A Singer from the Sea by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (popular ebook readers .TXT) 📕

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 sunshine 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 passion, and shut the shop door after her with a clash that made Miss Priscilla give a little scream and the forewoman ejaculate:

"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 passed 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 pass 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-class carriage restored the lover-like attitude 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.

"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 circumstances, 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 noble 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