THE TREASURE CLAIMED
DAVID GWYNNE walked slowly back to his home; his mother met him at the
door.
"Davie, did you see the stranger in church?" she said.
"What stranger, mother?"
"Why, the artist that came here last year so shabbily dressed, and took
Ermyn's picture. What is he here again for? And why did he leave the
church before service was over?"
"Mother, a great secret has come out to-day; there is joy at the
Rectory. The prodigal has returned to his father's house; your stranger
is the lost son, Mr. Edward Pryse."
When David saw his mother's white and troubled countenance, he was
sorry he had made the announcement so hastily.
"Edward Pryse!" she ejaculated, lifting up her hands. "Davie, you are
dreaming; it cannot be."
"Go up to the Rectory, mother dear, and see for yourself. You will
find a rejoicing going on there, such as is never made except over a
recovered treasure. I expect the good news is all over the town by this
time. Ermyn!" he called. "Come here quickly; we have something to tell
you."
"What is it, Davie?" cried she, appearing from the inner room.
"Why, they are all so happy up at the Rectory; Mr. Edward Pryse has
come back."
"Has he? When? Oh, I want to see him so much. I wonder what he is like."
"You have seen him, Ermyn; he took your likeness last summer, and he
was in church to-day, sitting very near you."
"Davie! No, you cannot mean it; it is just one of your jokes. It is not
really true? That sad-looking man Miss Silexa's brother! Impossible!"
"You will know more about it to-morrow," laughed David, little dreaming
that in his words lay the seed of a revelation that would spring up the
next day to bear bitter fruit for Lettice.
"Oh, I am very glad!" rejoined Ermyn. "What does Dora say to it all?
This is indeed a happy day for St. Elvis. That heavy grief has been
lifted off at last."
Lettice heard her children talking, and discussing the joyful event in
all its details, but she could not remain long in the same room with
them. Her heart was fluttering like a bird trying to get free.
The meaning of that sobbing groan in church was explained now. That
flash of instinct had been a true one, the day she had walked beside
him to the churchyard, and fancied those piercing brown eyes were like
Edward's. She could interpret now those sad, averted looks, and that
abstracted manner. And oh, how heedlessly she had run on, telling him
his own sad history. What a simple fool she had been!
Then came another thought that hung like a millstone round her neck,
threatening to drag her down with its sudden weight. His eyes were like
Ermyn's. What had the sight of the child so agitated him? Had he power
to take her darling from her? No, no, that could not be. He did not
even know of the wreck until she informed him of it.
She could not tell Ermyn or David of her terror. God grant that her
fears were groundless! She would pray over it.
"Thou art a refuge for the oppressed," she cried; "a refuge in times of
trouble."
But the fear haunted her all the evening; she could not put it from
her, and was grave and silent.
The following morning all St. Elvis and Porthmynwr rang with the good
news.
"Master Edward has come home," echoed from lip to lip; "only to think
the good parson has got his son again! Indeed and indeed he has!"
"We knew he would come some day," nodded the gossips; "there have been
signs in plenty about it, for those who had eyes to see them, and who
believe in such things."
Ermyn ran off to rejoice with Eudora, and David went to his parish work.
Only Lettice sat still in the house. She heard footsteps coming up
the causeway. It was surely Miss Silexa's voice; and Lettice looked
out to see her coming towards the cottage, leaning on the arm of the
mysterious stranger.
"Forgive me, Lettice," said he, in a tremor of agitation, as he held
out his hand; "it was wrong of me to deceive you, but thank God for all
you were to me that day, I was so lonely and miserable."
Silexa's manner was more tender than Lettice had ever known it. There
was a calm, deep joy in the eyes of the rector's daughter. But Mrs.
Gwynne thought she also detected a keen pity, which made her fear what
was coming next.
"Where is Ermyn?" said Silexa gently; and Lettice saw tears gathering
in her eyes.
"I have not seen her since breakfast," replied Lettice, in an unsteady
voice. "She was going first to the Rectory, and then to see Mrs.
Llewellyn."
