Chapter III: The Locket Set in Pearls

THE sun shone bright and warm, as Miss Pryse stepped briskly down through the pasturelands of the valley towards Porthmynwr.

People hardly ever went this way, because a good firm road ran parallel to it on a higher level, but Silexa chose it because she wished for solitude. Already scattered groups of twos and threes were setting out on their search of inquiry from St. Elvis, and she cared not for further talk concerning the wreck until she had sifted the subject for herself. It stirred thoughts within her that made her heart ache with a keen pang, and in this bitterness no stranger might intermeddle. So the stream was her only companion, and the murmur of its sweet solo, softly breaking the silence around, suited well her present frame of mind.

Sunbeams following upon showers robed the meadows with an emerald sheen, and the balmy air and quiet heavens told no tale of the previous hurricane. Some long-horned black cattle, standing about in the hollows, lifted their heads for a stare of dumb surprise at the lonely figure, and then resumed their grazing.

At length, rounding the bend of the hill, Miss Silexa saw the sea, stretching out in a long sweep of blue across the horizon, smooth and still.

To her there was no beauty in the sea. For her, in "the laying bare of sands, when tides retreat," there was no subtle charm, and her ears distinguished not the chant of the wave-choir from rocky cavern depths. The soundings of the sea spoke to her of sorrow and death, and therefore she never sought the shore from choice.

Those waters in their immensity never reminded her of the measureless love of her Father in Christ, because she had never lost herself in its depths.

With reverent fear she worshipped Jehovah, as the omnipresent, omniscient One; and she beheld afar off the Son of His love as the Saviour of sinners, on whom all hopes of salvation must rest in death.

But of the believing touch of the garment's sacred hem, and the receipt of healing virtue in herself for the new life on "this" side the grave, she knew nothing. Therefore life to her was a strange complexity, an unravelling of dark threads, a steep hill to be climbed, while clasping duty as the only way by which to reach the appointed goal.

Her life lesson had been hard and bitter, and she had not learned its meaning yet.

The pierced Hand must uplift the curtain, behind which lie hidden God's mysteries of love; the scales must fall from the eyes, before the joyful fact can be chronicled, "Whereas I was blind, now I see."

Silexa marched on, musing sadly, until the little brook parted company by suddenly slipping under a fiat stone bridge, and mingling beyond it with the waters, which now lapped lazily against the boundary wall of the cottage.

Beyond the jetty, there was a heaving groundswell, causing all the boats at anchor to sway and swing against their moorings in noisy play. The sun shone brightly on torn and flapping sails and outspread nets, and on the hideous hulks, making their black, wet sides glisten in the glow of morning.

The door of Mrs. Gwynne's cottage stood open, and some people who were talking in knots moved aside to leave space for Silexa to pass.

The usual greetings in Welsh were exchanged as she went by, but no one followed her over the threshold.

The sound of the baby's cry made her stop for an instant. But Lettice, catching sight of her, came forward quickly; and her calm peaceful face brightened into a smile as the eyes of the two women met.

"Ah, Miss Pryse, I'm right glad you've come. I was thinking I had best step up to the Rectory, but did not see how I could leave until—the inquest, you know," she added, with a sad look towards the inner door.

"No, of course you could not," said Silexa decisively. "That is why I came, but I cannot talk against the screaming of that baby. Poor little thing! It is a pity it survived its mother, for life is a stormier sea than the one it was saved from."

David was seated on a low stool beside the hearth, his round rosy face wearing an expression of subdued happiness as he rocked the little orphan to and fro, and pressed the tiny face to his own, to stifle the persistent cries that grew more piteous every instant.

Lettice turned towards the old chest in the corner, and a tear fell on the small flannel hood she took out.

"Carry her towards the jetty, Davie, and mind you keep the shawl well round her," she added, taking the baby from him to wrap her up tenderly in hood and plaid.

"Yes, mother," said Davie, stepping out with his precious burden in his arms and a glad smile on his face. Baby's cries grew more distant every minute.

"That will be better," said Miss Pryse, seating herself on the settle. "Now, Lettice, how did it all happen?"

"Indeed and indeed, I can scarcely say, Miss Silexa. There was no lifeboat, as you know to put off to save the poor creatures, and more's the pity for a place like St. Elvis. Father and his mates say there never has been such a wreck in these parts. To watch the signals of distress, and see the poor creatures go down, without being able to stretch a hand to save them; oh, it must have been awful! And the dear little babe, who can tell us nothing, is the only one saved."

"The child must go to the parish," said Silexa abruptly.

"Never, Miss Pryse, as long as I am spared to her! The Lord has taken my own little lamb to Himself, and she is well off there, though it was hard to look into the empty cradle. Perhaps it was to make room in my heart for the motherless babe now drawn from the waters. Anyway I hear the voice saying plainly to me, 'Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages.'"

