A Singer from the Sea

by Amelia E. Barr

“Here beginneth the sea, That ends not till the world ends,”

thrilled the great ship’s cabins from end to end. The captain was within the door before the first verse was finished. There was a crowd at the doors; 228 all the servants in the lower saloon had ceased work to listen. Song after song was called for. Perhaps, indeed, Denasia had a sweeter taste of her power that night than she had ever felt in halls crowded with strangers who had paid a shilling to be amused by her.

The listener most interested in this performance said the least at the time; but he never took his eyes off the singer, and his private decision was, “That young woman is a public singer. Her voice has not been trained for parlours; she has been used to fling its volume through the larger space of halls or theatres. I must look after her.” He approached Roland the next day and spoke in guarded terms about Mrs. Tresham’s voice. Roland was easily induced to talk, and the result was an offer which was really––if they had known it––the open door to fortune. But it is the fatality of the unlucky to have the spirit of recklessness in their veins and the weakness of prudence in their hearts. Instead of letting events guide them, they have the presumption to think they can guide events. Roland received the offer coolly, and said he would consult Mrs. Tresham on the matter. But, instead of consulting with his wife, he dictated to her after the fashion of the suspicious:

“This man is the manager of a company, I think. He is very anxious for you to sign an agreement. His offer appears to be good, but we know nothing of affairs in New York; it may be a very poor offer. If you have made such an impression on him, you may make a much more pronounced one on others. 229 We will not think of this proposal at all, except as the straw which shows us what a great wind is going to blow.”

Denasia was extremely opposed to this view. She quoted the old proverb of “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” She said it would be a sure living during the time they were learning the new country and its opportunities. She begged Roland to let her accept the offer. When he refused, she said that they would live to regret the folly.

The manager thought so also. “For you must understand,” he said to Roland, “that I was desirous to engage Mrs. Tresham, not for what she is––which is ordinary––but for the possible extraordinary I see in her if she could have the proper advantages and influences.” With the words he bowed a little sarcastically to Mrs. Tresham’s husband, and afterward spoke no more to him. And then there came to the foolish young man that sudden chill and foreboding which a despised opportunity leaves behind it.

But whether we do wisely or foolishly, the business of life must be carried on. They were at the point of landing, and for some days the strange experiences of their new life occupied every moment and every feeling. Then came a long spell of hot weather, such heat as Denasia had never dreamed of. Roland, who had been in Southern Europe, could endure it better; as for Denasia, she lay prostrate with but one idea in her heart––the cool coverts of the Cornish undercliff and the trinkling springs 230 where the blue-bells and the forget-me-nots grew so thickly.

Yet it was necessary that something should be done, and through the blazing heat, day after day, the poor girl was dragged to agencies and managers. But she found no one to make her such an offer as the one so foolishly declined. And the time wore on, and the money in their purse grew less and less, and a kind of desperation made both silent and irritable. Finally an engagement to go “on the road” was secured, and Roland affected to be delighted with it. “We shall see the whole country,” he said, “and we can keep our eyes open for something better.”

Denasia sighed. Disappointment and a sense of wrong and grievous mistake filled her heart and sat upon her face. She submitted as to an irreparable injury, and left New York without the least enthusiasm. “Good fortune knocked at our door,” she said, “and we had not intelligence enough to let him in.” This was all the reproach she gave her husband, and as she said “we” he accepted her generous self-accusation, and finally convinced himself that it was entirely Denasia’s fault that the offer was refused. “But then I do not blame you, Denasia,” he remarked magnanimously; “you had every right to consider yourself worthy of a larger salary.”

They left New York in September and went slowly West. Denasia had a fine physique, but it was not a physique trained to the special labour it had to endure: long days in hot railway cars; hurry and worry at every performance; no seclusion, no time 231 for study; no time to acknowledge headache or weariness; a score of little humiliations and wrongs; a constant irritability at Roland’s apparent indifference to her wretchedness and apparent satisfaction with the company and life into which he was thrown. The men, indeed, all seemed satisfied. They had cigars to smoke, and they told stories and played cards, and so beguiled the weary hours of travel. The women were headachy and tired; they soon threw aside their paper novels and confidential talks. Some of the very young ones––pretty, wilful, inexperienced girls, not yet disillusioned, not yet weary––added flirtation to their amusements. It pained Denasia to see Roland a willing aid to their foolish pastime. She had no fear that her husband would wrong her, but the pretence pained and humbled her.