THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER
THE parish of St. Elvis had been richly endowed by different testators
belonging to the county, who at various times had left part of their
wealth to be laid out in specified charities; and as Miss Silexa was
the almoner of the Rectory, much of the money passed through her hands.
She took care to dispense the benefits only where they were deserved
and actually needed, thereby at times giving great offence to some of
the farmers and others, who considered they had as much right to the
dole of bread and clothing as their poorer neighbours.
But she held her ground with so much independent spirit and true
kindliness, that there were few who did not submit to her sway with
grateful contentment.
Her store-room was a sight; for not only did it contain food and
clothing, but medicines, herbs, healing ointments, and cordials.
Dr. Llewellyn, whose acquaintance we made in Mrs. Gwynne's cottage,
called her his assistant-surgeon, for well could he rely on her prompt
attention and unfailing nerve in cases of emergency, when others would
shrink from the sight of suffering.
Silexa rose into her noblest self on these occasions, for, stern and
unflinching though she was where duty was concerned, she was a true
woman at heart, full of tenderness and sympathy.
Monday was her busiest day in all the week, and to-day there was an
unusual press of pensioners at the back door. Molly sung gaily at the
scullery pump, as she pared her potatoes; and Old Dinah was clinking
about on her pattens with pail and broom.
The rain streamed off the roof with a spluttering sound into the
gutter, and there was a lowing of cattle in the sheds across the yard.
The cocks and hens clucked and strutted up and down, pecking and
scratching, and claiming a right of way over the threshold, to continue
their researches for scraps on the lime-ash floor of the kitchen.
These border raids were occasionally disturbed by a loud swish from
Miss Silexa, and they fluttered out with resentful clucks and a
scuffling rush, to join the delighted ducks, who found countless
puddles wherein to disport themselves.
The mistress was seated on a low stool by the kitchen hearth amid
flying feathers, for she was busy plucking a goose, which seemed an
endless labour, as she was interrupted every five minutes by some one
knocking.
"Come in, Bessie Thomas," she cried; "I can't be for ever on the flit
to and fro the door; be quick and tell your errand, for I have no time
to waste."
"If you please, ma'am," began the woman thus admonished, "I've come up
to say Lewis, Lewis' wife had twins this morning, and she's sent up to
know if you will let her have another square of flannel and some more
baby clothes, as we're driven up short."
"How provoking!" Silexa ejaculated. "As if there were not enough babies
in the world without extra ones. Such a thriftless body I never knew in
all my days, always living from hand to mouth, never anything ready or
laid by, and her man earns as good a wage as any in St. Elvis."
"She's a weakly poor soul," interrupted the woman, "and eight
children's a hard handful."
"Ay, but," rejoined Silexa, "that's no excuse for idleness and want
of forethought. Folks don't deserve to be helped who won't help
themselves."
Yet, notwithstanding this severe sentence, the store-room keys were
already jingling in Miss Silexa's hand. And the woman was soon laden
with a good-sized bundle, and a can of hot soup for the little ones,
with orders to come for more as long as the mother was laid aside.
Meantime, a hungry-eyed girl stood waiting her turn.
"Please, Miss Pryse, Annie's worse, and mother can't get her to eat
nothing."
"And that's no wonder," said Silexa sharply, "considering the dirt and
rags the child is kept in. Your mother ought to be ashamed of herself,
keeping her house like a pigsty, and not even a clean seat for me to
sit down on the last time I called. What is your father? He always
takes care to keep out of my road, but I saw him slinking out of 'The
Jolly Sailors' on Saturday night, and that's where all his money goes,
and Annie and all the rest of you may starve for aught he cares. Come
down at one o'clock, and there'll be a pudding for Annie. And see that
you wash your face and hands before you show yourself here again, and
tell mother I'll step up towards evening."
And so the petitioners came and went.
Miss Silexa prescribed and scolded alternately, packing up food and
medicine, and giving homely advice where it was sought, and words and
smiles of encouragement to the hard-working and industrious, who seemed
to gain fresh zest for their labours by seeing her ever brisk and busy
as a bee. Thus, the morning hours sped away.
