A Singer from the Sea. Amelia E. Barr

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СКАЧАТЬ hat in her hand before her mother, and asked, with a merry little movement of her eyes and head, “what she thought of her?” and Joan Penelles had told her child promptly:

      “You be sweet as blossoms, Denas.”

      There was an engagement between her and Elizabeth to adorn the altar for the Resurrection Service, and it was mainly this duty which had delayed her until John Penelles began to worry about her long absence. He did not ask himself why he had all in 14 a moment thought of Roland Tresham and felt a shiver of apprehension. He was not accustomed to reason about his feelings, it was so much easier to go to Joan with them. But this evening Joan did not quite satisfy him. He drank his tea and ate plentifully of his favourite pie, of fresh fish and cream and young parsley, and then said:

      “Joan, my dear, I have an over-mind to light my pipe and saunter up the cliff-breast. I may meet Denas.”

      “I wish you wouldn’t go, father. It do look as if you had lost trust in Denas––misdoubting one’s own is a whist poor business and not worth the following.”

      “Aw, my dear, I just want to talk a few words to her quiet-like. If Denas is companying with Roland Tresham she oughtn’t to do it, and I must tell her so, that I must. My dear girl, right is right in the devil’s teeth.”

      He said the words so sternly that they seemed to make a gloom in the cottage, but Joan’s cheerful laugh cleared it away. “You be such a dear, good, careful father, John,” she said, as she tucked in with a caressing movement the long ends of his kerchief. “I was only thinking that if it be good to watch, it is far better to trust––there then, isn’t it, father?”

      “Why, my dear, I’ll watch first and I’ll trust after––that’s right enough, isn’t it, Joan?”

      Joan sighed and smiled, and Penelles, with his pipe in his mouth, turned his face landward. Joan thought a moment and then called to him:

      “Father! Paul Tynton is very bad to-day. He 15 was taken ill when the moon was three days old; men die who sicken on that day. Hadn’t you better call and speak a word with him? He is in your class, you know.”

      “He was taken when the moon was four days old; he’ll have a hard little time, but he’ll get up again.”

      There was nothing else she could think of, and she knit her brows and turned in to her house duties. Joan did not want any meeting between her husband and Roland Tresham. She did not want anything to occur which would interfere with Denas visiting Miss Tresham, for these visits were a source of great pleasure to Denas and great pride to herself. And Joan could not believe that there was any danger to be feared from Roland; Denas had known him for two years and nothing evil had yet happened. If Roland had said one wrong word to Denas, Joan was sure her child would have told her.

      While she was thinking of these things, John Penelles went slowly up the winding path that led to the top of the cliff. It was sweet and bright on either hand with the fragile, delicate flowers of early spring. He stopped frequently to look at them, and he longed to touch them, to hold them in his palm, to put them against his lips. But he looked at his big, hard hands, and then at the flowers, and so, shaking his head, walked on. The blackbird was piping and the missel-thrush singing in one or two of her seven languages, and John felt the spring joy stirring in his own heart to melody. He sat in the singing-pew at St. Penfer Chapel, and he had a noble voice, so he shook the ashes out of his pipe, 16 and clasping his hands behind his back was just going to give the blackbirds and thrushes his evening song, when he heard the rippling laugh of Denas a little ahead of him.

      He told himself in a moment that it was not her usual laugh. He could not for his life have defined the difference, but there it was. Before he saw her he knew that Roland Tresham was with her, and in a moment or two they came suddenly within his vision. Denas was walking a little straighter than usual, and Roland was bending toward her. He was gay, laughing, finely dressed; he was doing his best to attract the girl who walked so proudly, so apart, and yet so happily beside him. Penelles went forward to meet them. As they approached Denas smiled, and the young man called out:

      “Hello, Penelles! How do you do? And what’s the news? And how is the fishing? I was just bringing Denas home––and hoping to see you.”

      “Aw, then, sir, you can see for yourself how I be, and the news be none, and the fishing be plenty.”

      “St. Penfer harbour is not much of a place, Penelles. I was just telling Denas about London.”

      “St. Penfer be a hard little place, but it do give us a living, sir; a honest living, thank God! Come, Denas, my dear.”

      As he spoke he gently took the girl’s hand, and with a perfectly civil “Good-evening, sir,” turned with her homeward.

      “Too fast, Penelles; I am going with you.”

      “Much obliged; not to-night, sir. It be getting late. Say good-evening, Denas.”

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      There was something so final about the man’s manner that Roland was compelled to accept the dismissal, but it deeply offended him, and the unreasonable anger opened the door for evil thoughts; and evil thoughts––having a cursed and powerful vitality––immediately began to take form and to make plans for their active gratification. Denas walked silently down the narrow path before her father. He could see by the way she carried herself and by the swing of the little basket in her hand that she was vexed, and he had a sense of injustice in her attitude which he could not define, but which wounded his great loving heart deeply. At last they reached the shingle, and he strode to her side.

      “You be in a great hurry now, Denas,” he said.

      “I want to speak to my mother.”

      “What is it, dear? Father will do as well.”

      “No, he won’t. Father is cruel cross to-night, and thinking wrong of his girl and wrong of others who meant no wrong.”

      “Then I be sorry enough, Denas. Come, my dear, we won’t quarrel for a bad man like Roland Tresham.”

      “He isn’t bad, father.”

      “He is cruel bad––worse than an innocent girl can know. Aw, my dear, you must take father’s word for it. How was he walking with you to-night? ’Twas some devil’s miracle, I’ll warrant.”

      “No, then, it was not. He came from London on the afternoon train, and Miss Tresham had a bad headache and could not set me home as she always does.”

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      “You should have come home alone. There was nothing to fear you.”

      “ ’Tis the first time.”

      “And, my dear, ’tis the last time. Mind that! ’Twill be a bad hour for Roland Tresham if I see him making love to my girl again.”

      “He didn’t say a word of love to me, father.”

      “Aw, then, he was looking it––more shame to him, not to give looks words.”

      “Cannot a man look at a pretty girl? I call that nonsense, father.”

      “Roland Tresham can’t look at you, Denas, any more as I saw him looking СКАЧАТЬ