"We are glad she is not here now, Lettice," said Edward, laying his
hand on Mrs. Gwynne's arm. "Lettice, my sister tells me you have a
locket in safe keeping. Will you show it to me? It is a gold one set
round with pearls. I gave it to Ethel my wife when I left her to go to
America. Our initials are worked across the hair. My good, kind friend,
you have been a mother to my child. God bless you for it!"
Lettice could not answer; she bowed her head in her hands and wept
bitterly.
Silexa knelt beside her and put an arm tenderly round her.
"I knew it," sobbed Lettice. "I knew last night you would come to-day
and take away my darling."
The brother and sister glanced at each other. Silexa had only seen her
look like that once, when the dead baby Ruth lay upon her knees. They
both felt how hard it was for the poor woman, after having nurtured and
brought up the child as her own, suddenly to be called on to give her
up. But the unselfish heart of Lettice soon recovered its balance.
"How wrong I am!" she murmured. "How selfish and cruel!" As rising, she
left the room to fetch the locket.
When she returned, God's peace was once more visible on her chastened
face.
"Here it is," she said. "No eye has seen it but mine since the day I
locked it away; and there is the little shirt laid in the box beside
it. There was nothing else."
Edward put his hand into his breast-pocket, and producing the tiny
half-finished garment he had discovered in Ethel's workbox, gave it
to Lettice. The two women saw at a glance the same hand had made both
shirts, for the pattern was the same, and there was a fancy-stitching
across the sleeves of each that corresponded to a thread.
Edward then repeated the tale that Silexa had sat up so late the night
before to hear, of his wanderings and return, the search for Ethel's
child, and the chain of evidences that had grown so wonderfully out of
each discovery.
"Ermyn is your child without a doubt," said Lettice calmly, when he had
concluded. "I thank God for giving her to me to nurse and take care
of for you all these years. 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken
away,'" she added, with a sob.
"We shall never forget that you have been a mother to her," said the
brother and sister in one breath; "and I am sure Ermyn will always feel
the same."
"Lettice," continued Silexa, "listen! Please do not turn away with
such a sad, hopeless look. My brother is longing to clasp his child in
his arms, and I yearn to hear her call me 'auntie.' But we have quite
decided that no one shall tell her anything until you have informed
her yourself of her past history, and how it was you came to be such a
good, kind mother to her."
"Thank you both for that," said Lettice, smiling through her tears.
"You shall not wait long for your joy. I will bring her to the Rectory
this afternoon. How kind you are to me! It will not be so hard to give
her up to you. I was always afraid some stranger might claim her.
Good-bye."
Silexa and Edward walked quietly home through the sunny pasturelands.
And the sister recalled to mind that morning so many years ago when she
had trodden that very path on her way to learn tidings of the wreck,
and seen for the first time the little motherless infant who had so
strangely proved to belong to her own dear brother.
"I kissed your Ethel, Edward, as she lay in the cottage in her last
sleep. She had a lovely face."
"I am glad you saw my darling, even in death," he answered.
There was silence after that as the two stepped among the daisies
beside the stream that ever sang its glad song of hope, heedless of
human joy or sadness.
Ermyn, all unconscious of the change in her destiny, came tripping up
the causeway some time after, singing a merry tune.
"Oh, mother," she cried, "everybody is so glad up at St. Elvis; they
are all shouting and talking about it. I went to the Rectory first, and
Dora came out to meet me, and she kissed and hugged me and looked at
me again and again with happy tears in her eyes. I did not think she
would care so much, but the joy has quite turned her head, mother. I
never knew her so absent or strange in her manner. She kept stopping in
what she was going to say, and then blushed as deep a pink as the roses
growing on the porch. At last I ran away, pretending to be angry, and
I have been with Mrs. Llewellyn ever since. I hope the poor gentleman
will look happier now. But it is all so odd, mother, I cannot make it
out yet."
"Did you see Dr. Pryse?" asked Lettice, turning away to busy herself at
a drawer in the table, that Ermyn might not notice her trembling hands.
