CONCLUSION
MUIRSTANE donned its gayest holiday attire the day Edward Pryse was
expected to arrive with his young heiress. The great iron gates leading
to the manor-house no longer mourned in rust and weeds, but had been
freshly painted and flung wide open, while an arch of evergreens and
flowers spanned the portal. Little children stood on either side of
the hilly road near the entrance, holding bunches of flowers in their
hot hands, and they all set up a joyous shout on seeing the carriage.
It was a new experience for Ermyn, as she sat by her father's side,
prettily dressed in quiet grey silk, smiling and nodding to the eager
crowd, who came streaming out into the road to get a sight of her.
Edward's heart was too full for speech. Tears came into his eyes as he
thought of his Ethel, but oh, the joy of having her child with him now!
How lovingly he watched her return the glad greetings! How tenderly
he handed her from the carriage into the spacious hall of the noble
old mansion! It should henceforth be his pride and pleasure to watch
over and care for her. No one must interfere with his newly found
treasure—she must be all his own, his very own.
Reader, pardon his selfishness. He had to dive into very deep waters
ere he found his pearl. No wonder she was priceless now.
With reverent footsteps, Ermyn followed her father from room to room.
Her own dead mother had lived here, and everything she had touched and
used was sacred, Ethel's little sitting-room especially so. When her
child entered it, she started and looked at Edward; for there, hanging
in a gilded frame above the mantelpiece, was the picture of herself,
as she had stood by the Sainted Well in her old blue dress and red
petticoat.
"Oh, father, how well I remember that day!"
"So do I, my daughter."
For the first few weeks that followed, it was all novelty and
brightness for Ermyn. Her affection for her father became deep and
passionate. It seemed as though all her child-love for him had been
storing itself up through long years, to be poured out in a golden
treasure at his feet when he should come to claim it.
Her filial devotion gradually healed the open wounds in his heart.
How he loved to hear this beautiful girl calling him father! His cup
was full now. Together the two would wander among the wild and lovely
Scottish scenery each glen and exquisite haunt had its story about
Ethel. The heather bloomed as sweetly now as when he had pulled its
purple blossoms at her side; the little brown burns still tinkled their
merry tune.
Ermyn won all hearts among the poorer tenantry. She had known poverty
and toil, and could come among them with true kindliness. She was
none the less noble and refined that she had once worked hard for her
living; nay, rather it added to her woman's worth, because it had
enlarged and drawn out her sympathies towards the poor. They all called
her "oor bonnie leddy," and loved her well.
But, notwithstanding her pleasant occupations, her father's untiring
love and devotion, and the long affectionate letters received from
Wales, her heart yearned to return to St. Elvis. When she laid her
head down on her pillow at night, she missed the mother-kiss. And she
wanted her sweet cousin to share her new pleasures with her. Sometimes
she would weep in secret about it, and even pine to be the humble
cottage-maiden again.
Edward soon began to notice her drooping looks, and besought her
to tell him what was the matter. But Ermyn, afraid of wounding his
feelings, and still anxious to be more of a comfort to him, could not
confess the truth. She evaded his questions by laughing excuses, and
tried to look brighter again. But all in vain. Her heart was not in
Muirstane. And as the months moved on, the trouble could be hidden no
longer.
"Father," she said one day, "please don't be angry with me. I know I
ought to be quite happy here, but I want to go back to St. Elvis. I
miss them all so very, very much."
A grieved look of pain came into his face, and she saw it.
"Ermyn, my child," he answered, "try for my sake to make yourself happy
here with me through the winter. In the spring, we will go back. Let me
have you to myself till then."
Ermyn hid her disappointment by a bright smile of acquiescence. This
promise was something definite, at any rate; but oh, how long the
spring was in coming that year! Ermyn watched the snow melt away at
last off the stern hills. And when the April sunbeams tipped them with
brightness, she and her father turned their backs on Muirstane and set
out for St. Elvis.
A joyous peal of welcome was ringing out from the old church tower as
they entered the town. Silexa, Lettice, David, Eudora, and the dear old
grandfather were all standing waiting to receive them. Oh, how glad
they were to get their darling back again!—Not one bit changed, no—they
all said that.
