Chapter XVII: 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."

"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."