"No, mother, I did not. The sudden surprise last evening quite upset
him. Dr. Llewellyn has ordered him to keep quiet in his room all day
and see no one."
Lettice sat down in the low rocking-chair—the very one she had sat in
the night baby Ermyn was hushed to sleep on her knee after the terrible
wreck. The room looked just the same, only the cradle was not there now.
"Ermyn, child, come to me. I want to talk to you for a little."
"Yes, mother darling," she cried, seizing the little wooden stool,
always called her own since babyhood, and seating herself with her head
laid down on Mrs. Gwynne's knee. "Now this is like old times. I was
afraid I was getting too big for this, mother. We haven't had a cosy
talk for a long time."
How sweetly and naturally the word "mother" fell from her lips! Lettice
noticed it now with an aching heart. Would she call her that again
when she knew all? A gulf had opened between her and her darling since
yesterday; it was growing wider every minute. Only a few hours ago
she was her child; now she was far removed by birth and station, able
to take the rank of a lady, while she, Lettice, would always remain a
humble peasant woman. Oh, cruel truth! But it must be told, and that
without delay.
"Ermyn, I am going to tell you something. Listen!"
"Yes, mother."
"It happened a long time ago, just a year after I lost my dear little
baby Ruth."
Ermyn looked up all eager attention.
"I was sitting here one evening on a very wild, stormy night. The sea
roared and the wind howled, and heavy sheets of rain dashed against the
windows. Oh, it was an awful storm! Davie was a little boy then, and
lay fast asleep in that bed, and your dear old granddad—" here Lettice
checked herself, "my father," she added, "was out with the other
sailors on the jetty."
"What was he doing, mother?"
"Nancy Lewis came up to tell me there was a fine ship driving on to the
rocks close to the Head, and nothing could be done for her."
"Oh, poor, poor people!" said Ermyn. "Did granddad try to save them?"
"Yes, he put out in a boat with several of his brave mates. But it
wasn't a lifeboat, so they could do nothing to help, and the ship went
down."
"Was any one saved?" asked Ermyn breathlessly.
Lettice continued her story, as though she had not heard the question.
"Presently we heard voices, and when I opened the door, granddad and
the sailors were carrying in a poor drowned lady, and I heard a baby
cry. Then I looked and saw granddad holding something wrapped up in a
bit of fishing-net. I took it from his arms and found it was a dear,
helpless infant."
"Was the lady dead?" inquired Ermyn.
"Yes, indeed she was; nothing more could be done for her. She was laid
in the churchyard to sleep the next Sunday."
"And what became of the baby?"
"I nursed her and took her for my own instead of little Ruth. Ermyn,
you were that little babe."
[Illustration: "OH, MOTHER, WHY DID YOU TELL ME?"]
"Mother, oh, mother!" cried Ermyn, kneeling and flinging her arms round
Mrs. Gwynne's neck, while the two sobbed together. "Oh, mother, why did
you tell me? I would rather never, never have known. Don't say you are
not my own mother."
"Hush, my darling, there is more to tell you. Forgive me for hiding
from you the secret of your history. Perhaps it would have been better
if you had always known it."
"Why, mother?"
"Ermyn, sweet child, you are mine no longer! Your father lives. He
is waiting and longing to clasp you in his arms to-day. You are the
daughter of Mr. Edward Pryse, and his people at the Rectory are your
own kith and kin. Miss Silexa came with him this morning, while you
were out, to break the news to me."
It is impossible to describe the effect these words had upon Ermyn. She
was dumb in open-eyed wonder for some minutes, thinking it must surely
be a dream of the night. Then she understood it all; and with a low cry
flung herself into the arms of Lettice, murmuring, "Oh, mother, mother,
don't send me away from you! I don't want any one but you!"
Lettice said no more; for she saw the effect her words were having
on Ermyn's highly strung nerves, as the hysterical sobs grew louder.
She half carried, half led her into the inner chamber, and, loosening
her dress, laid her on the bed. Then shading the light from the small
window, she kissed her tenderly and left her.