And when the May-buds blushed pink, and there was "a little piping of
leaf-hid birds" in their downy nests, the bridal morning dawned.
Ermyn, once more our blithe, merry maiden, was standing in Eudora's
room, helping Aunt Silexa and Lettice to dress the bride in soft clouds
of white muslin. How like a lovely flower looked the child of the
Rectory to-day! And how proud they all were of her!
The beloved and aged grandfather with his silver locks stood within the
communion rails, as the simple procession moved up through the crowded
church. In clear though trembling tones, he read the solemn marriage
service, which united the two persons whom all firmly believed God had
joined together. Eudora's lip quivered and her cheek paled, but her
voice was clear and calm, as she uttered the familiar thrilling vow.
What a burst of jocund music rang out from the ivied tower, as the
joy-bells sounded loud and sweet when the newly wedded pair left the
church! What a feast there was for the poor in the Rectory kitchen,
after the pretty breakfast was over in the dining-room! Nobody in St.
Elvis ever forgot that day.
"I hope you and Davie will have a happy time together at Muirstane,"
whispered Ermyn, as she said good-bye to her cousin. "I will look after
everybody, and do the work of two curates in the village till you bring
Davie back again. Good-bye, good-bye! Auntie, give me an old shoe to
throw after them!"
While the two were away spending their honeymoon among the heathery
moorlands of Scotland, Lettice had her hands full of work. But she did
not labour alone, for Silexa and Ermyn joyfully helped her each day, in
the pleasant task of beautifying and making ready the new pretty home
for David and his bride.
"Oh, how charming it is to be able to do this for them!" cried Ermyn,
in an ecstasy of delight, as she ran from room to room, discussing and
settling about colours and furniture. "I long to see my Dora's glad
face when she enters her home."
Lettice felt very sad the night she slept in the old cottage by the
creek for the last time. True, she had known poverty, sorrow, and care
while dwelling under its roof, but God's presence had never forsaken
her. Her loved dead had rested under its peaceful shadow, and made it
a hallowed spot. She would like to have ended her days here in humble
seclusion, had it not been for the entreaties of her children. Then,
Jem and Nancy Lewis had been long wishing to remove their large family
into this more spacious cottage; and as Jem had bought Old Roger's two
boats, and succeeded to his fishing trade, they seemed the right people
to take possession.
"I cannot leave the cradle," said Lettice, as she was looking over her
things, most of which she intended to bequeath to her successors. "That
must go wherever I go. Davie, and dear little Ruth, and Ermyn all slept
in it; it is full of tender memories and associations; I will never,
never part with it."
So the cradle journeyed up the valley with some more of Mrs. Gwynne's
household treasures, and they gave her large, airy room in David's
house a home look at once.
The few weeks that the bride and bridegroom were away seemed a short
time in which to get everything completed, but as all worked with a
will, they managed to do it.
The evening before David and Eudora were expected, Ermyn was with her
father in the newly made garden, pulling up stray weeds, and tying up
the flowers. Suddenly she looked up from her work to see Mary Llewellyn
at the gate, and Maurice standing by her side.
"Well, Ermyn," cried Mary, in glee, "is not this a surprise for all of
us? We only knew of it this morning."
Ermyn advanced shyly to greet almost a stranger now, for it was long
since she and Maurice had met, not since she had been a hard-working
little cottage-maiden. She felt at first she would like to run away and
hide.
"Miss Ermyn Pryse," said Maurice, frankly extending his hand, and
reassuring the timid girl by a glad smile. "You have said good-bye to
childhood since we met, and yet you are not a bit altered. I should
have known you anywhere."
"But you are considerably changed," replied Ermyn, laughing, as a blush
tinted her cheek. "Father, let me introduce Mr. Maurice Llewellyn."
"Is it not delightful?" rejoined Mary, as she kissed Ermyn. "Maurice is
to be at home a whole month before he goes away on another long voyage."
"Oh, I am so glad!" replied Ermyn. "Now we shall be all together once
more."
