THE MYSTERIOUS LOCKET

BY

RUTH LYNN

AUTHOR OF

"CITY SPARROWS, AND WHO CARED FOR THEM"

WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. NO LIFEBOAT

II. MISS SILEXA

III. THE LOCKET SET IN PEARLS

IV. THE DESIRED HAVEN

V. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

VI. A LIGHT IN THE TUNNEL

VII. A PARABLE FROM NATURE

VIII. A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD

IX. A SUNNY GLEAM

X. THE GOLDEN SHORE

XI. THE SAINTED WELL

XII. THE LAIRD OF MUIRSTANE

XIII. BAFFLED HOPES

XIV. NANNIE'S HOME

XV. DAVID AND EUDORA

XVI. LOST AND FOUND

XVII. THE TREASURE CLAIMED

XVIII. CONCLUSION

THE MYSTERIOUS LOCKET

CHAPTER I

NO LIFEBOAT

THE harbour of Porthmynwr lies in a deep cleft, between high rocks, through which the sea flows inland, changing the voice with which even in summer it wails at the foot of the cliffs, till it whispers softly to some cottages in a sheltered valley.

The entrance to the little port is marked on one side by a bold point of dark red rock; on the other by a small jetty, which is said to have been built by the Romans, and which flings itself across, curving round with a graceful sweep.

The creek winds a little on its way up the valley, so that looking down from the hillside the water appears like a blue and silver snake lying between heather-clad rocks. The hills on either side rise steeply; and in summer on their sunny slopes purple and gold flowers bloom among the bracken fern, rustling grasses bend to the breeze, the honey-bee murmurs with sweet content, and the grasshoppers raise their chirrup; while around there floats that indescribably sweet smell, which comes only from the warm breath of summer, of dried grass, scented leaves, and flowers pressed under foot.

In winter, the great waves, angry with breaking against the point of rock, come riding in over the jetty, curling into each miniature cavern of the little bay, while the snowy sea-foam drifts up the gorge till it rests on the fields beyond. Yet even then, the harbour looks what it is, a haven of rest, offering safe shelter from the raging waters to such small craft as can make its narrow entrance. In the calm of summer weather, as the tide rises, slate and culm hulks ride in sleepy security. Higher up, some rowing boats chained to the rocks swing to and fro with each swirl of the advancing waters, which creep up and up until they lip the boundary line marked by the preceding tide against a sloping stone causeway on the right, and lay a fresh tribute of green seaweed on the stones and sand that almost touch the meadow-land beyond.

To the left are limekiln, whose white heat quivers in the still air, and where men burn the stone the hulks bring into harbour. A clear little stream comes chattering down the valley, to find its way to the ocean through the creek, and at the point where the fresh water mingles with the salt, ducks wade in and out, occasionally sailing towards the sea, but afraid to venture far when they feel the heave of the wave-swell against their breasts.

The white-roofed cottages are dotted about here and there, some on the hillside, and others close to the water's edge; the pastures stretch upwards among tracts of purple moorland, intersected by roads branching right and left, one of which leads to the town of St. Elvis, lying at the head of the valley.

A cottage stood by itself at the head of the creek, close to the stone causeway, where carts passed every day at low tide to take the culm from the stranded vessels. It was built on a promontory of red sandstone, covered with earth and tufts of coarse grass, and bounded at the foot by a kind of outwork wall, below which was a huge boulder of rock, with an iron ring firmly fastened into it, for securing the boats in rough weather.

The cottage was ancient, and of a shape difficult to describe, for it seemed to have had lean-to additions made at different times, thus presenting the appearance of three buildings joined together. One bit of the roof was slated, but the slates being very old had here and there started apart, and lichens and bright mosses filling up the interstices gave it a gay patchwork look. The rest was thatched, and heavy stones were placed upon it to keep the reeds from being blown off in the fearful storms that in winter sweep up through the ravine from the sea. Tufts of yellow flowers and grasses clung about the straw, and flourished; birds alighted to chatter round the dilapidated chimney, while beside it, ever in changeful rhythm, the brooklet sang an eternal song of longing towards the sea.

It was October, and all the summer songs were ended.

The autumn rains had turned the silver-shining stream into a turbid current that shot swiftly through the valley past sedge-lined banks, bearing on its bosom dead stalks and russet leaves. All day long the sullen sea had been surging and moaning, in anticipation of the coming storm, which, as the darkness deepened, seemed to gather all its strength for a stern struggle.

Seabirds circled and cried towards shore, as if sharing in the distress of the sailors who stood on the slippery jetty in the mist and spray, watching with hopeless eagerness the signals of distress from a ship which they knew, alas! was drifting surely on to her doom; for both wind and tide carried her each moment closer to the teeth of the jagged rocks, which must soon seize her for their prey.

"It will be too late soon, Father Roger," said a boy, whose impetuous youth chafed against the apparent calmness of the older men.

The sailor appealed to turned impatiently, only saying—

"Do you want to drown with them? Where's the good of talking like that?" adding to himself, "God help her now, for 'we' can't! What boat of ours could live in that sea?"

