappointed my expectations; she will give me money, I am sure."

"Don't leave me, Roland. I will get well, I will indeed, dear. I am better this afternoon. In a few days--in a week, Roland, I can find some place to sing. Please have a little patience. Oh, do, my dear!"

"Little patience! What are you saying, Denasia? You are very ungrateful! Have I not had patience for a whole month? Have I not spent even my cigar-money for you? Patience, indeed!"

"Is there nowhere but St. Penfer? No person but Elizabeth?"

"I can go to St. Merryn's, if you like. Give me an order for the money in your name at St. Merryn's Bank."

She turned sullen in a moment. "I have told you a thousand times, Roland, I would rather die of hunger than rob my father."

"Very well, then, why do you complain if I go to my own people? I hope when I return you will be better."

"Roland! Roland! You are surely not going to leave me--in a moment--without anything?"

Her cry so full of anguish brought him back to her side; but his purpose had taken full possession of him; only he left her with those kisses and promises which women somehow manage to live upon. He still loved her in his way of loving, but his way demanded so many pleasant accidentals that it was impossible for Denasia always to provide them.

And yet, having once realised, in a great measure, his ideal of her value to his happiness, he did feel that her sudden break-down in health was a failure he ought to show disapproval of.

However, there was method even in Roland's selfish plans. He did not wish to find Mr. Burrell at St. Penfer, so he went to the bank and ascertained his whereabouts. He was told that Mr. Burrell had just left for Berlin, and was likely to be a week or ten days away. This information quite elated Roland. He sold his watch and took the first train to Cornwall. And as he was certain that Elizabeth would have settled his bill at the Black Lion, he went there with all his old swaggering good-humour and thoroughly refreshed himself before going out to Burrell Court.

Elizabeth gave him a hearty welcome; she was indeed particularly glad to see him just then. She was lonely in the absence of her husband; she had just had a slight disagreement with the ladies at a church meeting; she was feeling her isolation and her want of family support; and she had met, for the first time since their interview, the Rev.

Mr. Farrar, who had presumed to arrest her coachman and, in the presence of her servants, congratulate her on the marriage of her brother and her friend. Under the circ.u.mstances, she had judged it best to make no remarks; but she was very angry, and not sorry to have the culprit in her presence and tell him exactly what she thought of his folly and disgrace.

She kept the lecture, however, until they had dined and were alone; then, as he sat serenely smoking one of Mr. Burrell's finest cigars, she said:

"I hope you are come back to me, Roland. I hope you have left that woman for ever."

"Who do you mean by 'that woman,' Elizabeth?"

"De--You know who I mean."

"Denas! Left Denas! Left my wife! That is absurd, Elizabeth! I wanted to see you. I could not bear to be 'out' with you any longer. You know, dear, that you are my only blood relative. Denas is my relative by marriage. Blood is thicker than--everything."

"Roland, you know how I love you. You are the first person I remember.

All my life long you have been first in my heart. How do you think I liked to be put aside for--that fisher-girl? It nearly broke my heart with shame and sorrow."

"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I did behave badly to you. I am ashamed of myself. Forgive me, darling sister." And he pulled his chair to her side, and put his arm around her neck, and kissed her with no simulated affection. For he would indeed have been heartless had he been insensible to the true love which softened every tone in Elizabeth's voice and made her handsome face shine with tender interest and unselfish solicitude.

"I ought to have told you, Elizabeth. I believe you are n.o.ble enough to have accepted Denas for my sake."

"I am not, Roland. Nothing could have made me accept her. I have taken a personal dislike to her. I am sure that I cannot even do her justice."

"She has been very ill. She is still very weak. I have been unable to get her all the comforts she ought to have had--unable to take her to the sea-side, though the doctor told me it was an imperative necessity. We have been very poor, but not unhappy."

"I understood she was making a great deal of money with her trashy, vulgar little songs."

"She was until she fell ill. And whatever her songs are, they have been very much admired."

"By her own cla.s.s. And you let her sing for your living! I am amazed at you, Roland!"

"I do not see why. You wanted me to marry Caroline Burrell and let her support me out of the money old Burrell worked for. Denas loves me, and the money she gives me is given with love. Old Burrell never saw me, and if he had I am quite sure he would have hated me and despised me as a fortune-hunter. Denas is a n.o.ble little darling. She has never inferred, either by word or look, that she sang for my living. It took you to do that, Elizabeth. Besides, I help Denas to make money. I arrange her business and I play her accompaniments, and, as I said, I love her and she loves me. Why, I have done without cigars to buy medicines for her; and if that isn't a proof of my devotion, I do not know how to give one! I can tell you that Mademoiselle Denasia is a great favourite with everyone."

"Mademoiselle Denasia!" cried Elizabeth with the utmost scorn.

"Mademoiselle! and Denasia! However, she might well change her name."

"She did not change her name. She was baptised Denasia."

"Robert went to hear her sing. He says it was in a fourth-rate place, and I can tell you he was burning with indignation to see his brother-in-law playing a piano there."

"Then he ought to let his anger burn to some purpose. Signor Maria says that if Denasia had proper masters and was sent to Italy for two or three years she could sing in grand opera. Mind, Maria says that; not I. Suppose you get Robert to send Denas to Italy."

"I will do nothing at all for Denas. And I think, Roland, that you ought to do something for yourself. I hate to think of my own brother taking his living from that fisherman's daughter. It is a shame!

Father brought you up like a gentleman, sent you to college, gave you an opportunity----"

"If father had given me a profession of any kind, if he had put me in the army or the navy, I should be to blame. If he had bought me a kit of carpenters' tools and had me taught how to use them, I should be no man at all if I looked to a woman for a living. But he did not. He sent me to college, gave me expensive tastes, and then got me a desk in a bank, where the only prospect before me was to add figures for the rest of my life for two pounds a week. Naturally I looked around for something more to my liking. I found Denasia. I loved her. She loved me. I could play, she could sing, and we made twenty-five pounds a week. That is the true state of the case."

"And do you intend to spend your life playing accompaniments to fishing-songs?"

"No. I am studying for the stage."

"Roland Tresham! Roland Tresham!"

"I think I have a new conception of the character of Orlando and I flatter myself the Romeo is yet to be played. I shall attempt it next winter. Now, Elizabeth, all the summer is before us. If you will not ask us to Burrell Court, then do in sisterly kindness send us to some quiet sea-side place to study. We could, of course, come to Penelles'

cottage----"

"No, you could not. John Penelles would not permit you to enter his door. He says he will never forgive his daughter until she leaves you for ever. I understand him. I cannot fully forgive you while you remain with that woman."

"Who told you John Penelles said such a thing? I do not believe it."

"Priscilla Mohun. He said it to her."

"Ah! He would not say it to Denasia. And it would not be a bad place to study. I should soon be a favourite with the fishers. I know how to get around that cla.s.s of people, and I am fond of the sea and could spend a month very comfortably there. Cigars make any place comfortable."