A Singer from the Sea Part 15

"G.o.d help us, Denas, we must bear what is sent."

"What a night it has been! How did you live through it?"

"It's dogged as does it and lives through it. It's dogged as does anything, my dear, all over the world. I stuck to the boat and the boat stuck to me. G.o.d Almighty Himself can't help a coward."

The storm continued all day, but began to slacken in intensity at sunset. There was of course no service at Pendree. John, even if he had not been so worn out, could not have reached the place in such a storm, either by land or sea. But the neighbours, without seeming premeditation, gathered in John's cottage at night, and he opened his Bible and read aloud:

"Terrors take hold on him, as waters; a tempest stealeth him away in the night. The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth; and as a storm hurleth him out of his place."

And it was to these words, with their awful application to the wicked, that Denas listened the last night she intended to spend under her father's roof. John's discourses were nearly always like his nature, tender and persuasive; and this terrible sermon wove itself in and out of her wandering thoughts like a black scroll in a gay vesture. It pained and troubled her, though she did not consider why it should do so. After the meeting was over John was very weary; but he would not go to bed until he had eaten supper. He "wanted his little maid to sit near him for half-an-hour," he said. And he held her hand in his own hand, and gave her such looks of perfect love and blessed her so solemnly and sweetly when at length he left her that she began to sob again and to stand on tiptoe that she might throw her arms around his neck and touch his lips with hers once more.

Her kisses were wet with her tears, and they made John's heart soft and gentle as a baby's. "She be the fondest little maid," he said to his wife. "She be the fondest little maid! I could take a whole year to praise her, Joan, and then I could not say enough."

In reality, the last two days, with their excess of vital emotions, had worn Denas out. Never before had the life into which she was born looked so unlovely to her. She preferred the twitter and twaddle of Priscilla's workroom to the intense realities of an existence always verging on eternity. She dared to contrast those large, heroic fishers, with their immovable principles and their constant fight with all the elemental forces for their daily bread, with Roland Tresham; and to decide that Roland's delicate beauty, pretty, persuasive manners, and fas.h.i.+onable clothing were vastly superior attributes. So she was glad when the morning came, for she was weary of enduring what need no longer be endured.

It still rained, but she put on her best clothing, and Joan was not pleased at her for doing so. She thought she might come home some night when the rain was over and change her dress for the visit to Burrell Court. This difference of opinion made their last meal together a silent one; for John was in a deep sleep and Joan would not have him disturbed. Denas just opened the door and stood a moment looking at the large, placid face on the white pillow. As she turned away, it seemed as if she cut a piece out of her heart; she had a momentary spasm of real physical pain.

Joan had not yet recovered from her night of terror. Her face was grey, her eyes heavy, her heart still beating and aching with some unintelligible sense of wrong or grief. And she looked at her child with such a dumb, sorrowful inquiry that Denas sat down near her and put her head on her mother's breast and asked: "What is it, mother?

Have I done anything to grieve you?"

"Not as I know by, dear. I wish you hadn't worn your best dress--dresses do cost money, don't they now?"

"Yes, they do, mother. There then! Shall I take it off? I will, to please you, mother."

"No, no! The will be as good as the deed from my little girl. Maybe you are right, too. Dress do go a long way to pleasing."

"Then good-bye. Kiss me, mother! Kiss me twice! Kiss me again, for father!"

So Joan kissed her child. She smoothed her hair, and straightened her collar, and put in a missed b.u.t.ton, and so held her close for a few moments, and kissed her again; and when Denas had reached the foot of the cliff, she was still watching her with the look on her face--the look of a mother who feels as if she still held her child in her arms.

O love! love! love! Is there any sorrow in life like loving?

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Family, race.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SEA OF SORROW.

"Time the shuttle drives; but we Give to every thread its hue And elect our destiny."

--BURLEIGH.

"Life does not make us, we make life."

"He gave me trust, and trust has given me means Once to be false for all."

--DRYDEN.

"He at the news Heart-struck, with chilling gripe of sorrow, stood, That all his senses bound."

--MILTON.

It had been raining a little when Denas bade her mother farewell, but by the time she reached the top of the cliff the rain had become fog.

She stood still awhile and turned her face to the sea, and saw one drift after another roll inland, veiling the beach, and the boats, and the cottages, and leaving the whole scene a spectacle of desolation.

It affected her painfully. The love and hope in her heart did not lift her above the depressing influence of that mournful last view of her home. Was the thing that she was going to do worth while? Was anything in life worth while? The little town had a half-awakened Monday-morning look. Every one seemed to be beginning another week with an "Oh, dear me!" sort of feeling. Miss Priscilla was just dressing her shop window, and as cross as crossed sticks over her employment. She said that Denas was late, and wondered "for goodness' sake why she was so dressed up."

