A SINGER FROM THE SEA.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIV, Issue 277, 22 November 1893, Page 6

A SINGER FROM THE SEA.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.

Author'of 'The Beads of Tasniar,' 'The Mate of the "Easter Bell,"' 'The Household of McNeil,' • Friend Olivia,' Etc., Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER XIV.

SORROW BRINGS US ALL HOME. 'Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been : _, I am also called No-more, '100-late. Farewell." Was that the landmark? But lo ! Tha path is missed, I must go back And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring. Which once I stained. -•Yet though no light be left, nor bird now aiiiK As hore I turn. I thank God, hfisteniug. That the sunie #oal is still on the same track. _:■ " .' ' ■ Dante RossfflrTi. Roland Tresham was buried beoide hiß son, and tho friends and the places that had known him knew him no more. Tner were only strangers to lay him in fcl> e grave. His wife was too worn out with watching and grief to Jeave her bed; his Bi3tet > was far away. Mr Lanhearne and 'two or three prentlemon whose acquaintance Roland had made ab the club of which Mr Lanhearne waa a member paid the last-pitiful rites, and then left him alone forever. Ada safe with the sorrowful widow. Her innocent heart waa greatly troubled le»t> •her interest in Roland —though known only to herself—had been an unintentional wronsf. In every possible way she strove to atone for Roland's happiness in her home, and her own happiness in Roland's •presence. When she mentally contrasted those conditions with the miserable conditions of the-deserted wife and living child, she' felt) aa if it would be impossible to balance the unkind and unmerited difference.- That Bhe was nob specially drawn to Danaaia, only compelled from her a more generous concern for the unhappy woman. And when death or sorrow tears from life the mask of daily custom, then without regard to the accidents of birth, wo behold ourselves, all alike, sad seekors among the shadows after light and pence. And undoubtedly sympathy is like mprcy ; it blesses those who give ib as well as those who receive. As Ada and Denas talked of the great mysteries of life and death their souls felt the thrill of comradeship. Denas waa usually reticent about her own life yet she oponed her hearb to Ada ; and as the two women safe together the day after the funeral tho poor widow apenb many hours in excusing the dead and in blaming herself. She spoke honestly of her vanity, of her desire to get tho better of Elizabeth by taking her brother from her, of the satisfaction she felt in mortifying the pride of the Bnrrells and the Treshamo—even of h«r impatience and ill-temper with Roland because he was not abie to conquer the weaknesses which were as near to him as the blood in his body or tho thought in his brain-because ho could not alter the adverse circumstances which, as soon as they touched American soil, began to close around them, ~},* And my groat grief is this,' she cried, wringing her long wasted hands : ' He has died bejore his time ; and he has gone so far away that ho neither sees my repentance por,,hears my words of remorseful Borrow.' ' Would you desire tho dead to pee your sorrow, Mrs Treshain?' Ada asked. ' Sorrow is for the living, not for the dead.' ' Oh, it is not enough to be seen by the living. I want the dead to know that I grieve. When I have wept on my mother's breast, and knelt at my father's feet, I shall long for poor Roltiud to know that I am sorry for the cross looks and the cross words and all the potty discomforts which drove him from ree—drove him to death before his time—that ia the crudest thing of all.' Mr Lanhearne entered the room as she spoke, and ho sat down and answered hot1: 'To die before ono'fl time, before one has seen and heard and onjoyed and suffered tho full measure of life, may seom hard, Mrs Tresham ; bub there U something in this respect much harder. I have just been witb a gentlemen who has lived after his time. The grave has swallowed up all hia loves and all his joys, and he alone is left of his family and his friend?. Over such lingering lives, thick, dark, shadows fall, I can assure you. They have the loneliness of tho grave, without its quiet sleep and its freedom from unkmdnesa and Buffering. Let me advise you as soon as yon can bear tho journey to go to your own people. It was your husband's rio*ire.' ''I know it was, sir. I have fought hunger and sorrow and death like a Cab. Btrfc l-here is no need to continue the fight. I will go to the good father and mother that God gavo rao. I will weep no more rebellious tears. 