Chapter XI: The Sainted Well

THE sweet spring days had unfolded themselves into "the honeyed heart of June," and "brakes with golden flowers were crowned." The breath of morning rose in a purple haze, filled with the fragrance of mountain-thyme and clover, and through the grass silver drops filtered down to the thirsty roots below. The bright little beck hurried along in tones of summer gladness, restless and eager to meet the tide as it bounded in from the broad blue sea, and "there was a sparkling glee where waves and sunshine met."

Ermyn stood on the bridge listening to the merry tinkle, then stepped into the meadow beside the clear running water. Her pitcher was on the bank, and after playing for some minutes with the pebbles in the bed of the stream, she snatched it up and ran off in the direction of the Sainted Well. The glory of earth and sky made her pause and linger; now two brown butterflies flitted on before her; then she plucked a flower here and grasses there; and now she followed with fascinated gaze the white wings of the sea-gull circling above her head, until she found they had lured her from the path, and she was still a considerable distance from the Well. To make up for lost time, she climbed a loose stone wall, and ran across some fields till she was on the right track again, and the well was in sight.

She was breathless with the extra speed, and a rosy flush mounted to her cheeks as she saw that some one was there before her. This was no uncommon sight, it being such a favourite spot. But Ermyn was demure in a moment, and steadying the pitcher on her shoulder, walked slowly towards the spot.

St. Elvis was the resort of numerous visitors and tourists, especially of artists, who might be seen almost every day through the summer with canvas and easel, perched about on the hillsides or along the rocky shore, trying to represent in glowing colours some of their uncommon beauties.

The stranger looked up as he heard the light footsteps through the rustling grass, and Ermyn saw before her a gentleman, who, from his whitening hair and bent look, seemed past middle age. He had a long beard and moustache, and the girl thought she had never beheld such a thin, haggard face before, nor one so expressive of hopeless misery.

A sudden tremor filled her young heart, as the dark and piercing eyes met hers, for, to her surprise, the artist turned pale and dropped his palette. But she felt reassured when after stooping to pick it up, a tender, mournful look came into his face, and he accosted her gently,—

"Good-morning; you are come to fetch some of this delicious water?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ermyn, curtseying as she spoke. "Would you please that I should dip you up a little to drink?"

And, suiting the action to the word, she descended the red steps and lowered her pitcher.

"You are ill, sir," she added, as the gentleman, having thanked her, trembled visibly as he took the proffered water. "Our cottage is not very far off, sir; and I am sure mother would get you a cup of tea if you would come there and rest."

Ermyn had been trained from her childhood to offer the courteous hospitality for which the Welsh are so famous.

"Thank you," he answered; "I will come, for I feel rather faint. I did not take anything before I set out; but first let me beg you to stay a few minutes. I should like to put you into this picture."

Ermyn looked down with a blush on her shabby dark blue print, which was tucked up over an old red petticoat, and tossing back her hair from her lace, she said simply, "My Sunday gown is better than this, sir."

"I would rather have this one, please," he rejoined, with a mournful smile. "Can you hold your pitcher on your shoulder? So—I will not keep you long."

Ermyn assented with a shy laugh, and stood perfectly still, wondering much, as she looked towards the cliffs, why this sad-looking man should care to paint her; for our maiden of the valley had not yet been spoiled by being told she had a lovely face.

While the artist sketched, he drew her into conversation. "Have you always lived in St. Elvis?"

"We do not live in St. Elvis, sir, but at Porthmynwr, though it is reckoned all one, I believe. We live at the cottage that stands close at the head of the creek. There is only mother and me now, for Davie is away, and dear old granddad died in the early spring."

"Who is Davie?"

"He is my brother, sir, and we had a baby sister long ago who died; she was called little Ruth. Mother has only me now."

"And what is 'your' name?"

"Ermyn Silexa Gwynne," replied the girl promptly.

"I cannot paint any more this morning," said the stranger abruptly, as, rising, he gathered up his materials and prepared to follow his guide.