The welcome that St. Elvis gave to the curate and his wife the
following day was a right royal one. The church bells rang out a
deafening peal. And when the carriage appeared in sight, a troop of
strong young men ran a race to meet it, when they unharnessed the
horses, and insisted on drawing the carriage themselves to the new
home. Gay summer blossoms were flung in fragrant showers upon the young
and happy wife, as she sat smiling and nodding by her husband's side,
while the village children shouted,—
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Welcome! Welcome home!"
Silexa, Ermyn, and Lettice stood at the porch to receive them, and the
wedded life of David and Eudora at St. Elvis began.
No one liked to think that some of the members of this happy and united
circle must soon again separate. But Maurice had been appointed to take
the medical charge of a large ship bound for America; and he had mapped
out for himself a long course of hard work in the world before his
vision of settling down with his father in St. Elvis could be fulfilled.
He went away full of hope and courage, but has invalid mother could not
help shedding some bitter tears after saying good-bye to her son. The
first letter from him revived her spirits:
"St. Elvis," he said, "would ever be the brightest spot in the whole
world to him, and he should be always longing for home."
Edward Pryse began to grow somewhat weary and impatient, as week after
week Ermyn put off their journey north. But at last it was settled, and
she went back to Muirstane with her heart full of dutiful and strenuous
resolutions. She must make it her home now, and try to do the very best
among her people there. She would fill the old house with light and
brightness for her father; he should never see her discontented again.
And she did it.
Six years passed quietly and evenly away. The father and daughter
gathered numerous pleasant friends and acquaintances around them, who
were all charmed with the youthful mistress of the manor. Guests came
to stay in the house, which soon became renowned for its hospitality
and good cheer.
Edward Pryse never objected to visit St. Elvis when Ermyn wished it,
but the place was so filled with painful associations to him that she
soon saw it was a great effort. Besides, his health was very feeble
now; the sorrows of his youth had broken him down, and made him an old
man before his time. Therefore it was only at intervals that the child
of St. Elvis was seen in her old loved haunts.
But the years brought new joys and interests to the sweet young wife
Eudora, for some baby-voices now echoed in the pretty home. Lettice had
her hands full, with helping to care for the imperious little autocrats
of the nursery, who were always climbing about her, and making her
their willing slave. There was Edward, the first-born, and Roger, his
fair-haired brother, then toddling, lisping Ermyn, and sweet baby Ruth.
Yes, Lettice held another little Ruth in her arms now, and the same old
wooden cradle rocked her to sleep.
Sometimes as Mrs. Gwynne, with her foot on the rocker, looked within
it, she would think it must be all a dream, and that she was back again
in the cottage by the creek. But dear old granddad had sailed away to
the golden shore; he was with her own little Ruth now, in the happy
land above.
And Eudora! How the years had deepened and sweetened, as the stream of
life flowed on, broadening and widening. She sometimes felt she was
almost too happy, and feared lest shadows should begin to fall. But in
her husband's love she felt calm and secure, and she knew that "the
blessing of the Lord which maketh rich," adding no sorrow with it, was
theirs, whatever might happen in the future.
What light and warmth there was for David in that sweet, peaceful home,
whither he bent his tired footsteps at the close of each day's work! In
the true spirit of wife-like devotion, hers was—
"An ear that waits to catch
A hand upon the latch;
A step that hastens its sweet rest to win.
A world of care without,
A world of strife shut out,
A world of love shut in."
She was sitting thus one evening waiting and watching, busily plying
her needle on a tiny garment that had been torn among the valley
brambles. Lettice was upstairs in the nursery, and Eudora could hear
her low voice hushing baby Ruth to sleep with a soothing lullaby.
Eudora thought it was David's step on the gravel outside, and rose to
meet him with her usual smile of welcome. But when she opened the door,
to her no small surprise there stood Maurice Llewellyn.
"Why, Maurice," she said, "who would have thought of seeing you! Mary
certainly told me you were not coming until next week."
"I did not think I could," he answered, "but I was able to get away
sooner than I expected."
"Well, come in," quoth she, with a bright look, "the children would
have been scrambling down to see you by this time if they had not been
asleep in their cots."
Maurice followed Eudora into the pretty, well-lighted sitting-room,
which now had its curtains drawn and a cheerful fire burning.