1 will surrender myself, and wait for His comfort. lam but a poor Buffering woman, but I know The Hand that has smitten me.' And Ada bowed her head and repeated softly i 'They ftrd most high, who humblest at God's Lie, lo\ iaff God and trusting though He smile.' That) they spoUe of the Hea journey, and j Delias wished to go away as soon aa possible. •I frh&H get some money ac soon as I arrive in London,' she said. ' Lend me euftieiorii to piy my passage there.' ' "'""You'have.no occasion to borrow money, Mrs Tresham,' eaid Mr Lanhoaroe. 'There is a sum due your husband, which will bo quite sufficient to meet all your expenses homo. I shall fend a man to take you a . good berth. Shall ib be for Saturday next?' ' I can go to-morrow, very well. ; 'No, you cjionob go to-morrow, Mrs Tres-bam,' answered Ada. 'You must have proper clothing to travel in. If you permit mo I will attend to this matter for you nb once.' And thongh tho proper clothing was a very prosaic comfort, it was a tangible one to Den»r. She was grateful to limi herFolf clothed in that, modest, sombre ileeeney which her condition claimed ; to have all .tho small proprieoias of tho season and the ciiduinstances; nil tho toilet, necessities which are part or the expression of a retinfid nature. For tho poor lady who pi/ftpfly lamented the calamity which bad •reduced her to elegance' indicated no slight derivation, proper clothing for the occasions of life being both to men and women one of those yreab decencies demanded by an austere and suitable i?efre»p?ct. Faithfully this good father and daughter fulfilled to the la?t tiltle bhe demands of their almost enpersertsibive hearts and consciences ; and if they sighed with relief when the-duty was over, the eigh only proved the duty to have been beyond the litre oi sell-sati^'action, and a real sacrifice to the claims of n common humanity. Mr LVihearne then turned hu thoughts gladly toward Florida. We ielt that tho invasion of so much fit-range sorrow into his home had alterod its atmosphere.; and that he was human enough to be a little weary in well doing. Ada was also glad to escape the precincts haunted by the form and the voice which it pained her conscience to remember and pained her heart to forget. So iv a few more days the large brown house was closed and dark; and 'the tender grace of a day that) waa dead' was

I gone forever more. The land of sunshine was before them, and many of their friends wore already there to give them welcome; yet Ada's soul kepb repeating with a ceaseless uncontrollable monotony one sad lament: 'Ah, but alas! for the smile that never but one face wore': Ah, for the voice that han flown away, like a bird to an unkndwn shore! Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more!' Sho tried to hush this inner voice, to reason ib into silenco, to dull its aching echo with song or speech or notes of loftier tones, but it) would nob be quieted. And when she was left alone, when there was no one near to comfort or strengthen, a great silence fell upon her. For she indulged no stormy sorrow. Her grief waa a still rain, that fertilised and made fragrant her higher self. In her maiden heart she had had a dream of being crowned with bride flowers; and lo! it was rue and thyme gone to seed and dead primroses that garlanded her sad unspoken love. Bub she wore them with a sweeb brave submission, not affecting to disbelieve that time would surely heal Jove's aching pain. For. she knew that Goodness was omnipotent to save and to comfort, the Ineffable Name being in her. In the meantime, as the Lanhearnea sailed southward, Denas sailed eastward ; and in lees than a couple of weeks, almost half the circumference of the world was between the lives so strangely and sorrowfully brought together. Denaß landed in Liverpool early in the morning, and withoub delay she went to London. She had business with Elizabeth, and she felt constrained and restless until ib should be accomplished. She hesitated about going to the house in which she had spent with Roland so many happy and sorrowful days, but when she entered the cab, the direction to ib sprang naturally from her lips. And there wait already in her heart that tender fear,, thai she might jorget ; the fear that all who loved and lost have trembled to recognise ; the fear thab her sorrow might have an end, thab she might learn to dispense with what was once her life ; that a little vulgar existence, with its stated meals and regular dutiesand pretty pleasures would ever till the void in her love and life made by Roland's death. So Bhe tried, in the very place of her sweet bride-memories, to bring back the first passion of her widowed grief. She tried to fill the empty chair with Roland'a familiar form and tho silent space with his happy voice. Alas, other thoughts would intrude—considerations about Elizabeth's attitude, about her home, about her future. For ohe knew thab this part of her life was finished ; that nothing could ever bring back its conditions. They had been absolutely barren conditions. Her duties as