During their walk the conversation was resumed.

"Do you know why you were given that name?"

"I suppose, sir, because Miss Pryse is my godmother."

And Ermyn then proceeded to inform him who lived at the Rectory, and told him, in fact, all she knew in connection with her own history.

The artist paused every now and then to rest his burden, and Ermyn wondered why he questioned her so closely.

He was silently connecting this morning's scene with one of the previous evening, when he had arrived by the coach at St. Elvis.

No one knew who the stranger was; and the villagers eagerly scanned both him and his luggage, which, however, had no name on it. This fact was observed as it was carried up to the room he had engaged at "The Jolly Sailors." Many pairs of eyes from the stone cross steps followed him inquisitively as he sauntered down towards the Rectory gate and leaned over its palings. But he was only a stranger among strangers, as he watched Molly walk across the grass with a basket of clothes on her arm, which she had been gathering in from the common close by. A young clergyman was talking to a lady at the wild porch, but he did not know any of them.

"I suppose they are all dead," he thought.

And after a long wistful look at the casements buried in their mass of green, he walked slowly away, carrying the sore burden of a heart heavy as lead. Why did the conversation with this simple village maid cause his heart to bound madly, as the colour mounted into his sunken cheek?

"It is impossible!" he thought. "Why will such fancies come? The letter said the child died too. But oh, why is this girl so like my lovely Ethel? My morbid brain conjures up nothing but phantoms. But my father lives! I must see his face once more before I die. And Silexa! How she loved me! And yet she was forbidden ever to write or speak to me again. My punishment has been greater than I could bear. God is not a God of love, but a stern avenger, and the greatest boon I crave now from His hand is to die."

"There is mother!" cried Ermyn, as they neared the cottage.

And Lettice came forward to question her child anxiously on the reason of her delay.

"I must bear the blame," said the stranger quickly. "I have been trying to take a sketch of your daughter at the Sainted Well."

"Yes; and, mother, will you please give the gentleman a cup of tea? He is ill. I must run away and make myself tidy, for Mrs. Llewellyn will be waiting for me. Good-morning, sir."

"Good-bye," said the visitor; "will you let me go on with the picture to-morrow?"

"Oh yes, sir, if you like."

And the girl ran off.

"Will you please to come inside, sir, while I get you something?" said the wondering Lettice. "May I ask if you have travelled far to-day?"

"No; I have only come from St. Elvis, where I slept last night. Will you allow me to rest under the shadow of this hawthorn? What a beautiful child your daughter is!"

"Yes, she is well enough," answered Lettice stiffly; for she was always dubious whither such remarks might tend.

"She is so like some one who was very dear to me, and who died; that is why I wanted to take her likeness."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Is she your own child?" asked the stranger, in a low tone.

But he was not prepared to see Lettice start and turn very pale as she answered.

"No, she is not, but she does not know it. All the neighbours and townsfolk have been kind enough to keep my secret, and I shall never tell her. She is just the same as if she were my own, for I have had her ever since she was a little baby."

"How did you get her?" pursued her questioner, with difficulty concealing his agitation.

"Well, sir, 'tis a sad tale. Rather more than twelve years ago a fine ship, called the 'Ocean Queen,' foundered on yonder reef of rocks, and all hands were drowned. None were saved except this poor little helpless babe, who was found lashed to a spar and brought home by my father. The mother of the infant was cold in death, but one arm was round her baby when they found her. The sailors carried her into the cottage, where she lay until after the inquest. And on the following Sunday, we buried her in the old churchyard at St. Elvis."

"Does the child bear any resemblance to the mother?"

"Well, sir, I sometimes fancy she does; but features change after death, so I can scarcely tell. Do you know anything about the wreck, sir?"

"No, nothing; I never even heard of it before."

Lettice felt relieved.

"Then this stranger can surely have no claim on her," she thought, "but I must be careful what I say. I will not tell him about the locket, and I will never give her up to any one who cannot describe it accurately before seeing it."