The white mist which enveloped the watchers drifted gradually on to the cottage, and covered it up; and the wildest of winds howled round it as if to tear it in pieces.

The red glow from a steadily burning fire of culm and clay lighted up the interior, revealing the shelves hollowed in the wall full of crockery, the wooden settle by the hearth, and the two cupboard-beds which stood like huge chests in the centre, dividing the room as by a partition. Above, among the rafters in the heather-lined roof, hung an empty wooden cradle; and as Lettice Gwynne knelt to pray for the safety of her old sailor-father, she looked up at it now with tear-dimmed eyes. Five-and-thirty years of life's toil and trouble had left their traces on the pale, sweet face, and to-night it wore an anxious weary look, as she heard the rising waters plash and gurgle against the boundary wall, and sudden gusts of wind shook the cottage to its very foundations.

"My little Ruth," she murmured; "my own baby; no need to rock the cradle now. The Good Shepherd has you in His arms, my lamb, and the cradle-bed in the churchyard is green and still. There will be wild work to-night," said she, rising, and sighing heavily. "I wish father had the boats anchored by this time. Oh, my God, keep him safe, this awful night."

A sleeping child was breathing softly near her in one of the cupboard-beds. And as he stirred, she looked lovingly at the boy of eleven years, David, her only son. His rosy sunburnt cheek was lying on one of the brown hands, and though his face was turned towards the flickering firelight, the eyelids were fast sealed, and no noise of rain or tempest without could disturb the youthful dreamer.

But his mother could not keep an easy watch beside him long; she must go to the door again to listen. In vain did she strain eyes and ears against the darkness and noise; the only sounds distinguishable were the booming waves breaking across the jetty, and the sullen sobbing of wind and rain.

"Is that you, Nancy Lewis?" cried she, suddenly catching sight of a fluttering shawl. "Come in, come in."

"Yes, I'm most drowned and torn to pieces with being out in such weather; there's no standing on the jetty, and 'tis as dark as pitch. I've come up to tell ye what's going on down there," rejoined the woman, pointing in the direction of the sea. "There's a fine ship gone to pieces out beyond the sunk rocks, and my Jem and your old father, with some more of 'em, have put off in a boat to try and pick up some of the poor creatures. But they'll all be drowned; nothing but a lifeboat could live in such a sea; and more's the shame there's never a one belonging to Porthmynwr. The water seems as if devils were raving in it, indeed it do."

Lettice could not answer; her lips and cheeks were ashy pale, for Nancy's words had recalled with terrible vividness a night-scene two years ago, when she had waited to welcome her husband, brave Richard Gwynne, and he had been borne home by his comrades, pale and silent in the death that had overtaken him amid those cruel, hungry waves. Never since that night had Lettice joined the groups of watching women on cliff or shore when a gale was blowing. She preferred to plead alone by her widowed hearth for the safety of those at sea.

"Did you say my father was gone?" she gasped, drawing Nancy in, and shutting the door. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, indeed," said Nancy; "he was the foremost to go, for all he's the oldest among 'em. None of 'em would have gone if it hadn't been for him," she added, sobbing; "and now I shall lose my Jem, and there's all those six little blessed innocents lying asleep to wake up fatherless in the morn. You've only one; 'tis not so hard on you."

The sharpest sting of all lay in this selfish ending of the speech, but Lettice pressed her lips together with a hard-set expression and did not speak. She was sending up a silent prayer from her stricken heart, whose anguish God alone could know, while Nancy ran on unheeding with her stream of words.

"I've been looking for this for weeks and months; I knew there'd be death close to us soon. I and my neighbours have seen the corpse-lights again and again blazing like a ball of straw, and there's many a one as has watched the ghost-funerals walking through the churchyard, and old Di Jones said to me, says she, 'Nancy, there'll be a funeral go up from Porthmynwr to St. Elvis afore we're many days older.'"

"Don't listen to her," said Lettice sharply; "she is always trying to frighten folk like that. Those who have the true light in their souls need not fear the corpse-candles. The good Lord would tell us in a better way than that, if He meant us to know things beforehand."

"Ah, it's fine talking," broke in Nancy, "but you know you wouldn't walk through St. Elvis churchyard after dark to save your life."

"And why not?" answered Lettice. "What harm would the dead quietly sleeping do to me? If I could help a living person by walking there, I would go any night with all my heart. What cause for fear have they who love the Lord Jesus, who 'died, and rose, and revived, that He might be Lord both of the dead and living'? Didn't He say, 'Nothing shall by any means hurt you'? I believe 'that,' Nancy, before all the old wives' words. And when I walk home from St. Elvis of a night, I always like to think His angels are walking beside me, and I say to myself,—

"'I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,'

"And He never lets me be afraid."

Nancy shook her head incredulously, saying, "There's wiser folk than me nor you as have seen the corpse-lights and funerals, and it's a lucky thing for you that you are not afraid of them, and that's all I've got to say. And now I must be off again, and see what's doing down the creek. That's my Jem's voice," she cried, springing towards the door, "or I'm not a living woman. Ay, they're calling and hollering fine about something."

