A Singer from the Sea, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [best story books to read TXT] 📗

If it could only have lasted! Alas! the ability to enjoy went first. Amusements of every kind grew a little--a very little--tiresome. The first glory was dimmed; the charm of freshness was duller; the unreasoning delight of ignorance a little less enthusiastic every day; and about the close of the third week Roland said one morning, "You look weary, Denasia, my darling."

"I am tired, Roland--tired of going a-pleasuring. I never thought anything like that could possibly happen. Ought I not to be taking lessons, learning something, doing something about my voice?"

"It is high time, love. Money melts in London like ice in summer. Suppose we go and see Signor Maria this morning."

"I would like to go very much."

"Then make yourself very fine and very pretty, and let me hear if your voice is in good order to-day." He went to the piano and struck a few chords, and throughout the still, decorous house, people in every room heard the sweet voice chanting:


"I will go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover of men--the sea"--


heard it again in the weird, startling incantation:


"Weave me the nets for the gray, gray fish"--


and up and down stairs doors were softly opened, and through every heart there went a breath of the salt sea and a longing for the wide stretches of rippled sands and tossing blue waters.

Roland perceived the effect of the music and was satisfied. He had no fear of their future. What if the gold was low in his purse? That charmful voice was an unfailing bank from which to draw more. He was so proud of his darling, so full of praises and admiration, that Denas really put on an access of genius as she robed herself to his flattering words. Pleasure, and hope, and a pretty pride in her husband's eulogies lent her new physical graces. She was conscious that there were eyes at every window watching Roland and herself leave the house, and she felt certain that their owners were saying: "What a handsome couple! How fond they are of each other! What a wonderful voice she has!"

It is easy to be gay, and even beautiful, to such thoughts; and Roland and Denas reached Signor Maria's in a glow of good-humour and good hope. The Signor was at home and ready to receive them. He was a small, thin, dark man with long, curling black hair and bright black eyes. He bowed to Roland and looked with marked interest into the fair, sparkling face of Denas. He was much pleased with her appearance and quite interested in her ambitions. Then he opened the piano and said, "Will monsieur play, or madame?"

Roland played and Denas sang her very best. The Signor listened attentively, and Roland was sure of an enthusiastic verdict; on the contrary, it was one of depressing qualifications. The Signor acknowledged the quality of the voice, its charmful, haunting tones--but for the opera! oh, much more--very, very much more was needed. Madame must go to Italy for three years and study. She must learn the Italian language; the French; the German. Ah! then there was the acting also! Had madame histrionic power? That was indispensable for the grand opera. But in three years--perhaps four--with fine teachers her voice might be very rich, very charming. Now it was harsh, crude, unformed. Yes, it wanted the soft, mellowing airs of Italy. Where had madame been living--what was called "brought up?"

Denas answered she had always lived by the sea, and the Signor nodded intelligently and said: "Yes! yes! that was what he heard in her voice; the fresh wild winds--yes, wild and salt! It is airs from the rose gardens, velvety languors off the vineyards, heat and passions of the sunshine madame wants. Indeed, monsieur may take madame to Italy for two, three, perhaps four years, and then expect her to sing. Yes, then, even in grand opera."

This was undoubtedly the Signor's honest opinion, but Roland and Denas were greatly depressed by it; Denas especially so, for she had an inward conviction that he was right; she had heard the truth. It was almost two different beings that left Signor Maria's house. Silently Roland handed Denas into the waiting cab, silently he seated himself beside her.

"I am afraid I have disappointed you, Roland."

"Yes, a little. But we are going now to Mr. Harrison's. There is nothing foreign about him. He is English, and he knows what English people like. I shall wait for his verdict, Denas."

"It was a long ride to Mr. Harrison's, and Roland did not speak until they were at his door. This professor was a blond, effusive, large man of enthusiastic temperament. He was delighted to listen to Mrs. Tresham, and he saw possibilities for her that Signor Maria never would have contemplated; though when Roland told him what Maria had said he endorsed his opinion so far as to admit the excellence of such a training for a great prima donna.

"But Mrs. Tresham may learn just as well by experience as by method," he averred. "She sings as the people enjoy singing. She sings their songs. She has a powerful voice, which will grow stronger with use. I think Mr. Willis will give her an immediate engagement. Suppose we go and see. Willis is at the hall, I should say, about this time."

This seemed a practical and flattering offer, and Roland gladly accepted it. Willis Hall was soon reached. It was used only for popular concerts and very slight dramas in which there was a great deal of singing and dancing. It had a well-appointed stage and scenery, but the arrangement of the seats showed a general democracy and a great freedom of movement for the audience.