Poor gentleman! She felt very sorry for him; he looked so forlorn and ill. He evidently had a sad history attached to him. And as the artist raised his dark eyes to hers, a remembrance of long ago flashed into her mind, but faded away before it could take a definite form.

"Do you make a long stay here, sir?" she asked presently.

"No; I go the next time the coach leaves St. Elvis. I suppose there is no other means of communication with the market town?"

"Not unless you order a carriage from there to fetch you, sir, but that is expensive," she added thoughtfully, looking at his shabby clothes. "The coach does not run again this week, sir."

"Then I must hire," he replied; "for there is no time to be lost. There is foul play somewhere."

Lettice wondered why he said this, but she did not remark on it.

"I will come again to-morrow, if you will allow me," he said earnestly. "I should like to finish my picture of the child."

"Oh, surely, sir, you are very welcome; I will tell her about it."

A pause, and then the stranger asked abruptly, "Where was she buried?"

"The poor lady, sir? For she 'was' a lady, I'm sure. Oh, it was up in the corner of the churchyard, by the sycamore trees, sir. If you would please wait here a few minutes, I could come with you and show you, and perhaps you would like to see the church also?"

"Thank you, I should; I will wait here until you are ready."

They were soon walking along the meadows, white and golden with daisies and buttercups, towards the old town. And as they went, the conversation turned upon the Rectory.

"I knew Dr. Pryse long ago," said the stranger, "and consider myself an old friend of the family."

"Indeed, sir; then of course you know about their trouble? Our dear pastor was aged before his time; he had a sorrow, sir, that well-nigh killed him."

"What was it?" said her listener.

Lettice paused before answering. It was unlike her to talk much of the affairs of others. Yet this gentleman was a friend of the family, and there was something about him which told her his question sprang not from impertinent curiosity.

"There could surely," she thought, "be no harm in telling what all the village knew."

"His only son, sir," she said at length, "such a fine, noble youth, his father's joy and pride; there were few that could show beside him for beauty, sir. He went away to London to his father's friend, Mr. Lyndwood, who, having no children of his own, offered to take him into his office and provide for him. Well, sir, I suppose he fell in with bad companions. I don't know, but I always will say I don't believe he meant to steal the money, and Miss Silexa has always said the same. We suppose he got into debt, and was afraid to tell his father, who was a terribly stern man at that time, over strict, sir, with all his children. But I think he learned his lesson when it was too late.

"Well, the news came one morning that his son had stolen bank notes to the value of two hundred pounds, and had disappeared. I shall never forget the father's rage. I was up at the Rectory at the time. He said he would never see his face again, and forbade Miss Pryse to have any communication with her brother. Soon after a letter came from Master Edward, but giving no address, begging his father to pay the money, and promising in the future to try and amend the past. A reply by advertisement was requested.

"Dr. Pryse took no notice of the letter, expecting if he waited long enough, the lad would come meekly back, and ask his forgiveness. But Miss Silexa knew it was not like Master Edward to do that—he had such a terribly high spirit; and she used to come down to our cottage and weep her heart out about it. Poor lady! She has had a troubled life of it since in many ways."

"And did the son write again?" asked the artist.

But Lettice did not perceive how he trembled.

"No, sir, at least not then; and as the years went on, his poor father seemed to bend lower and lower under the grief. He would have given all he had to bring him back. But though he and his friend Mr. Lyndwood made every inquiry, no tidings could be heard that would give the shadow of a hope. Why, it must be five-and-twenty years ago since he went away. How time flies!"

"Do you think the old man has ever forgiven his son?"

"Oh yes, sir. I am sure he has; he has learned too much of God's love himself to deny forgiveness to his son. I am certain, if he had come back, he would have fallen on his neck and kissed him, and killed for him the fatted calf. He can never read that chapter in church about David's lament over Absalom without breaking down."

"I suppose he has given up all hope now?" rejoined her auditor, in a questioning tone.