"Sit down," she added; "I am expecting Davie every minute, but he told
me he should be later than usual, as he has gone some miles off to see
a poor woman who is dangerously ill."
In spite of this cheery welcome, Maurice looked very dismal, as he took
a seat opposite Eudora. She noticed his gloomy manner, and at once
guessed the cause.
"I hoped I should have found Ermyn Pryse at home in the old Rectory, or
staying with you," he said presently.
"And so you will," cried Eudora triumphantly. "Hasn't Mary heard that
she is coming to-morrow or next day? Her father has promised to let her
stay over Christmas, and I am to have her to myself part of the time
for a visit to us."
"I am afraid it will not make much difference to me, Eudora," he said
sadly; "I know you have guessed my secret long ere this, so I need take
no pains to conceal it, but there is a hopeless gulf between us."
"Why?" asked Eudora innocently.
"Oh, I could never be beholden to my wife for money; not that it need
be really so," he added, "for I would always work hard to earn an
honourable living by my profession."
"Then where lies the difficulty?" queried Eudora.
"Her father would say directly that I wanted to marry her for her
money; he is so hard-looking and unapproachable, and I am sure he
dislikes me. I dare not attempt it."
"Poor man!" sighed Eudora. "Oh, Maurice, don't judge him harshly. The
burden of grief he has had to carry has well-nigh crushed him."
"Yes, and for that reason he would hate me all the more for attempting
to rob him of his only child," continued Maurice, in a dreary voice. "I
do not know what is to be done. Each time I have seen her since your
marriage, she has grown dearer to me; and how lovely she is, so modest
and gentle! I could never love any one else as I do her. I would that
she had always remained the lily of the valley my mother used to call
her. I could then have reached forth my hand to gather the flower, and
no one would have said me nay. But now it is quite hopeless. After
looking once more on her beauty, I shall go away on a long voyage, and
perhaps never come back again."
"Maurice, you are both wrong and selfish; you quite forget your mother,
and how she yearns over you."
"You are unfeeling, Eudora."
"No, I am not, but I want you to pluck up your courage and face your
trouble like a man."
"How can I?" pleaded Maurice piteously.
"Ask Ermyn yourself, the first opportunity you have, and hear what she
says."
"Do you really think, then, I have a chance, Eudora? Don't offer me
advice that I shall rue afterwards. Do you think she will listen?"
"I am not going to say anything about that, Maurice," replied Eudora,
laughing. "How the fire has caught my face," she added, reaching up her
hand to take down a screen from the mantelpiece. "Maurice, I wish you
good speed on your errand. Nothing venture, nothing win! You know the
old lines:
"He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
And win or lose it all."
"At worst, you can only be where you were before."
"God bless you, my kind friend!" cried Maurice, starting to his feet
and grasping her hand. "You have done me good. I shall come to you for
comfort if I am turned away a lonely, heart-broken man."
"What nonsense you talk!" cried Eudora, with a little rippling laugh.
"You are just a donkey, Maurice—yes, I will say it—to go on working
yourself up into this sentimental misery. I have no sympathy with that
kind of thing, no, none whatever."
This homely thrust was the best possible medicine at that moment for
Eudora's patient, though he winced a little. Yet he could not be angry
with his playmate of former days, so he smiled somewhat grimly at her
instead, and said he must go home.
"Mind you do as I tell you," she called out after him, as he went down
the garden path.
And so it came to pass, about a fortnight after this conversation, that
Ermyn Pryse was kneeling beside Mrs. Llewellyn, burying her face in the
sofa cushions.
"I am so glad, so very glad, my darling!" murmured the voice of the
invalid, in tender mother-tones. "You have been dear to me for many
years, and now you will be my own daughter. Maurice was naughty not to
tell me his secret before."
"He was afraid I should refuse him," whispered Ermyn; "and all because
of that paltry money. Oh, Mrs. Llewellyn, I have loved him such a long,
long time. Dora found it out somehow, but he did not know. Father is
so good and kind about it too, which makes me quite happy, and," she
added, with a tighter clasp round her friend's neck, "oh, I am so glad,
for I shall always be the child of St. Elvis now! Our home in Scotland,
dear though it will be, cannot break the link with the loved and lovely
valley of my childhood."