"Willis is always on the lookout for novelties," said Professor Harrison, "and I am sure these fishing songs will 'fetch' such an audience as he has."

As he was speaking Mr. Willis approached. He listened to Professor Harrison's opinion and kept his eyes on Denas while he did so. He thought her appearance taking, and was pleased to give her voice a trial. The hall was empty and very dull, but a piano was pulled forward to the front of the stage and Roland took his seat before it. Denas was told to step to the front and sing to the two gentlemen in the gallery. They applauded her first song enthusiastically, and Denas sang each one better. But it was not their applause she listened to--it was the soft praises of Roland, his assurances of her success, which stimulated her even beyond her natural power.

At the conclusion of the trial Mr. Willis offered Denas twelve pounds a week, and if she proved a favourite the sum was to be gradually increased. The sum, though but a pittance of Roland's dreams, was at least a livelihood and an earnest of advance, and it was readily accepted. Then the little company sat down upon the empty stage and discussed the special songs and costumes in which Denas was to make her debut.

Never before in all his life had Roland found business so interesting. He said to Denas, as they talked over the affair at their own fireside, that he thought he also had found his vocation. He felt at home on the stage. He never had felt at home in a bank or in a business office. He was determined to study, and create a few great characters, and become an actor. He felt the power; it was in him, he said complacently. "Now," he added, "Denas, if you become a great singer and I a great actor, we shall have the world at our feet. And I like actors and those kind of people. I feel at home with them. I like the life they lead--the jolly, come-day go-day, wandering kind of life. I never was meant for a respectable man of business. No: the stage! the stage! That is my real life. I am certain of it. I wonder I never thought of it before."

It had been arranged that Denas was to open with Neil Gow's matchless song of "Caller Herrin'!" and her dress was of course that of an idealized Newhaven fisher-girl. Her short, many-coloured skirts, her trig latched shoon, her open throat, and beautiful bare arms lifted to the basket upon her head was a costume which suited her to admiration. When she came stepping down the stage to the immortal notes, and her voice thrilled the house with the ringing musical "cry" that none hear and ever forget:


Cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'! cal-ler her-rin'!


the assembly broke into rapturous delight. It was a song not above their comprehension and their feeling. It was interpreted by one to whom the interpretation was as natural as breathing. She was recalled again, and again, and again, and the uproar of approval only ceased when the next singer advanced with a roll of music in his hand. He was a pale, sentimental young man whose forte was despairing love-songs, but


"The last links are broken
That bound me to thee"


had little interest after Mademoiselle Denasia's unique melody. For it was by this name Denas had consented to be known, the French prefix having but a very indefinite significance to her mind. Roland had told her that it meant a lady, and that all singers were either mademoiselle or madame, and that she was too young for madame, and the explanation had been satisfactory.

Certainly, if signs could be trusted Mademoiselle Denasia was likely to be a name in many mouths; for her second and third songs were even more startling in their success than "Caller Herrin'," and Mr. Willis would permit no further recalls.

"We must give them Denasia in small doses," he said, laughing; "she is too precious to make common," and Roland winced a moment at the familiar tone in which his wife's name was spoken. But both alike were under a spell. The intoxicating cup of public applause was at their lips. Their brains were full of the wildest dreams, their hearts full of the wildest hopes. No consideration at that time could have turned their feet aside from the flower-covered, treacherous path they were so gayly treading.

Such a life would have simply been beyond the power of John and Joan Penelles to imagine. Its riot of dress and emotions and its sinful extravagance in every direction would have been to them an astounding revelation of the possibilities of life. As it was, their anxiety took mainly one direction: the uncertainty attending the marriage of their daughter. Denas had indeed said she was Roland's wife, but the St. Penfer News implied a very different relationship; and John had all that superstitious belief in a newspaper which is so often an attribute of ignorance.

At any rate, the want of authentic data about the marriage humiliated and made him miserable. Two more weeks had passed since that eventful Sunday night service at St. Clair, and yet John had no assurance of a more certain character to rely on. Three or four illustrated papers had been received with "love from your daughter, Denas Tresham," written on the title-page; but the claim thus made satisfied no one but Joan. Joan believed in the validity of the name, and handed around the sheets with a confidence few cared to in any degree dispute.

The third Sunday was an important one to the fisher-folk. There was to be a missionary sermon preached in the St. Clair chapel, and John and Joan went there. The chapel was crowded. Joan got