Eudora's dreamy eyes often peeped round the corner leading to the
kitchen, trying in vain to secure a moment's attention from her busy
aunt, or a word of explanation concerning the sampler she had been
stooping over at the study window.
"It's no use, grandfather," she said at last, with a little sigh; "it's
all wrong, and Aunt Silexa always sends me away. I wish people never
made these horrid things. I don't like writing my name with a needle
and thread at all, and these ugly flowers are not a bit like the ones
that grow in our garden. I wish it would stop raining, that I might go
down to Lettice."
"Eh, my little love! What is it you are prattling about?" said her
grandfather, who had been deaf to her short soliloquy, buried in his
books and writing. "Has the boy been down with the letters yet?"
"No, grandfather, but I'll watch for him." And the child set herself to
count the beaded drops of rain that collected along the woodwork window
and dripped on the sill below.
The postal arrangements in St. Elvis were most primitive, for the
mail-cart, besides bringing the letters from the nearest town, sixteen
miles off, had baskets and parcels stowed away under its box; for the
crazy old coach ran only once a week.
These were the only regular means of inland communication with the
world that the inhabitants of the village had at their command. So it
came to pass that the arrival of the mail was never very exact. After
the letters were sorted in the village shop, they were entrusted to an
honest farmer-lad who delivered them at the various houses.
To-day he was later than usual. But at last, Eudora caught sight of
Dick's rosy face appearing round the laurel hedge, and she ran out to
receive the two letters he held in his hand.
Her grandfather quivered and grew white as he broke the seal of
one, and a mist came before the dim eyes when he read the following
communication—
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—I lose no time in forwarding to you news which
I am sure will do something towards lessening a grief of many years'
standing. This morning I received a mysterious packet in an unknown
hand, enclosing bank notes to the amount of £200, with the word
'Restitution' written inside. All means by which I might trace this
have been carefully concealed.
"Can you suggest a solution of the mystery?
"I need not add how greatly I rejoice with my valued friend that the
blot on the family honour is at last wiped away. My hope and trust
now is that the self-banished prodigal may some day be restored to
his father. I will spare no pains in seeking to ascertain the clue to
this, but the seal of secrecy is always hard to break. I am, yours most
faithfully,—
"WILLIAM LYNDWOOD."
The child watched with a frightened interest the effect of the letter,
as her grandfather perused each line again and again in a vacant way,
as if he could not take in its meaning. Seeing him at length sink back
in the chair in a faint, she summoned her aunt from the kitchen by a
sharp cry.
His daughter was at his side in a moment, and Eudora was hastily put
out of the room and the door closed upon her, so she ran off to relate
the scene to her chief confidante, Molly, who in her turn wondered what
had come over master.
But when the mistress appeared again in the kitchen an hour afterwards
to dish up the dinner, she betrayed no sign that would give any clue to
curiosity, either in face or manner, and Molly's sidelong glances were
met by a steady look from the grey eyes, which the girl interpreted as
meaning "Mind your own business."
Outside, the heavy rain-clouds were lifting, and a glint of golden
sunshine lighted up the shining laurels. And as Eudora went softly to
fetch her grandfather in to dinner, she saw a happy smile on his face,
that somehow seemed strange to the wondering child, who unconsciously
always associated sadness and dolour with his worn though kindly
features.
"May I go to Porthmynwr, Aunt Silexa?" was the request timidly
proffered at the conclusion of the meal.
"Yes, if you keep on the high road and don't get wet."
This permission was joyously hailed by the child, who, duly defended
in cloak and clogs, set out for the cottage. The mile of road was
soon traversed, and Lettice heard the little feet come trotting up
the causeway, and rose to open the door and welcome her pet. Baby was
standing holding on to the bar of a chair, looking very proud of her
achievement, but she tottered forward with a sunny smile into Eudora's
open arms.