In the afternoon, they were treading the valley-meadows together,
calm and quiet. Ermyn felt timid and shy. Poor child, it was hard to
realise her new situation in so short a time. Would they be glad at
the Rectory? Did Dora know she was her own cousin? Yes, she felt sure
she did. But eyes were already on the look-out from the rose-clustered
windows, and Silexa stood waiting in the porch.
"Come in, darling! My niece and godchild Ermyn. Edward, here is your
child!"
Ermyn said nothing till she found herself clasped in strong, loving
arms. Then she knew she had indeed found a father.
A week later, Lettice was sitting alone at work in her cottage. The
shadows were lengthening on the causeway, and the returning tide broke
in soft murmurs against the boundary wall, as a hum of voices from the
jetty was borne upon the sultry air. Her fingers were busy, but her
thoughts were far-away. She was still learning in the school of her
Lord and Master Jesus Christ; the lesson-books were not put away yet,
and on the page turned to-day great silent tears were dropping.
Ermyn, her child and treasure, was going away; far-away from her to
her northern home. The devoted father would have his daughter all to
himself in Scotland. Would she forget the cottage by the creek? The
lowly village-maiden was an heiress now. In time, she might learn to be
ashamed of her former poverty and upbringing.
"Oh, my God!" cried Lettice half aloud. "Why did they take my own
ewe-lamb from my bosom? She crept in there in place of little Ruth,
and the space is cold and empty without her. I know her love will ever
be warm and faithful for me; but oh, it can never, never be the same
again."
A footstep so light that Lettice only perceived it when it was close to
the door, now caught her attention, but not quickly enough to give her
time to hide the tears that were falling. Looking up she saw the sweet,
fair face of Eudora Meredith, and rose to greet her.
"You did not hear me coming, Lettice. Sit down again, please. I want
you to pretend I am the little Dora of long, long ago. I shall steal
Ermyn's stool and come and sit at your feet. There! I have taken off my
hat. Now, stroke my hair as you used to do."
Lettice obeyed, while Eudora put one hand into hers.
"Mrs. Gwynne," she continued, as the golden head bent low, and a
crimson blush dyed the delicate cheek. "Lettice, I have come to tell
you something that I hope will make you very happy. I know you are
dreadfully sad to-day," she added, "because your darling Ermyn is so
soon going away, but her love for you will never change, Lettice. She
will be always the same. Still, we know she cannot be quite so much
your child as she used to be. Lettice, kiss me and put your arms round
me. I am to be your daughter now. Davie has asked me to be his wife.
Will you be my mother?"
Mrs. Gwynne started and turned pale. She could only say, "Miss Eudora!"
"You are never to call me that again," said Eudora, springing up and
flinging her arms round the neck of the astonished and overjoyed woman.
"I knew you would be very glad, and I made Davie promise, as one of
the conditions, that I should be the first to tell you. He has been
very good and kept his secret. Oh, you don't know how unhappy we have
been! He was afraid to ask me, because we were both poor; and I thought
he did not care for me at all. Aunt Silexa has been our good angel. I
wonder how she guessed! When Uncle Edward came to her, wanting to know
how he could repay even a part of all the kindness and care you have
given his child throughout her life, auntie told him there was one way.
And what do you think that was, Lettice?"
Mrs. Gwynne could only smile inquiringly.
"Why, he has bought the house that has been built close to Dr.
Llewellyn's, and given it to Davie; you are to live with us," the happy
girl ran on. "And the dowry Uncle Edward gives me will be quite enough,
with David's stipend, to make comfortable. Now I have told my news."
Lettice at first could find no words to express her joy. She felt God
had honoured and blessed both her and her house beyond her highest
expectations. She scarcely believed she heard aright.
"I could not think what Davie wanted," broke in Eudora, with a little
laugh. "He came to me in the kitchen garden this morning when I was
getting something for auntie, and his face looked as if he was the
happiest man in the world. Then he followed me about, holding my basket
until it was filled, and then somehow we found ourselves sitting
together under the medlar boughs. Lettice, dear Lettice, you can guess
the rest!
