A Singer from the Sea. Amelia E. Barr

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СКАЧАТЬ feeling so hot and angry about it. I wouldn’t be feeling as if my heart was cut loose from its moorings and sinking down and down as deep as fear can send it.”

      “You might trust me, father.”

      “Aw, my sweet girl, there’s times an angel can’t be trusted, or so many wouldn’t have lost themselves. It takes a man to know men and all the wickedness mixed up in their flesh and blood. There’s your mother, Denas––God bless her!”

      Joan came strolling forward to meet them, her large, handsome face beaming and shining with love and pride. But she was immediately sensitive to the troubled, angry atmosphere in which her husband and child walked, and she looked into John’s face with the inquiry in her eyes.

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      “Denas is vexed about Roland Tresham, mother.”

      “There then, I thought Denas had more sense than to trouble herself or you, father, with the like of him. Your new frock is home, Denas, and pretty enough, my dear. Go and look at it before it be too dim to see.”

      Denas was glad to escape to her room, and Penelles turned suddenly silent and said no more until he had smoked another pipe on his own door-step.

      Then he went into the cottage and sat down. Joan was by the fire with her knitting in her hand, and softly humming to herself her favourite hymn:

“When quiet in my house I sit.”

      Penelles let her finish, and then he told her all that he saw and all that he thought and every word he and Denas had spoken. “And I said what was right, didn’t I, Joan?” he asked.

      “No words at all are sometimes better than good words, John. When the wicked was before him, even David didn’t dare to say good and right words.”

      “David wasn’t a St. Penfer fisherman, Joan, and the wicked men of his day were a different kind of wicked men––they just thought of a bad thing and went and did it. They didn’t plot and plan how to make others wicked for them and with them.”

      “What do you know wrong of Roland Tresham, John?”

      “What do I know wrong of Trelawny’s little Jersey bull? Nothing. It never hurt me yet. But I see the devil in his eyes and in the lift of his 20 feet and the toss of his horns and the switch of his tail, and I know right well he’d rip me to pieces if I’d only give him the chance. That’s the way I know Roland Tresham is a bad one. I see the devil in the glinting of his eyes and the mock of his smile, and I wouldn’t have been more sick frightened to-night if I’d seen a tiger purring around Denas than I was when I got the first glimpse of Tresham bending down, coaxing and flattering our little girl. He’s a bad man, sent with sorrow and shame wherever he goes, and I know it just as I know the long dead roll of the waves and the white creeping mist––like a dirty thief––which makes me cry out at sea ‘All hands to reef! Quick! All hands to reef!’ ”

      “There then, John, if wrong and danger there be, what must be done?”

      “Keep the little maid out of it. Don’t let her go to Mr. Tresham’s. I wouldn’t hear tell of it. If Denas would only listen a bit to Tris Penrose, he’d be the man for her––a good man, a good sailor, and he do love the very stones Denas steps on, he do for sure.”

      “She used to like Tris, but these few months her love has all quailed away.”

      “ ’Tis dreadful! dreadful! Why did God Almighty make women so? Here be good love going a-begging to them and getting nothing but a frown and a hard word, while devil’s love is fretted for and heart-nursed. Whatever is a woman’s love made of, I do wonder?”

      As he asked the question he knocked his pipe 21 against the jamb to clean it out, and then quickly turned his head, for an inner door opened and Denas peeped out and then came forward and put her arm around his neck and said:

      “Woman’s love or man’s love, who knows how God makes it, father? And the fisherman’s poet––a far wiser man than most men––asks and answers the same troublesome question in his way. What is love? How does it come?

“ ‘Is it sucked with your milk? is it mixed with your flesh? Does it float about everywhere like a mesh, So fine you can’t see it? Is it blast? Is it blight? Is it fire? Is it fever? Is it wrong? Is it right? Where is it? What is it? The Lord above, He only knows the strength of love; He only knows, and He only can, The root of love that is in a man.’[1]

      For a woman; that’s harder still, isn’t it, father? But never fret yourself, father, for Denas loves you and mother first of all and best of all.” And she slipped on to his knee and stretched out her hand to her mother, and so, kissing the tears off her father’s face and the smiles off her mother’s lips, she went happily to her sleep.

      And a great trust came into the father’s and mother’s hearts; they spoke long of their hopes and plans for her happiness, and then, stepping softly to her bedside, they blessed her in her sleep. And she was dreaming of Roland Tresham. So mighty is love, and yet so ignorant; so strong, and yet so weak; so wise, and yet so easily deceived.

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CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

OH, THE PITY OF IT!

       Table of Contents

“One love is false, one love is true: Ah, if a maiden only knew!”

“It is dear honey that is licked off a thorn.”

      The thing Elizabeth Tresham had done her best to prevent had really happened, but she was not much to blame. Circumstances quite unexpectedly had disarranged her plans and made her physically unable to keep her usual guard over her companion. In fact, Elizabeth’s own love-affairs that eventful Saturday demanded all her womanly diplomacy and decision.

      Miss Tresham had the two lovers supposed to be the lot of most women––the ineligible one, whom she contradictively preferred, and the eligible one, who adored her in spite of all discouragements. The first was the young rector of St. Penfer, a man to whom Elizabeth ascribed every heavenly perfection, but who in the matter of earthly goods had not been well considered by the church he served. The living of St. Penfer was indeed a very poor one, but then the church itself was early Norman and the rectory more than two hundred years old. Elizabeth thought poverty might at least be picturesque under such conditions; and at nineteen years of 23 age poverty has a romantic colouring if only love paint it.

      Robert Burrell, the other lover, had nothing romantic about him, not even poverty. He was unpoetically rich––he even trafficked in money. The rector was a very young man; Burrell was thirty-eight years old. The rector wrote poetry, and understood Browning, and recited from Arnold and Morris. Burrell’s tastes were for social science and statistics. He was thoughtful, intelligent, well-bred, and reticent; small in figure, with a large head and very fine eyes. The rector, on СКАЧАТЬ