"Come, and let me feel if your feet are wet, my little one," said the
motherly Lettice, taking the child on her lap. "Davie will be back at
four o'clock, and you can have a nice play, and I'll take you home
myself by and by."
There was something about Lettice that made children run to her like
chickens to the sheltering wing of the mother-hen. She neither scared
nor spoiled them, and a word or look from her was sufficient at all
times for rule and discipline. She was quite as important in her sphere
as Miss Silexa in hers, and her life was fully as busy, though it
flowed more quietly and evenly.
She was often summoned to scenes of sickness, and her gentle presence
always seemed to soothe the sufferer. Not only did she possess much
knowledge and skill in simple remedies, but she ever carried with her
the healing balm of Gilead for sin-sick souls. She loved to tell them
of the Good Physician and tender Shepherd "who came to seek and to
save that which was lost", and was one of the few to be found among
either gentle or simple who sacrifice themselves for the good of others
without knowing that it "is" a sacrifice. Her cheek often paled with
the weariness of a long night-watch by the bedside of a neighbour, but
she never complained, and was quite as ready to do it when asked again,
even though the fatigue must follow a hard day's toil, for she had to
earn her own living, and her store was scanty enough sometimes.
She was like a bit of warm sunshine to Eudora's timid heart. And since
the child had grown big enough to go down by herself to Porthmynwr,
Lettice had seen much more of her, and did her utmost to disperse the
unchildlike gravity that almost always rested upon the pale little face.
"Mrs. Gwynne," said Eudora, hiding her face on the good woman's bosom,
"please, do the white ghosts walk about in the churchyard when it's
dark? Dinah told Molly so, and I'm so frightened."
"My poor little dove! And that is what they have been scaring you with,
is it? I wondered what made you so white yesterday. What a shame!"
murmured Lettice indignantly, as she took off the child's bonnet and
tenderly stroked her hair. "No, my lamb; don't you ever listen to such
tales again, for they're not true. I'll tell you something better to
think about. Do you remember the snowdrops and crocuses and lilies that
your Aunt, Miss Silexa, plants in the garden?"
Eudora nodded.
"Well, they are not pretty flowers when she puts them into the ground,
but only hard, dry roots, so she covers them up with soft warm earth,
and then the snow and rain come down, and they keep so still and quiet
all the winter. In the spring, the kind, bright sun shines down, warms
the earth, and the little flowers begin to show their bright eyes, and
grow beautiful day by day, and when you see them you clap your hands
and say, 'Spring is come! The flowers are here.'"
"Yes," said Eudora, becoming interested, "and I put some always in my
own garden."
"My dear little lady," continued Lettice, "the churchyard is called
God's garden; and when those who love Jesus die, their spirits go to
heaven, and their bodies are laid to sleep in the quiet grassy grave,
and angels keep watch over them. Some day, when Jesus comes again and
calls them, they will rise up out of the dark earth like the flowers,
and He will put them on a glorious body that shall never die any more,
and they will live for ever and ever with Him."
"Will Jesus take care of 'me' when I go to sleep in the churchyard?"
asked Eudora earnestly.
"Yes, my darling, if you will be one of His lambs now and love Him."
A new revelation seemed dawning across the child's face as she looked
up and listened. Lettice paused, for she saw the little mind was
grappling with a difficulty.
"But then," added Eudora slowly, and as if thinking out each word, "why
do they put such big heavy stones upon some of the graves, because the
poor people under them won't be able to rise up quickly when Jesus
comes, will they?"
This was a thing evidently hitherto undreamt of in Mrs. Gwynne's
philosophy, and for a moment the good woman was fairly baffled. But the
next instant, the words of Scripture came to her aid, and she replied,
"When Jesus our Saviour lay in the tomb, God sent a shining angel to
roll away the stone; and He will do the same when He calls His people
to come out of their graves."