"I call that blindly trusting in Providence, Lettice. Why, you cannot afford to keep your own boy without help. By the way, if you 'do' burden yourself with the baby, she is as much entitled to be on Lady Ermyn Brande's fund as David is."

"True, I did not think of that," said Lettice; "indeed, so she is, for the mother is drowned, and most likely the father too. But even if the trustees refuse to give her the grant, I am not afraid to trust to the promise, 'The Lord will provide,' for I have never found it fail me yet, never, not in my darkest days."

Miss Pryse was silent, but her heart's musings ran thus: "A dead sorrow is better than a living one, and if both burdens are laid upon one back, it cannot be borne without staggering under the load. When the future is a blank, with no cheer in prospect, how can one trust and be thankful? ''Tis our lot, and we must bear it like oxen at the plough.'

"Well, Lettice," she added aloud, "you see I can't take the child, for Eudora is enough to provide for and look after. But I will help you all I can, and stand godmother to the babe at her baptism, which had better take place on Sunday, after the funeral."

"As you think best, Miss Pryse, but what name shall we give her? She may have been baptized already, for anything we know. See, this is the locket I took off the body last night; perhaps you can tell what the letters are across the hair."

Miss Pryse examined the monogram carefully, and her fingers trembled visibly as she said—

"It is a double E, Lettice. You must give the child a name beginning with E. Better call her after Dame Ermyn Brande, as she will be one of her orphans."

Before Lettice could reply, a shadow darkened the doorway, and the village doctor stepped in.

"I have not had a minute to come before," said he. "Called to a sudden case ten miles off. Very sad news this, Miss Pryse; ship went down like a stone, I hear. Several bodies washed in farther down the coast since. It is supposed to be a ship from Liverpool bound for Ireland. So you've got the poor baby, Lettice. Well, it has drifted into a mother's arms, at any rate," he added, as Lettice, opening the door into the inner room, signed for the doctor and Miss Pryse to enter.

The calm dignity on the sweet face disclosed to view made the doctor pause in his speech for a few minutes, and they looked in silence.

"A strange, sad mystery," he said, at length, "which will be buried with the quiet dead. Is there no other trace?—No letters, or papers?"

"Nothing but this locket," said Lettice; "I was just showing it to Miss Pryse. Stay," she added, "I was forgetting the little shirt I took off the baby when she was brought in dripping wet," and Lettice ran quickly to the hearth where the tiny garment hung.

The mark was eagerly sought, but though material and work were of the finest quality, not even a single letter was discernible. While Silexa searched, she felt conscious of a mist before her eyes.

And she turned back alone once more into the inner chamber before the tears had time to gather and fall. What made her bend over the quiet sleeper and impress a kiss on the smooth brow? She could not tell why she did it, and almost surprised herself by the suddenness of the action. This dead stranger was nothing to "her." Why should her heart be moved towards her, and a yearning pity take the place of frigid sternness? That kiss was her seal to one of God's beatitudes, though she knew it not.

"I am a fool!" she muttered, half aloud, as the cessation of voices in the next room recalled her to herself.

She found Lettice alone and the doctor gone.

Meantime, David had staggered along with baby over the rough path past the limekiln, in the direction of the jetty. The brilliant sunshine made her blink, and she stopped suddenly short in her screaming, to stare with wondering eyes on the masts and rigging against the blue sky.

"Davie's darling!" murmured the boy, kissing away the large tear-drops that rested on the little face.

And baby stretched out both arms and gave such a sudden jump that he well-nigh lost his balance. But he held on tight, and in spite of the fresh sea-breeze that seemed to dispute possession with him by blowing the corners of the shawl about, he climbed over the last bit of rock with her, and stepped on the level jetty, finally seating himself on a bit of timber, where he could look over the wall out to sea.

"Hulloa, Davie!" cried a sailor. "What's that you've got?"

"It's our baby," said Davie, getting very red at the thought that perhaps some one else might claim her. "Our very own—mother said so—and you'd best not come too near her, or she'll cry ever so again."

"Why, Jem," said a comrade, "that's the very one Old Roger cut from the spar and wrapped in the net. Bless her little heart! Let us come and have a look at her."

And a group of men soon collected round the children.

One and another bent down, and tenderly touched the waxen fingers, and ventured to kiss the little face. But when a pair of brawny arms were stretched out to take her, she hid her face in David's breast, and would have cried if he had not quickly changed the game to Bo-peep.

At this moment, Old Roger Rudd was climbing up the slippery steps from one of his boats, and came suddenly on the scene unperceived by all but baby, who began to struggle in Davie's arms.

It may have been the old man's fancy, but he thought she knew him, and stretching out his arms to her, he cried, "Come to granddad, my beauty!"

And baby went with a happy smile, and from that hour the hearts of Old Roger and his mates were hers for ever, and she took possession of Porthmynwr in her own right like a little queen.