It gave Denas a kind of spiteful pleasure to answer: "She was dressed to go to Burrell Court and spend a day with Mrs. Burrell. When she sent Mr. Burrell word the day she would come the carriage would call for her."

"If you mean the day I can spare you best, I cannot spare you at all this week. There now!"

"I am not thinking of you sparing me, Priscilla. I am waiting for a fine day."

"Upon my word! Am I your mistress or are you mine? And what is more, that Roland Tresham is not coming here again. I have some conscience, thank goodness! and I will not sanction such ways and such carryings on any longer. He is a dishonourable young man."

"Has he not paid you, Priscilla?"

Before Priscilla could find the scathing words she required, an hostler from the Black Lion entered the shop and put a letter into the hand of Denas.

Priscilla turned angrily on the man and ordered him to leave her shop directly. Then she said: "Denas Penelles, you are a bad girl! I am going to write to Mrs. Burrell this day, and to your father and mother also."

"I would not be a fool if I was you, Priscilla."

Denas was reading the letter, and softly smiling as she uttered the careless words. For indeed affairs were at a point now where Priscilla's interference would hurt herself more than others. The note was, of course, from Roland. It told her that all was ready, and that the weather being so bad as to render walking very tiresome and miserable, he had engaged a carriage which would be waiting for her on the west side of the parish church at seven o'clock that night; and her lover would be waiting with it, and if Roland was to be believed, everything joyful and marvellous was waiting also.

This letter was the only suns.h.i.+ne throughout the day. Priscilla's bad temper was in the ascendant, both in the shop and in the workroom. She scolded Denas for working so slowly, she made her unrip whatever she did. She talked at Denas in talking to the other girls, and the girls all echoed and shadowed their mistress' opinions and conduct. Denas smiled, and her smile had in it a mysterious satisfaction which all felt to be offensive. But for the certain advent of seven o'clock, the day would have been intolerable.

About half-past six she put on her hat and cloak, and Miss Priscilla ordered her to take them off. "You are not going outside my house to-night, Denas Penelles," she said. "If you sew until ten o'clock, you will not have done a day's work."

"I am going home, Priscilla. I will work for you no more. You have behaved shamefully to me all day, and I am going home."

Priscilla had not calculated on such a result, and it was inconvenient to her. She began to talk more reasonably, but Denas would listen to no apology. It suited her plans precisely to leave Priscilla in anger, for if Priscilla thought she had gone home she would not of course send any word to her parents. So she left the workroom in a pretended pa.s.sion, and shut the shop door after her with a clash that made Miss Priscilla give a little scream and the forewoman e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e:

"Well, there then! A good riddance of such a bad piece! I do say that for sure."

Very little did Denas care for the opinions of Priscilla and her work-maidens. She knew that the word of any girl there could be bought for a day's wage; she was as willing they should speak evil as well of her. Yet it was with a heart full of anger at the day's petty slights and wrongs that she hastened to the place mentioned by Roland. As she turned into the street at one end the carriage entered it at the other. It came to meet her; it stopped, and Roland leaped to her side.

In another moment she was in the carriage. Roland's arm was around her; he was telling her how grateful he was; how happy! how proud! He was promising her a thousand pleasures, giving her hope after hope; vowing an unalterable and never-ending love.

And Denas surrendered herself to his charm. After the last three dreadful days, it did seem a kind of heaven to be taken right out of a life so hard and unlovely and so full of painful emotions; to be kissed and flattered and to be treated like a lady. The four miles she had expected to walk went like a happy dream; she was sorry when they were pa.s.sed and the bare railway station was reached. It was but a small place lit by a single lamp, but Roland improvised a kind of couch, and told her to sleep while he watched and smoked a cigar.

In a short time he returned, and said that there was no train to Plymouth until midnight; but an express for London would pa.s.s in half an hour, and they had better take it. Denas thought a moment, and answered with a decision that made Roland look curiously at her: "No.

I will not go to London to be married. I know the preacher at Plymouth. We will wait for the Plymouth train." It was not a very pleasant wait. It was cold and damp and inexpressibly dreary, and Roland could not avoid showing that he was disappointed in not taking the London train.

But the hours go by, no matter to what measure, and midnight came, and the train came, and the comfort and privacy of a first-cla.s.s carriage restored the lover-like att.i.tude of the runaways. Early in the morning they reached Plymouth, and as soon as possible they sought the house of the Wesleyan preacher. It stood close to the chapel and was readily found. A written message on Roland's card brought him at once to the parlour. He looked with interest and curiosity and some disapproval at the couple.