"Oh yes, sir; they all think, now, Master Edward must have died somewhere abroad, though, they began to hope again after they got the letter."

"I thought you said there was no letter."

"Not from him, sir. But twelve years after he went away, Mr. Lyndwood received the money again, with no name or address. He has been doing all he can ever since to find out where it came from."

"How very strange!" replied her questioner. "And so they are all gone away now?" he added. "Who is the young lady your daughter was telling me about?"

"Miss Eudora Meredith, sir, the child of Miss Silexa's sister, beautiful Miss Minnie Pryse, the pride of St. Elvis. She died within a year of her marriage. There is a sad story about that, sir. You must surely have heard it, if you are a friend of the family."

The stranger started, fearing he had betrayed himself. But the movement was unperceived by the innocent, simple-hearted woman, who waited for the answer.

"No, I have heard nothing. My home has been out of England for many years. Do tell me all you know, as I shall not see any of them myself now."

"True, sir; they will not be back until the fall of the year. I am sorry you will miss them. Well, I will tell you about Mrs. Meredith. She had more schooling than her elder sister, Miss Pryse; for there was always so much to be done at home that somehow she could not be spared, and their poor mother was an invalid for years before she died. Miss Minnie was one of the wildest, merriest-hearted girls I ever saw; a regular little mischievous one, always up to pranks. She was named after Dame Ermyn Brande, who was an ancestor of the Pryse family. You will see her monument directly over the Rectory pew, telling of her bequest to St. Elvis, but the child was never called anything but Minnie. After the death of Mrs. Pryse, she was sent away to school for, I think, five or six years. It was a long way off, so she seldom came home until she finished.

"And while she was absent, Captain Edward Meredith came to visit at the Rectory. His ship, the 'Eudora,' was anchored in the bay. Oh, but he 'was' a fine gentleman! I always say I never saw one as handsome except our Master Edward of the Rectory. Captain Meredith was, I believe, a year or two younger than Miss Pryse, but no one would have guessed it. They looked such a fine handsome couple as they walked about together; and everybody in St. Elvis and Porthmynwr thought it was going to be a match between them.

"I have seen Miss Silexa, when he used to be absent, most days walk along the cliff and shore, as if eagerly watching for his ship; and whenever his name was mentioned, she would look up to listen. If ever a man might have won a noble heart, it was he, sir, but perhaps he didn't know. Miss Silexa was a proud young woman, and never betrayed her feelings, but I had not seen such a glad look on her face since the day our Master Edward went away. I hoped she was going to find comfort in her affliction by becoming a happy wife."

"And how did it end?" said the stranger, pausing to take breath.

"It ended, sir, one summer when the 'Eudora' was lying out there in the bay at anchor. Miss Minnie had just returned from school, and every one was talking of her great beauty. I shall never forget the first Sunday I saw her come into church, with her blue eyes and golden hair, smiling like an angel. Captain Meredith went into the Rectory pew, and, I suppose, soon fell in love, for he was always with her after that, and in a little while, we heard they were engaged. They were married in the following spring, quite early in the year. They went away together for a trip somewhere, and then he had to bring her home here and leave her, as his ship was ordered away suddenly to foreign parts. His poor little wife drooped for him, and by degrees the rosy colour faded out of her cheeks.

"One November morning, I was sent for in haste to the Rectory. And my heart ached as I went over the threshold and heard the sound of bitter weeping. Miss Silexa met me with the newspaper in her hand, looking as pale as ashes. The 'Eudora' had gone down, and all in her had perished, except two sailors, who escaped to bring the news to land.

"Our beautiful Miss Minnie never looked up again. I stayed there all day, and in the evening, she gave birth to her little daughter. When she heard the baby's cry, she whispered to her sister,—

"'Call her Eudora, and take care of her for Edward's sake. I am going to him.'

"We tried by every means to rouse her, but she just sank away like a tired child going to sleep. I thought the double sorrow would have killed poor Dr. Pryse. We could not get him to leave the body; he sat moaning over it, holding the waxen hand in his, and crying out,—

"'My little Minnie! Look at me once more! Wake up, my darling!'"