a wife and mother were over. Her career as a singer was over. No single claim of friendship or interest from its past bound her. When sho had seen Elizabeth, theae last years of her being and doing would be a shut book. Nothing but her change of name, and perhaps a little money, v/ould remain to testify that Denas Penelles had ever been Denasia Tresham. Do as she svould, she could not keep these thoughts apart from her memories of her lover and her husband. She arrested her mind continually, and bade herself remember tho days of her gay bridal or else those two lonely graves far boyond the western sea; and then, ere she was aware, her memories of the past had become speculations about tho future. And she was obnshed by this arid, incurable egotism in the most secret place of her soul. She felt it discovering itself continually in her hard determination to make the best of things, she know that it was this feeling which was determined to close the death-chamber^ to deny all torturing memories—which said, in effect: ' What is finished is finished, and the dead are dead.' But the conflict wearied her almost to insensibility. Sho was also physically exhausted by travel, and the next day fho slopt profoundly until nearly the noon hour. It had been her intention to see Elizabeth in the morning, and she was provoked ac her own rcmissness, for what she feared in reality happened: Elizabeth wa3 out driving when sho reached her residence. The porter thoughb it would be six o'clock ere sho could receive any visitors, business or no business. Donna said sho would call at six o'clock, and charged tho man to tell her mistress so. Bub the visit and the engagemenb passed from the servant's mind. In fact, he had, as he claimed, a very genteel mind. Callers who came in a common cab did not find an entry into it. Elizabeth returned in due season from her drive, drank a cup of tea, and then made her evening toilet. For Lord Sudleigh was to dine with her, and Lord Sudleigh was the inosb important person in Elizabeth's life. It was her intention, as soon as she had paid the last tittle of mint, anise and cummin to Air Burrell's memory, to become Lady Sudleigh. Every one said ib was a most proper alliance—tho proposed bride having money and boauty, and the bridegroom-elect, birth, political influence and quite as much love as was necessary to aucb a matrimonial contract. Elizabeth, however, in spito of her pleasant prospect for the evening, was in a bad temper. The bishop's! wife had snubbed her in tho drive, and hor dressmaker had disappointed her in a new costume. The March wind also had reddened her face, and perhaps sho had a premonition of trouble which she did not care to investigate. When informed that there was a lady waiting to see hor on important business, sho simply elected to let her wait until her toilet was finished. She had a conviction that it was some officious patroness on a charity mission—somo one who wanted money for the good of other people. And as there are times when we all feel the claims of charity to be an unwarrantable imposition, so Elizabeth, blown about, sunbrownad, snubbed, disappointed and anxious about her lover, Wfts not on this particular occasion more to blame for want of courtesy than many others have been. Finally slio descended to the drawingroom and was ready to receive her visitor. There was a very large mirror in the room, and, pending her entrance, Elizabeth stood before it, noticing the eib and flow of her black-lace dress, its heliotrope ribbons and bhe sparkle of tho hidden jets upon the bodice. Some heliotrope bloseome were on hor breast, and her hands were covered with gloves of the'same delicate colour. Deuaesaw her thus—saw hor reflection in the glass before eho turned to confront 1)61* For a moment Elizabeth was puzzled. The white face amid its sombre, heavy draperies had a familiarity she strove to name but could nob. Bub aa Denasia came forward, some trick of head-carriage or of walking revealed her personality, and Elizabeth cried out in a kind of angry amazement: • Det-.ae ! You here ? ' 1 am no more " Denas " to you than you are "Elizabeth " to mo.' •Well, then, "Mra Tresham." And, pray, where is my brother?' 'Dead.' • Dead ! Dead ! Impossible ! And, if so, ib is your taulb—l know ifc is '. 1 had a letter fi'om him—the last letter. He eaid he was coming tome.' She was frightfully pale. Sho staggered to a sofa, sat down and covered her faco with hor gloved hands. Danasia stood by a tablo watching her emotion and half doubting its genuineness^. A silence followed, so doep and long Elizabeth could not endure ib. Sho stood up and looked at Denasia, reproach and accusation in every tone o.nd attitude. ' Where did he dio V she ashed. 'In New York.' •Of what did he die?' • Of pneumonia.' •Ib was your fault—l am sure of ib— ' your fault in some way ! My poor Roland !

