Chapter XVIII: 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.