Eudora seemed much relieved, but presently shook her head, and said
very decidedly—
"But I would rather have a grave with only daisies on it, like little
Ruth's. Don't cry," she added coaxingly, putting up her small hand to
stay the tear that was finding a course down the careworn cheek. "Tell
me some more. I want to see Jesus, and ask Him to love me. Can I speak
to Him now?"
"Oh yes, quite easily," answered Lettice, smiling through her tears;
"and He will be sure to hear, because He is everywhere, and you have
only to shut your eyes and pray,—
"'Lord Jesus, make me one of Thy little lambs; give me Thy Holy Spirit,
and wash me in Thy precious blood, and I shall be whiter than snow.'
"Let me hear if you can say it."
So Eudora said it with her little hands folded.
And Lettice continued: "Be sure, my dear, He 'will' love you, for He
says now, as He said on earth,—
"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.'"
Lettice then kissed the child, and set her down off her knee to go
after baby, who had scrambled away on a voyage of discovery out of
sight behind the cupboard-bed.
Eudora took her accustomed seat on the low stool by the fire, quite
ready to nurse and rock her to sleep, while Lettice tidied up the room
and got ready for tea. Presently, with a merry whistle, David ran in
from school, and the games by the old chest were carried on with great
spirit, while Eudora's cheeks grew rosy, and her eyes sparkled. She was
a happy child again.
Lettice led her home in the twilight, and as they passed the quiet
churchyard, Eudora did not shiver with her usual nervous dread, but
looked at the deepening shadows there, and thought about "God's
garden," and the angels keeping watch above the quiet graves.
It had been a relief to Miss Silexa to get rid of the child, for since
the arrival of the agitating letter in the morning, a restraint had to
be put on words and looks. The secrets of the Rectory were jealously
guarded; and though the villagers knew much of the sad past, and had
embellished facts with an extra amount of fiction, yet they did not
know all. They were obliged to content themselves with vague guesses at
the truth, while Miss Silexa carefully fenced every outlet for gossip,
and found silence her best security.
Molly retailed her account of the reception of the letter as given her
by Eudora. And this was repeated from mouth to mouth, until it grew
into the most wonderful story, and the whole village was agog.
Many pairs of eyes watched Miss Silexa come out from the Rectory gate
in the afternoon. But the expression on her face was unsatisfactory in
its stoicism, as it suggested nothing to elucidate Molly's whisper. The
good lady looked as usual, and walked steadily on to the post-office,
where she slipped a letter into the box, and calmly resumed her walk.
The gape-seat of the village was an ancient stone cross in the centre
of the principal street. On its time-worn steps, both in summer and
winter, a group of idlers of both sexes might generally be seen ready
to discuss with a will any event that had happened in their own or more
distant neighbourhoods, or to chatter over things that concerned or did
not concern them.
"I reckon that letter could tell us something," said the first speaker;
"'tis not often Miss Silexa writes one herself."
"Maybe they've heard some news of the young master," suggested a
second, "as the old gentleman took on so."
"Not likely," interposed a third, "unless, indeed, he's dead, which
for certain is the truth, for its twelve years this fall since he went
away. Don't you mind how old Dick Howell said three months ago, when he
was up on the hill one moonlight night to watch for the ghost-funerals,
he saw one come out from the Rectory gate as plainly as I see my hand
afore my face? He counted six carriages and a hearse, and the horses
were black."
"Ay, ay," nodded the gossips, while one and another produced the
small stocks of facts they had to build upon, which had been added to
from time to time, and served up again and again as a savoury dish of
scandal.
But Miss Silexa upheld the honour of the Rectory by her silence, and
never once stooped to sift the stories that sometimes reached her by
a side-wind and those who had been foremost in circulating them would
slink away abashed if confronted by her steady eye. She asked no
sympathy, for she did not believe in it.
"'Cause every man to go out from me,'" was the cry of her spirit, as
she sought where to weep and bury her sorrow out of sight. She had
dropped her treasures one by one into a sullen sea, and could not find
them again, for, "He alone never loseth what is dear to him, to whom
all things are dear in Him who is never lost." ¹
¹ St. Augustine.