"Here is Davie himself, and Ermyn too, I declare! You are both of you
very naughty," said she, turning to them. "I thought I had slipped
away, and that you would not find me for ever so long."
What a happy talk there was after that in the old cottage, as Eudora
and Ermyn pretended to be jealous of each other, in their caresses of
the dear and much-loved mother. Lettice could only feel that, instead
of losing her treasure, another child had been given to her wide
mother-heart.
"Mother," said Ermyn, "Davie and I came home on purpose to tell you,
you must please put on your Sunday gown and cap at once; for you, and
auntie, grandpapa, father, and all of us are going to have tea together
at Dr. Llewellyn's."
"Oh, what a delightful plan!" cried Eudora, springing up. "Just like
our dear, kind friends! How I wish Maurice had been at home; there
would not have been one wanting then."
While Lettice arrayed herself in her plain black silk and white cap,
and her children waited to escort her, Mary Llewellyn was as busy as a
bee. She was not pretty, but her bright, honest eyes and sweet, frank
smile made the face a very attractive one to watch. She moved about
quickly and quietly, setting out the oval table in the most festive
manner for the expected guests. The snowy tablecloth hung in glossy
folds, and the pretty green and white tea-service and homemade bread
and butter looked most tempting upon it.
"Let me see," said Mary, smiling towards her mother, who was a
delighted spectator of the hospitable arrangements. "That little glass
basket I brought from London will look the prettiest for the flowers in
the centre; and I declare I quite forgot the honey—and such honey too!
What can I be thinking of, mother? My wits are woolgathering."
"We have so much to think about, dear," replied Mrs. Llewellyn,
laughing, "that I do not wonder your ideas are inclined to go astray.
Even now I can scarcely believe our pretty, simple lily of the valley
is transformed into a fine lady."
"She will never be that, mother; she has too much good sense—thanks
to her being blessed with two such mothers as you and Lettice; for
you have been quite a mother to her. What a blessing it is, as
circumstances have turned out, that Ermyn has had such a thoroughly
well-grounded education!"
"Oh, but I must not take all the credit of that. The child was so
bright and clever it was a pleasure to teach her; and you, Mary, have
also done a great deal for her, and for Dora too."
"They are a sweet pair of cousins, mother. Is it not funny it should
all have come out as it has? I am so glad they have been thrown
together so much. I keep on thinking I am reading a fairy tale, but I
did not expect the transformation scene so soon. Now let me shake up
your cushions and make you tidy. You must have on your cap with the
lavender ribbons to-night."
"I never thought my fanciful daydream about that child would ever be
realised," said Mrs. Llewellyn, as she thanked and kissed her daughter.
The guests arrived at the appointed hour; and never was there a merrier
feast. Everybody was hungry, and did full justice to Mary's bountiful
cheer, as she presided at the tea-tray, all the more pleased that the
cups were sent up again and again to be replenished.
"My grandchildren," said Dr. Pryse, looking at the pair of laughing
girls before him, "I must have you one on each side of me to-night.
What a rich old man I am, with all my treasures about me!" he added,
looking round the table with a gratified smile on his aged features.
"I am not going to give away my little love yet," quoth he, with a sly
glance at David.
This was the signal for a great deal of fun. And Dr. Llewellyn arrived
in the middle of it all, adding his hearty laugh and amusing sayings to
the merry-making.
David and Eudora could afford to be laughed at now. They did not mind
how soon all St. Elvis heard the news, and were much too happy in
one another's love to care for the opinion of the world, or what the
gossips would say round the ancient cross.
"What is this I hear about a lifeboat?" said Dr. Llewellyn.
"Oh, the news has flown like the wind among the sailors," answered
David. "Miss Ermyn Pryse has given the money for one, and it is to
arrive here and be launched before the winter sets in."
"And it is to be called 'The Ermyn,'" put in Eudora eagerly.
Lettice had not heard this piece of information before, and tears of
joy filled her eyes as she thought of the many brave lives it would
probably be the means of saving on that dangerous coast.
"It is in memory of dear old granddad," whispered Ermyn, as she slipped
her hand into that of Lettice. "I wish he had lived to see it."