A Singer from the Sea - Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (books for students to read .TXT) 📗

a seat, but John lingered in the small vestibule within the door among the few brethren waiting for the strange preacher. It was the same person who had married Roland and Denas, and after he had shaken himself free from his dripping cloak he looked at the men around him, and his eyes fell upon John. And probably all the circumstances of that marriage were either well known or accurately divined, for he took the big fisherman by the hand and said cheerfully:

"John Penelles, I am glad, very glad indeed to meet you. I suppose you know that it was I who married your daughter?"

If a fixed star had fallen at John's feet he could not have been more amazed. His large face lightened from within, he clasped firmly the preacher's hand, but was so slow in forcing speech from his swelling heart that the preacher continued:

"Yes, they came to me, and I remembered your pretty child. I tied them true and fast, you may be sure of that, John."

"Where, sir?"

"In Plymouth Wesleyan chapel, to be sure."

"Thank God! Thank you too, sir! You might say so--some people here be slow to believe, sir, and it be breaking my heart, it be indeed, sir."

There was only a nod and smile in reply, but John was extremely happy. He tried to get near to Joan and tell her; but the aisles were full and the service was beginning. John held his own service, and the singing, and the prayer, and preaching were just a joyful accompaniment to the thanksgiving in his heart. At length the service was over, and the preacher lifted a number of slips of paper and began to read aloud the announcements made on them. Missionary meetings, tea meetings for missions, a bazaar at St. Penfer for missions, a Bible meeting, a class meeting, and the service for that evening. Then, while the congregation were still expectant, he said in a clear, pleasant voice:

"I am requested also to say that on December the 17th, on Tuesday morning at nine o'clock, I united in the holy bands of marriage Denasia, the daughter of John Penelles, fisher of St. Penfer, to Roland Tresham, gentleman of that place. The ceremony was performed by me in the Wesleyan chapel at Plymouth; myself, my wife, and two daughters being witnesses to it. We will now sing the 444th hymn:


"'Lord over all, if Thou hast made,
Hast ransomed every soul of man.'"


And all the congregation rose, and in the rising the conscious glance that passed through the chapel was lost in a more general purpose. It was presumed, at least, that everyone was singing a prayer for the heathen. Only Joan Penelles made no effort to think of India or Africa. Her face, full of radiant assurance, looked confidently over the crowd, seeking her husband's mutual glance of pleasure. Her faith had been justified. Her girl was an honourable wife--the wife of a gentleman well known to all. She had no longer any need to hide the wounding look or doubtful word in a protesting attitude, as painful to her as it was offensive to others.

Well, it is a very hard thing to rejoice with those that do rejoice; evidently in that little chapel it was easier for the worshippers to be sorry for the heathen than to be glad for their brother and sister Penelles. Never had John and Joan felt themselves so far away from the sympathy of their fellows. Only a few rough men who handled the nets with John, and who knew how hard the duty had been to him since his little girl went away, said a word of congratulation. But one and another of these, as they passed John and Joan on their way home, said a hearty "Praise God, brother John," or a "God bless you both, 'twas good news for you this morning." But, with or without sympathy, the happy father and mother walked to their house that day up-head and bravely. Their hearts had been miraculously lightened, and it was not until the burden had rolled away that they knew how woefully heavy it had been.

The next afternoon, when the wind was blowing inland too fiercely to permit boats to leave the harbour, a man who had been up the cliff brought back with him a letter for the Penelles. It was evidently from Denas. John looked at the postmark, "London," and turned it around and around till Joan was nervous. "Aw, then, John, do open it, and read what be inside--do, my dear!" And John read:

"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have been intending to write to you
every day, but I have been so happy that the days went away like a
dream. I wish you knew my dear Roland as I do. He is the kindest
of men, the most generous, the dearest in the whole world. He does
nothing but try how to give me pleasure. He has bought me such
lovely dresses, and rings, and bracelets, and he takes me
everywhere. I never, never did think life could be so happy. I am
going to have lessons too. I am to be taught how to sing and to do
other things right, and your little Denas is the very happiest
girl in the world. London is such a grand place, the very streets
are all shows. Your loving daughter,

"DENAS TRESHAM.

"P. S.--Perhaps you may wonder where we were married. It was at
Plymouth, by the Wesleyan preacher. Father knows him, I think.
D. T."

A dead silence followed the reading of the letter. Joan sat upright with a troubled face. She had been washing the dinner dishes; the towel lay across her lap, and her fingers pleated and unpleated the bit of coarse linen. John laid his arms across his knees and dropped a stern face toward them. The bit of white paper was in his big brown fingers. He did not speak a word; his heart was full, his eyes were full, his tongue was heavy and dumb. Joan grew restless and hot with anger, for she was wounded in every sense.

"Aw, my dear, she be so happy with that man she do forget the days she was happy with you and me, John. She do forget all and everything. Aw, then, 'tis a cruel, thoughtless letter. Cruel beyond words to tell--dreadful! aw, dreadful! God help us! And I do wish I could forget her! And I do be sorry she was ever born."

"Whist! whist! my old dear. She has gone into the wilderness. Our one little ewe lamb has gone into the wilderness, and aw, my dear, 'twill keep us busy all night and day to send love and prayer enough after her. There be wolves there, Joan; wolves, my dear, ready to devour--and the man she loves, he be one of them. Poor little Denas!"

Then Joan went on with her housework, but John sat silent, bending down toward the letter. And by and by his white face glowed with a dull red colour, and he tore the letter up, tore it very slowly into narrow ribbon-like strips, and let them fall, one by one, at his feet. He was in a mood Joan did not care to trouble. It reminded her of the day when he had felled Jacob Trenager. She was glad to see him rise and go to the inner room, glad to hear that he bolted the door after him. For in that temper it was better that John should complain to God than talk with any human being.


CHAPTER X.


A VISIT TO ST. PENFER.

"Oh, waly waly, but love be bonny
A little while while it is new;
But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld
And fades away like morning dew."
--OLD SONG.

"Oh, and is all forgot--
All school days' friendship, childhood's innocence?

. . . . . . . . . .

Our sex as well as I may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury."
--SHAKESPEARE.

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 amusement 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 pronounced 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,