THE LOCKET SET IN PEARLS
THE sun shone bright and warm, as Miss Pryse stepped briskly down
through the pasturelands of the valley towards Porthmynwr.
People hardly ever went this way, because a good firm road ran parallel
to it on a higher level, but Silexa chose it because she wished for
solitude. Already scattered groups of twos and threes were setting
out on their search of inquiry from St. Elvis, and she cared not for
further talk concerning the wreck until she had sifted the subject for
herself. It stirred thoughts within her that made her heart ache with a
keen pang, and in this bitterness no stranger might intermeddle. So the
stream was her only companion, and the murmur of its sweet solo, softly
breaking the silence around, suited well her present frame of mind.
Sunbeams following upon showers robed the meadows with an emerald
sheen, and the balmy air and quiet heavens told no tale of the previous
hurricane. Some long-horned black cattle, standing about in the
hollows, lifted their heads for a stare of dumb surprise at the lonely
figure, and then resumed their grazing.
At length, rounding the bend of the hill, Miss Silexa saw the sea,
stretching out in a long sweep of blue across the horizon, smooth and
still.
To her there was no beauty in the sea. For her, in "the laying bare
of sands, when tides retreat," there was no subtle charm, and her
ears distinguished not the chant of the wave-choir from rocky cavern
depths. The soundings of the sea spoke to her of sorrow and death, and
therefore she never sought the shore from choice.
Those waters in their immensity never reminded her of the measureless
love of her Father in Christ, because she had never lost herself in its
depths.
With reverent fear she worshipped Jehovah, as the omnipresent,
omniscient One; and she beheld afar off the Son of His love as the
Saviour of sinners, on whom all hopes of salvation must rest in death.
But of the believing touch of the garment's sacred hem, and the receipt
of healing virtue in herself for the new life on "this" side the grave,
she knew nothing. Therefore life to her was a strange complexity, an
unravelling of dark threads, a steep hill to be climbed, while clasping
duty as the only way by which to reach the appointed goal.
Her life lesson had been hard and bitter, and she had not learned its
meaning yet.
The pierced Hand must uplift the curtain, behind which lie hidden God's
mysteries of love; the scales must fall from the eyes, before the
joyful fact can be chronicled, "Whereas I was blind, now I see."
Silexa marched on, musing sadly, until the little brook parted company
by suddenly slipping under a fiat stone bridge, and mingling beyond it
with the waters, which now lapped lazily against the boundary wall of
the cottage.
Beyond the jetty, there was a heaving groundswell, causing all the
boats at anchor to sway and swing against their moorings in noisy play.
The sun shone brightly on torn and flapping sails and outspread nets,
and on the hideous hulks, making their black, wet sides glisten in the
glow of morning.
The door of Mrs. Gwynne's cottage stood open, and some people who were
talking in knots moved aside to leave space for Silexa to pass.
The usual greetings in Welsh were exchanged as she went by, but no one
followed her over the threshold.
The sound of the baby's cry made her stop for an instant. But Lettice,
catching sight of her, came forward quickly; and her calm peaceful face
brightened into a smile as the eyes of the two women met.
"Ah, Miss Pryse, I'm right glad you've come. I was thinking I had best
step up to the Rectory, but did not see how I could leave until—the
inquest, you know," she added, with a sad look towards the inner door.
"No, of course you could not," said Silexa decisively. "That is why I
came, but I cannot talk against the screaming of that baby. Poor little
thing! It is a pity it survived its mother, for life is a stormier sea
than the one it was saved from."
David was seated on a low stool beside the hearth, his round rosy face
wearing an expression of subdued happiness as he rocked the little
orphan to and fro, and pressed the tiny face to his own, to stifle the
persistent cries that grew more piteous every instant.
Lettice turned towards the old chest in the corner, and a tear fell on
the small flannel hood she took out.
"Carry her towards the jetty, Davie, and mind you keep the shawl well
round her," she added, taking the baby from him to wrap her up tenderly
in hood and plaid.
"Yes, mother," said Davie, stepping out with his precious burden in his
arms and a glad smile on his face. Baby's cries grew more distant every
minute.
"That will be better," said Miss Pryse, seating herself on the settle.
"Now, Lettice, how did it all happen?"
"Indeed and indeed, I can scarcely say, Miss Silexa. There was no
lifeboat, as you know to put off to save the poor creatures, and more's
the pity for a place like St. Elvis. Father and his mates say there
never has been such a wreck in these parts. To watch the signals of
distress, and see the poor creatures go down, without being able to
stretch a hand to save them; oh, it must have been awful! And the dear
little babe, who can tell us nothing, is the only one saved."
"The child must go to the parish," said Silexa abruptly.
"Never, Miss Pryse, as long as I am spared to her! The Lord has taken
my own little lamb to Himself, and she is well off there, though it was
hard to look into the empty cradle. Perhaps it was to make room in my
heart for the motherless babe now drawn from the waters. Anyway I hear
the voice saying plainly to me, 'Take this child and nurse it for me,
and I will give thee thy wages.'"
"I call that blindly trusting in Providence, Lettice. Why, you cannot
afford to keep your own boy without help. By the way, if you 'do'
burden yourself with the baby, she is as much entitled to be on Lady
Ermyn Brande's fund as David is."
"True, I did not think of that," said Lettice; "indeed, so she is, for
the mother is drowned, and most likely the father too. But even if the
trustees refuse to give her the grant, I am not afraid to trust to the
promise, 'The Lord will provide,' for I have never found it fail me
yet, never, not in my darkest days."
Miss Pryse was silent, but her heart's musings ran thus: "A dead sorrow
is better than a living one, and if both burdens are laid upon one
back, it cannot be borne without staggering under the load. When the
future is a blank, with no cheer in prospect, how can one trust and be
thankful? ''Tis our lot, and we must bear it like oxen at the plough.'
"Well, Lettice," she added aloud, "you see I can't take the child, for
Eudora is enough to provide for and look after. But I will help you all
I can, and stand godmother to the babe at her baptism, which had better
take place on Sunday, after the funeral."
"As you think best, Miss Pryse, but what name shall we give her? She
may have been baptized already, for anything we know. See, this is the
locket I took off the body last night; perhaps you can tell what the
letters are across the hair."
Miss Pryse examined the monogram carefully, and her fingers trembled
visibly as she said—
"It is a double E, Lettice. You must give the child a name beginning
with E. Better call her after Dame Ermyn Brande, as she will be one of
her orphans."
Before Lettice could reply, a shadow darkened the doorway, and the
village doctor stepped in.
"I have not had a minute to come before," said he. "Called to a sudden
case ten miles off. Very sad news this, Miss Pryse; ship went down like
a stone, I hear. Several bodies washed in farther down the coast since.
It is supposed to be a ship from Liverpool bound for Ireland. So you've
got the poor baby, Lettice. Well, it has drifted into a mother's arms,
at any rate," he added, as Lettice, opening the door into the inner
room, signed for the doctor and Miss Pryse to enter.
The calm dignity on the sweet face disclosed to view made the doctor
pause in his speech for a few minutes, and they looked in silence.
"A strange, sad mystery," he said, at length, "which will be buried
with the quiet dead. Is there no other trace?—No letters, or papers?"
"Nothing but this locket," said Lettice; "I was just showing it to Miss
Pryse. Stay," she added, "I was forgetting the little shirt I took off
the baby when she was brought in dripping wet," and Lettice ran quickly
to the hearth where the tiny garment hung.
The mark was eagerly sought, but though material and work were of the
finest quality, not even a single letter was discernible. While Silexa
searched, she felt conscious of a mist before her eyes.
And she turned back alone once more into the inner chamber before the
tears had time to gather and fall. What made her bend over the quiet
sleeper and impress a kiss on the smooth brow? She could not tell why
she did it, and almost surprised herself by the suddenness of the
action. This dead stranger was nothing to "her." Why should her heart
be moved towards her, and a yearning pity take the place of frigid
sternness? That kiss was her seal to one of God's beatitudes, though
she knew it not.
"I am a fool!" she muttered, half aloud, as the cessation of voices in
the next room recalled her to herself.
She found Lettice alone and the doctor gone.
Meantime, David had staggered along with baby over the rough path past
the limekiln, in the direction of the jetty. The brilliant sunshine
made her blink, and she stopped suddenly short in her screaming, to
stare with wondering eyes on the masts and rigging against the blue sky.
"Davie's darling!" murmured the boy, kissing away the large tear-drops
that rested on the little face.
And baby stretched out both arms and gave such a sudden jump that he
well-nigh lost his balance. But he held on tight, and in spite of the
fresh sea-breeze that seemed to dispute possession with him by blowing
the corners of the shawl about, he climbed over the last bit of rock
with her, and stepped on the level jetty, finally seating himself on a
bit of timber, where he could look over the wall out to sea.
"Hulloa, Davie!" cried a sailor. "What's that you've got?"
"It's our baby," said Davie, getting very red at the thought that
perhaps some one else might claim her. "Our very own—mother said so—and
you'd best not come too near her, or she'll cry ever so again."
"Why, Jem," said a comrade, "that's the very one Old Roger cut from the
spar and wrapped in the net. Bless her little heart! Let us come and
have a look at her."
And a group of men soon collected round the children.
One and another bent down, and tenderly touched the waxen fingers, and
ventured to kiss the little face. But when a pair of brawny arms were
stretched out to take her, she hid her face in David's breast, and
would have cried if he had not quickly changed the game to Bo-peep.
At this moment, Old Roger Rudd was climbing up the slippery steps from
one of his boats, and came suddenly on the scene unperceived by all but
baby, who began to struggle in Davie's arms.
It may have been the old man's fancy, but he thought she knew him, and
stretching out his arms to her, he cried, "Come to granddad, my beauty!"
And baby went with a happy smile, and from that hour the hearts of Old
Roger and his mates were hers for ever, and she took possession of
Porthmynwr in her own right like a little queen.