"Miss Silexa did not shed a tear, but seemed turned into stone, as she sat rocking the poor baby on her knees. And she has been a mother to her ever since."

"It is indeed a sad story," said the gentleman, turning his back to Lettice, and stooping to gather a flower, by which action he managed to hide the tears that had filled his eyes. "The child must be a precious treasure," he added.

"Oh, sir, the old man dotes on her, and so does Miss Silexa; please God she may be spared to them! They nearly lost her last year when she was ill. She is very like her mother, only without her beautiful colour. I wish they were all home again. I think that is all I have to tell you, sir. And I see old John Jenkins coming. He will show you over the church. Step this way first, sir; here is the grave, and Mrs. Meredith's is next to it. I will wish you good-morning. Oh no, sir; I did not expect payment," she added hastily, as the stranger slipped a sovereign into her hand.

"Please accept it with my best thanks," he urged, in reply to her remonstrances, as an earnest look came into his dark eyes; "I will be at your cottage to-morrow."

There was no headstone to mark the resting-place of the drowned one; only the long grasses waved pleasantly over it, and there was a hushing sound in the sycamore branches above. He knelt beside it to pluck a few green blades, which he put into his pocket-book. He then passed on to look at the headstone next to it.

"So young to die!" he murmured, on reading the inscription.

"Would you please to go into the church, sir?" asked John Jenkins, who had come close to where he was standing. "'Tis a fine old church, folks say, sir," he added, as the gentleman turned to accompany him. "This doorway is Norman, and the tower is hundreds of years old, and I can show you some very ancient monuments."

The old pew-opener was proceeding to descant on these, when, to his surprise, he found the stranger had left him, and was now far ahead of him up the church aisle, and just turning into the Rectory pew, where he sat down, and was lost to view.

Old Jenkins did not follow him there, or he would have been still more astonished to find him sitting in one corner among the fusty cushions, with his head bowed low upon his hands, shedding, silently, bitter tears.

"A curious sort of a chap that!" thought the verger, as ten minutes later the gentleman reappeared, and putting some money in his hand abruptly left the church.

The artist kept his appointment the following morning, and finished the picture.

"Look, mother, what the gentleman gave me!" cried Ermyn, as she ran into the cottage. "A whole sovereign! Is it enough to buy a cow? You must take it and use it. Oh, we shall be rich some day," she added, kissing her. "I am doing such a beautiful piece of work now. A wreath of wild roses on white silk. Mrs. Llewellyn says it is the prettiest I ever did."

"It is far too much money, my child; I am sorry he gave it, for he seems poor himself, and I grieve from my heart for him. He looks as if life had pressed sore upon him with its burden."

St. Elvis opened its eyes in considerable astonishment the following morning, when a carriage and pair arrived from the market town, and the stranger stepped into it and drove off.

"I thought he was one of your poor travelling artists," remarked the ostler, who had shouldered the well-worn portmanteau.

"He paid his reckoning like a gentleman, anyhow," rejoined the landlady, "but I never saw a shabbier kit."

"He looked as if he hadn't a sixpence in the world to call his own," added a bystander; "and 'what' a hat!"

Molly was welcomed eagerly at the stone cross that morning, for she had something else to tell about the nameless and mysterious stranger.

"He was up late last night," she said, "prowling round the Rectory like a thief, peeping into all the windows and under the willow tree and all. And he picked the flowers, and actually went into the kitchen garden opposite, as if he had a right there. I didn't like to tell him he mustn't go there."

"Well, I never!" nodded the gossips, with upraised hands. "It was as well Miss Pryse wasn't at home. She would have ordered him off sharp. She don't like strangers about."

But none of these remarks reached the ear of our traveller, who was speeding on his way as fast as a pair of fleet horses could carry him to the nearest railway station, whence he was soon flying along in the express train towards Scotland.