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

--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 fashionable 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 assumed 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 companionship 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 circumstances for their redemption, and all the circumstances 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 Godolphin, because of his friendship with Squire Godolphin; 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 Godolphin 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 button 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 passion. 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. Snatches 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 massed 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?

Denas gave herself freely to the moment. The presence of Roland made all things easy to her. He contrived many an unseen meeting; her lips never lost the sense of his stolen kisses; her hands were constantly pink with the passing clasp or the momentary pressure. No one could have supposed he was planning anything, for he was continually with someone or with all of the four bridesmaids; yet there was not an hour in which he did not manage to give Denas her part, though it were but an upward glance at the open window where she sat sewing, or a kiss flung backward to her; or a lifted hat, or a rose left where she alone could find it; or a little love-letter crushed into her hand in passing.

Such a week to stir a young heart to love's sweet fever! It passed like a dream, and went finally with the clashing of wedding-bells and the trampling of horses carrying away the bride. Then the guests followed one by one until the house was lonely and deserted; and the servants began to remove the remnants of the feast and to take down the fading wreaths and roses.

Mr. Tresham took Roland with him to Burrell Court. He seemed determined to keep his son by his side, and the drive to Burrell was an effectual way. No one thought of Denas. She had now no place nor office in the house. But she remained until near sundown, for she trusted that Roland would find out a way to meet her at their usual trysting-place. And just when she had given him up he came. Then he told her that he was going to London in the morning, because his father had suddenly resolved upon a short pleasure-trip, and he had promised to go with him as far as Paris. But he had provided for their correspondence.

"There is a man in St. Clair called Pyn, a boatman living in the first cottage you come to, Denas," he said. "I have given him money, and my letters to you will go to him. Can you walk to St. Clair for them?" It was a foolish question; Roland knew that Denas would walk twenty miles for a letter from him. He then gave her some addressed envelopes in which to enclose her letters to him. "Pyn will post them," he said, "and the handwriting will deceive everyone. And I shall come back to you, Denas, as soon as I can get away from my father; and Pyn will bring a message to St. Penfer and let you know, in some way, when I get home."

These particulars being fully arranged and understood, he talked to her of her own loveliness. He told her she was more beautiful in her plain white frock than the bride in her bride-robes. He said all that lovers have said from the beginning of time; all that lovers will say until time ends. Denas believed him, believed every word, for the nature of true love is to be without doubt or fear. And Roland thought he loved her quite well enough for their future life together. If she was to become a public singer, it would not be wise for him to have too exclusive and jealous affection for her. Roland had always been prudent for himself; he thought of everything which might affect his own happiness. This night, however, he gave up all for love. He kept Denas by his side until the gloaming was quite gone, and then he walked with her down to the very shingle. They parted with tears and kisses and murmured protestations of fidelity. And Denas watched her lover until he reached the first bend in the upward path. There he turned, and she stretched out her arms to him, and Roland lifted his hat and kissed his hand, and then vanished among the thick trees.

The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could see the fishing-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. She knew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottage she saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were folded across her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent or anxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart, though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. She tried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almost angry at the stubborn indifference which she was unable to conquer.

"You be long in getting home, Denas. Father went to sea quite put out. Jane Serlo says the bride did go away at two o'clock. Well, then, it be long after nine now, Denas!"

"I had a lot to do after Mrs. Burrell left, mother--things she would not trust anyone else to look to."

"Hum-m! 'Tis no good way, to take such charge. Who knows what she may be saying after-times? I do feel glad she be married at last, and done with. Mayhap we may see a bit of comfort ourselves now."

"She gave me twenty pounds before she left, mother."

"There be things twenty pound can't buy nor pay for; I tell you that, Denas. And to see your father go off with the boat to-night, without heart in him and only care for company! I do not feel to like it, Denas. If your lover be dear to you, so be my old husband to me."

"What lover are you talking about, mother?"

"The lover that kept you on the cliff-breast--Roland Tresham, he be the lover I mean."

"Who told you I was with Roland?"

"I know