He had left you—l know that j and I hoped everything for his future.' 'He had come back to me. He loved me better than ever. He died in my arms —died adoring me. His last work on earth was to give mo this list of property which I shall require you either to render back or to buy from me." Elizabeth knew well what was wanted, and her whole soul was in arms ab the demand. Yeb ib waa a perfectly just one. By hi? father's will Roland had been lefb certain pieces of valuable personal property family portraits and plate, two splendid —cabinets, old china, Chinese and Japanese carvings, many fine paintings, antique chairs, etc.—bhe whole being property which had either been long in the Tresham family or endeared to it by special causes, and therefore left personally to Roland, as the representative of the Treshams. Ab the breaking up of the Tresham home, after his father's death, Roland had been glad to leave these treasures in Elizabeth's care, nor, in his wandering life, had the idea of claiming them over come to him. As for their sale, that would have been an indignity to his ancestors below the contemplation of Roland. Fortunately, Mr Tresham's lawyer had insisted upon Mr3 Burrell giving Roland a list of the articles left in her charge and an acknowledgment of Roland's right to them. Life is so queer, and has so many queer turns,' he said,' that nothing can be left to likelihoods. Mrs Burrell is not likely to die, bub she may do so, and then there may be a new Mrs Burrell who may make trouble ; and I can conceive of many other complications which would render nugatory the intentions of the late Mr Tresham. The property must, bherefore, be set behind the bulwark of the law. Elizabeth herself had acknowledged thiß ' danger, and sho had done all that was required of her, in order to keep the Tresham family treasures within the keeping of the Treshams. She was now confronted with her own acknowledgement and agreemenb, or ab least with a copy of it, and she was well aware that it would be the greatest folly to deny the claim of Roland's wife. But the idea of robbing her beautiful home for Denafiia was very bitter to her. She glanced round tho room, and imagined the precious cabinets and china, tho curious carvings and tine paintings, taken away. And then the alternative —the money she would have to pay to Denasia if she retained them—came with equal force and clearness to her intelligence. • Mrs Tresham,' she said in a conciliating voice, ' these objects can be of no value to you.' ' Roland told me they were worth at least two thousand pounds—perhaps more. There is a picture of Turner's which of ' ' What do you know about Turner ? And can you really entertain the thought of selling things so precious to our family?' 4 Roland wished you bo buy them. If you do nob value them sufficiently to do so, why should I keep them? In my father's cottage thoy would be absurd.' ' Your father's cottage ! You are laughing at mo!' ' lam too sorrowful a woman to laugh. A few weeks ago if I had had only one of those pictures I would have sold it for a mouthful of broad, for a little coal to warm myself—for medicine to save my child's life or to easo his passage to the grave.' ' I had forgotten the child. Where is he?' 4 By his father's side.' 'That is well and best, doubt.les?.' 1 It is not well and ba«t! What do you know ? You havo never boon a mother. God never gave you such sorrowful grace.' ' We will return to the list, if you please. What do you propose to do ?' 'I havo spoken to a man in Baker-street, who deals in such things. If you wi&h to buy them, and will pay their fair value, I will soil them to you, because Roland desired you to have them. If you do nob wish to buy them or will not pay a fair price for them, 1 will remove them to Baker-street. There are others who will know their value.' '1 advanced Roland a great deal of money.' 'You gave him ib. You demanded and accepted his thanks. The nums all told would nob pay for the use of tho property,' 'I shall do right, of course. Bring the man you have spoken of to-morrow afternoon, and I also will havo an expert of the same kind. I will pay you whatever they decide is a proper sum.' 1 That will satisfy me.' 41 am sorry aflairs have come to thi3 point between us. I tried to be kind to you. I think you have been very ungrateful.' ' You were kind only to yourself. You were never afavourito in Sb. Penfer. Other ladiea did nob often call upon you. In mo you had a companionship which you could control. You had your sewing done for next to nothing. You had the news or the town brought ibo you. You played upon my restlessdisposiUon, my love of fine clothing, my ambition to be some one greater than Donas Penelles ; and as soon as good fortune came to you, and you hnd everything you desired, you found hie a bore, a claimant on your eonse of justice which you did not like to meet. Understand that the fact of wearing silk and jewellery does nob give you the ri^'ht to take up an immortal fjonl and play with it or cast it aside as you find ib convenient. I owe you the deepest; grudge. You mado mo dissatisfied with my own life, you showed me the pleasant vistas of a different life, and when I hoped to enter with you, I found myself outsido an-I tho door shut in my lace. You havo always tried to make Roland dissatisfied with mo. You insinuated, you deplored, in every letter to him. You stabbed, while you pretended to kiss me. I found you out long ago ? Every one finds you out. You never had a friend ! You never will havo ono !' Sho spoke with that pitiless scorn which is fcho language of suppressed passion. Elizabeth only lifted her eyebrows and turned nway from her. And Denasia know that frha hatt made a mistake, and yeb she did nob regret it. There are times when ib is n relief to be angry, whether wo do well to be so or nob ; when to lo«o the temper is better than to keep it. Of cour?o there are great and benufciful souls with whom nothing turns to bitterness ; bub bhe soul of Donasia wa% nob one of fche<*e. Ib had boen born ready to feel and ready to speak, nnd regarding it as something of a virtue to do so. (To be Continued.)