Mrs. Llewellyn could only answer her with her tears and blessing:
"'The Lord bless thee and keep thee, my child: the Lord make His face
shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up His
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'"
Late that night, after the household were asleep, Silexa crept into
what used to be Eudora's little room over the porch. It was all so
unchanged; the grotesque chintz still grimaced at all comers, the ivy
twigs and roses still tapped against the casement. What was different?
Silexa shaded the light, and looked into the small bed. There, instead
of Eudora, lay the sleeping Ermyn, sweetly dreaming, and unconscious
that human eyes were watching her. Her dark hair was flung over the
pillow, and her rosy lips had a half smile on them.
"She will be very happy," thought her good aunt; "and there is no one
in all the world more worthy of her love than Maurice Llewellyn. Oh,
how strange and sweet is life!" she went on to herself, as softly she
left the sleeper and closed the door. "It is no longer an intricate
maze of dancing shadows. How dark it was once! How hopeless and dreary!
Now I can look back and see the path, with all its windings, was
leading me towards a better country, that is, an heavenly. I did not
always think so. Life is the letter; death is but its envelope."
Silexa entered her own room, the very room where she had knelt on the
night of that agonised conflict, when she thought her niece was dying.
It all came back to her now, as sitting down she opened an old brown
much-worn book and read:
"God knoweth best what is needful for us, and all that He does is for
our good. If we knew how much He loves us, we should be always ready
to receive equally and with indifference from His hand the sweet and
the bitter; all would please that came from Him. The sorest afflictions
never appear intolerable, but when we see them in the wrong light.
When we see them in the hand of God, who dispenses them; when we know
it is our loving Father who abases and distresses us, our sufferings
will lose their bitterness, and become even matter of consolation. Let
all our employment be to know God: the more one knows Him, the more
one desires to know Him. And as knowledge is commonly the measure of
love, the deeper and more extensive our knowledge shall be, the greater
will be our love; and if our love of God were great we should love
Him equally in pains or pleasures. We cannot escape the dangers which
abound in life without the actual and continual help of God; let us
then pray to Him for it continually. How can we pray to Him without
being with Him? How can we be with Him, but in thinking of Him often?
And how can we often think of Him, but by a holy habit which we should
form of it? We must 'know' before we can 'love.' In order to know God
we must often think of Him; and when we come to love Him we shall then
also think of Him often, for our heart will be with our treasure.'"
"O Lord, I have known and believed the love that Thou hast to me,"
murmured Silexa, as she closed the book; "for Thou hast given Thy Son
Jesus Christ to be the Saviour of the world.
"'This God is our God for ever and ever: He will be our guide even unto
death.'
"'Only a few more shadows, and He will come.'"
"And a sense of tune,
A satisfied love, meanwhile,
Which nothing earthly could despoil,
Sang on within her soul."
THE END
Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_
EVERY GIRL'S BOOKSHELF
Her Treasure of Truth. By H. Louisa Bedford.
Beryl's Triumph. By Eglanton Thorne.
Annie Carr. A Tale of Two Hemispheres.
Ellen Tremaine. By M. Filleul.
The Girls of Marleigh Grange. By M. M. Pollard.
Little Maid Marigold. By Eleanora H. Stooke.
The Mysterious Locket. By Ruth Lynn.
The Mistress of the Manor. By E. Kirby.
Anthony Cragg's Tenant. By Agnes Giberne.
The Heart of a Friend. By Florence Wilmot.
Brown Eyes and Blue. By Annie Mabel Severs.
Arthur Glynn. By Ruth Lamb.
Two Enthusiasts. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
The Faith of Hilary Lovel. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
The Romance of Miss Hilary, and other stories.
Kitty and Kit. By Florence Wilmot.
The Colleen's Choice, and other stories.
Dick and Brownie. By Mabel Quiller-Couch.
Alwyn Ravendale. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
Half-a-dozen Sisters. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
Brought out of Peril. By Emma Leslie.
LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY.