A Singer from the Sea Part 6

"Why did you not come?"

"Father was afraid of your brother."

"He was right, Denas. Roland is too gay and thoughtless a young man to be about a pretty girl like you. But he has gone to London, and I do not think he will come back here until near the wedding-day."

Then they were at the door, and John Penelles welcomed the lady with all the native grace that springs from a kind heart and from n.o.ble instincts which have become principles. "You be right welcome, Miss Tresham," he said. "My little maid has fret more than she should have done for you. I do say that."

"I also missed Denas very much. I have no sister, Mr. Penelles, and Denas has been something like one to me. I am come to ask you if she may stay with me until my marriage in June. No one can sew like Denas, and now I can afford to pay her a good deal of money for her work--for her love I give her love. No gold pays for love, does it, sir?"

John was pleased with her frankness. He knew the value of money, he knew also the moral value of letting Denas earn money. He answered with a candour which brushed away all pretences:

"We be all obliged to you, Miss Tresham. We be all glad that Denas should make money so happily. It will help her own wedding and furnis.h.i.+ng, whenever G.o.d do send her a good man to love her. It be a great honour to Denas to have your love, but there then! your brother is a fine, handsome young man, and--no offence, miss--it would not be a great honour for my little maid to have his love or the likelihood of it--and out of temptation is out of danger, miss, and if so be I do speak plain and bluff, you will not put it down against me, I'll warrant."

"I think, Mr. Penelles, that you are quite right. I have felt all you say for two years, and have s.h.i.+elded the honour and the happiness of Denas as if she was in very deed my sister. Can you not trust her with me now?"

"'Tis a great charge, miss."

"I am glad to take it. I will keep it for you faithfully."

"'Tis too much to ask, miss; 'twould be a constant charge, for wrong-doing is often a matter of a few moments, though the repentance for it may last a lifetime."

"Roland is in London. He went yesterday. I do not expect him to come to St. Penfer again until the wedding. I a.s.sure you of this, Mr.

Penelles."

"Then your word for it, Miss Tresham. Take my little maid with you.

She be my life, miss. If Denas was hurt any way 'twould be like I got a shot in my backbone; 'twould be as bad for her mother, likewise for poor Tris Penrose."

Elizabeth smiled. "I am glad to hear there is a lover; Denas never told me of him. Is he good and brave, and handsome and young, and well-to-do?"

"He be all these, and more too; for he do love the ground Denas treads on--he do for sure."

Denas was in her room putting on her blue merino and her hat, and while she made her small arrangements and talked to her mother, Elizabeth set herself to win the entire confidence of John Penelles.

It was not a hard thing to do. Evil and sin had to be present and palpable for John's honest heart to realize them. And Miss Tresham's open face, her frank a.s.surances, her straightforward understanding of the position were a pledge John never doubted.

Certainly Elizabeth meant all she promised. She was as desirous to prevent any love-making as John Penelles was. And when interest and conscience are in the same mind, people do at least try to keep their promises. Denas went gayly back with her to St. Penfer. It was something to be in Roland's home; she would hear him spoken of, and she would exchange the monotonous common duties of her own home for the happy bustle and the festive preparations of a house where a fine wedding was to be celebrated.

Her expectations in this respect were more than gratified. Every hour of the day brought something to discuss, to exclaim over, to wonder about, to select, to try on. Notes and flowers, and sweetmeats, and presents of all kinds were continually reminding Elizabeth of her lover; and she grew beautiful and generous in the suns.h.i.+ne of such a magnificent love. Thursday, Friday, and Sat.u.r.day pa.s.sed like a happy dream. On Sat.u.r.day evening Denas was to return home until after the Sabbath. For Sat.u.r.day night and Sunday were John's holiday, and a poor one indeed it would be to him without his daughter. Nor was Denas averse to go home. She looked forward to the pleasure of telling her mother everything she had seen and done; she looked forward to going to chapel with her father, and showing a pretty hat and collar and a pair of kid gloves which Elizabeth had given her.

About five o'clock she started down the cliff. Her heart was light in spite of Roland's silence. Indeed, she had begun to feel a contempt for him and greater contempt for herself because she had for a moment believed in a man so light of love and so false of heart. Elizabeth's affairs were full of interest to her. Elizabeth had been so sisterly and kind. She had paid her well and promised her many things that made life seem full of hope to the ambitious fisher-girl. How the birds did sing! How still the green glades were! In that one week of rain and suns.h.i.+ne, how the leaves had grown!

She went gayly forward, humming softly to herself--none of the songs Roland sang with her, but a little love-song Elizabeth had learned from Robert Burrell. Her foot had that spring to its lift and fall that shows there is a young innocent heart above it. In and out among the glades she went, almost as brightly and musically as the brook whose sparkling and darkling course she followed. When but a few hundred yards down the path, someone called her. She thought it was a fancy and went onward, nevertheless feeling a sudden silence and trouble. Immediately she heard footsteps and the rustling swish of parting leaves and branches.

Then she stood still and looked toward the place of disturbance. A moment afterward Roland Tresham was at her side. He took her hand; he said softly, "This way, darling!" and before she could make the slightest resistance he had drawn her into a little glade shut in by large boulders and lofty trees. Then he had his arms around her, and was laughing and talking a thousand sweet, unreasonable things.

"Oh, Mr. Tresham, let me go! Let me go!" cried Denas.

"Not while you say 'Mr. Tresham.'"

"Oh, Roland!"

"Yes, love, Roland. Say it a thousand times. Did you think I had forgotten you?"

"You were very cruel."

"Cruel to be kind, Denas. My love! they think I am in London. Everyone thinks so. I did go to London last Wednesday. I left London this morning very early. I got off the train at St. Claire and walked across the cliff, and found out this pretty hiding-place. And I am going to be here every Sat.u.r.day night--every Sat.u.r.day night, wet or fine, and if you do not come here to see me, I will go to Australia and never see St. Penfer again."

He would talk nothing but the most extravagant nonsense, and finally Denas believed him. He gave her a ring that looked very like Elizabeth's betrothal ring, and was even larger than Elizabeth's, and he told her to wear it in her breast until she could wear it on her hand. And for this night, and for many other Sat.u.r.day nights, he never named the plot in his shallow head and selfish heart; he devoted himself to winning completely the girl's absorbing love--not a very difficult thing to do, for the air of romance and mystery, at once so charming and so dangerous, enthralled her fancy; his eager, masterful, caressing wooing made her tremble with a delicious fear and hope; and in the week's silence and dreaming, the folly of every meeting grew marvellously.

Nor was the loving, ignorant girl unaffected by the apparently rich gifts her lover brought her--brooch and locket and bracelet, many bright and sparkling ornaments, which poor Denas hid away with joy and almost childish delight and prideful expectations. And if her conscience troubled her, she a.s.sured it that "if it was right for Elizabeth to receive such offerings of affection, it could not be wrong for her to do likewise."

Alas! alas! She did not remember that the element of secrecy made the element of sin. If she had only entertained this thought, it would have made her understand that the meeting which cannot be known and the gift which cannot be shown are wicked in their essence and their influence, and are incapable of bringing forth anything but sorrow and sin.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEED OF CHANGE.

"I love thee! I love thee!

'Tis all that I can say;-- It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day."

--HOOD.

"Ah, if the selfish knew how much they lost, What would they not endeavour, not endure, To imitate as far as in them lay Him who His wisdom and His power employs In making others happy."

--COWPER.

All fas.h.i.+onable wedding ceremonies are similar in kind and effect, and Elizabeth would not have been satisfied if hers had varied greatly from the highest normal standard. Her dress was of the most exquisite ivory-white satin and Honiton lace. Her bridesmaids wore the orthodox pink and blue of palest shades. There was the usual elaborate breakfast; the cake and favours, the flowers and music, and the finely dressed company filling the old rooms with subdued laughter and conversation. All things were managed with that consummate taste and order which money without stint can always command; and Elizabeth felt that she had inaugurated a standard of perfection which cast all previous affairs into oblivion, and demanded too much for any future one to easily attain unto.

In the arrangements for this completely satisfactory function, the position which Denas was to occupy caused some discussion. Mr. Tresham had hitherto regarded her with an indifference which sometimes a.s.sumed a character of irritability. He was occasionally jealous of his daughter's liking for the girl; he knew men, and he was always suspicious of her influence on his son Roland. Proud and touchy about his own social position, he never forgot that Denas was the child of poor fisher people, and he could not understand the tolerant affection Elizabeth gave to a girl so far beneath her own standing.

When Elizabeth included her in the list of bridesmaids, he disputed the choice with considerable temper. He said that he had long endured a companions.h.i.+p not at all to his taste, because it gave Elizabeth pleasure; but that on no account would he compel his guests to receive Denas as their equal. His opposition was so determined that Elizabeth gave up her intention, though she had to break an oft-repeated promise. But, then, promises must be dependent on circ.u.mstances for their redemption, and all the circ.u.mstances were against Denas.

"Mr. Burrell has two sisters," said Elizabeth to her, "and if I do not ask Cousin Flora I shall never be forgiven; and father insists upon Georgia G.o.dolphin, because of his friends.h.i.+p with Squire G.o.dolphin; and I cannot manage more than four bridesmaids, can I? So you see, Denas," etc., etc., etc.

Denas saw quite clearly, and with a certain pride of self-respect she relegated herself to a position that would interfere with no one's claims and offend no one's social ideas.

"I am to be your real bridesmaid, Elizabeth," she said. "Miss Burrells, and your cousin Flora, and Miss G.o.dolphin are for show. I shall be really your maid. I shall lace your white satin boots, and fasten your white satin dress, and drape the lace, and clasp the gems, and make your bride-bouquet. I shall stay upstairs while you are at church and lay ready your travelling costume and see that Adele packs your trunks properly; and when you go away I shall fasten your cloak, and tie your bonnet, and b.u.t.ton your gloves, and then go away myself; for there will be no one here then that likes me and nothing at all for me to do."

And this programme, made with a little heartache and sense of love's failure, Denas faithfully carried out. It cost her something to do it, but she did not permit Elizabeth to see that she counted her faithless in her heart. For she did not blame her friend; she understood the force of the reasons not given--Mr. Tresham's latent dislike, her humble birth, her want of fine clothes and fine polish and rich connections--and she felt keenly enough that there was nothing about her, personally or socially, to make Mr. Tresham's guests desire her.

And when the day drew near and they began to arrive, Denas shrank more and more from their society. She saw that Elizabeth's manner with them was quite different from her manner to herself, and in spite of much kindness and generosity she felt humiliated, alone, outside, and apart. She wondered why it was. These rich girls came in little companies to Elizabeth's room, and with soft laughter and exclamations of delight examined the bride's pretty garments and presents. They were never haughty with her; on the contrary, they were exceedingly pleasant. They called her "Miss Denas" and carefully avoided anything like condescension in their intercourse. Yet Denas knew that between them and herself there was a line impalpable as the equator and just as potent in its dividing power.

It saddened her beyond reason, and when Roland arrived two days before the wedding and she saw him wandering in the garden, riding, driving, playing tennis, chatting and chaffing, singing and dancing with these four girls of his own circle, she divined a difference, which she could not explain but which pained and angered her.

Still, that last week of Elizabeth's maiden life was a wonderful week.

It was like living in the scenes of a theatre--there was no talk but of love. All that everyone said or did referred to the great pa.s.sion.

The house was in the hands of decorators; the aroma of all kinds of delicious things to eat was in the air. There was a constant tinkling of the piano and harp. s.n.a.t.c.hes of song, ripples of laughter, young voices calling through the house and garden, light footsteps going everywhere, the flutter of pink and blue and white dresses, the snowy ribbons and ma.s.sed roses in every room, the exciting atmosphere of love and expectation--who could escape it? And who, when in the midst of it, was able to prevent or to deny its influence?