"Stand back!" shouted Old Roger Rudd, as Lettice stepped forward with her companion to welcome her father.

"Don't be frightened, my lass; there's work for you to do, though I fear it be too late. A wreck and all hands lost!"

No need to add more, for the light streaming upon the causeway from the cottage showed what the sailors were carrying.

"Try and save her, Lettice; mayhap some brandy might bring her round, though indeed," added poor Old Roger, trembling, "I fear it's no use now. Well, well, only to think! They were both lashed to a spar, and it's all that's left of the noble ship."

A baby's cry made Lettice deaf to the remainder of the sentence, and Old Roger, placing in her arms an infant a year and a half old, wrapped in a bit of old fishing-net, turned to assist the other men in carrying the silent sleeper within shelter of the cottage. One look at the young face showed Lettice that the sail which carefully covered the slender form was a shroud for the dead.

"Can nothing be done?" said Roger, as tears coursed down his weather-beaten cheek. "Poor lass!" he added, seeing Lettice shake her head. "The storm has, I hope, landed her in the haven where she would be safe with the Lord who walked on the waters. The vessel foundered upon yonder reef, and I reckon the fog hid the lighthouse. The sea is running mountains high, and no boat could have got near them."

"Poor young thing!" said Lettice. "Not more than twenty-five, I should say."

And the widow wept as she turned to hush the wailing of the motherless babe. Tenderly she carried it to the fire, and taking off the coarse netting and soaked little shirt, chafed the tiny limbs until they warmed and revived.

Only a year ago her own baby-girl had thus lain upon her knees, but God had taken her away to Himself, and the cradle had been left empty. How often, with sore eyes and heart, had Lettice looked at it! She could not bear to put it away quite out of sight, so for months it had hung among the heather up in the roof.

And now some baby garments were taken from the chest in the corner, and as the little hands passed through the sleeves Lettice whispered, "Darling little Ruth! The daisies are growing on your cradle-bed, and you are singing with God's angels above the sky."

And laying the helpless little stranger down on the settle, she mounted a chair and unfastened the cradle from the rafters. The mother's heart ached as she set it on the floor, but the rescued babe knew nought of this as, in a soft blanket, it was gently laid within it, and rocked to rest before the bright fire.

Roger went out with the other sailors to make fast his boats and see if there was anything more to be done before night. And Nancy stayed with Lettice to assist in arranging the body.

Lettice had no fears as she closed the dead eyes, and folded the small hand with the wedding ring on it over the other across the breast that had done with life's heavings now. While doing so, she observed a small gold chain and locket set in pearls round the throat, which she gently disengaged and put carefully aside. Inside the locket were two curls of hair and a monogram worked in gold thread across them. It was the only token by which to identify the body or discover the story of this life so early closed, for the silent lips could not reveal the secret.

They laid her in an inner room, where nets and fishing-tackle were strewn about, on a mattress taken from one of the beds, and, according to the custom in those parts, placed lighted candles at the head and feet.

Lettice kissed the lovely face, and then covered it reverently, saying, as she closed the door, "May God's angels keep watch here to-night, as they did by our blessed Saviour's tomb."

CHAPTER II

MISS SILEXA

THE small town of St. Elvis was early astir the following morning with tidings of the wreck. Dick Rees, from Clythwr Farm, half-way down the valley, had been among the first to bring the news, and knots of eager talkers and listeners soon gathered in the principal street, round the steps of the old stone cross, to add to the gossip which grew as rapidly as a rolling snowball.

"Who could she be? What would happen to the child? Who would be at the inquest? And when would the burying take place?" were the foremost among the questions on that autumn morning.

The small corner shop, kept by Meg Evans, the postmistress, was soon filled to overflowing, and Nancy Lewis found herself a most important personage, as she let out, bit by bit, all the slower in proportion to the anxiety of her hearers, the particulars of the sad scene of the night before.

"She's a lady, whatever they may say," repeated Nancy, "for her hands are as white as yon cloud, and never been used to hard work, for sure; and her beautiful long hair was a-hanging about her like seaweed when they brought her in, and the baby bleating like a lamb for its mother. Indeed, it's as sweet a corpse as ever I looked upon."

"Ah well, ah well, poor thing, her troubles are over now." "Indeed and indeed, I'm sorry from my heart," said one and another, while each woman secretly resolved to visit Lettice Gwynne's cottage before the day was much further advanced; for a death in St. Elvis or its peculiarly healthy neighbourhood was such a rare event that the sight of the body was not to be resisted.

Old John Jenkins, the pew-opener, discussed the matter with Will Jones, the ancient gravedigger, who stood leaning on his spade just inside the churchyard gate. And Old Dinah Jones, wife to the latter, lost no time in hurrying up in high hat and cloak, stick in hand, from Porthmynwr to the Rectory kitchen.

There Miss Silexa Pryse found her scaring Molly the servant with facts, which Dinah affirmed to be a perfect fulfilment of her prophecies concerning corpse-lights and ghost-funerals. The girl stood, kettle in hand, with wide staring eyes of fright and wonder, watching her narrator, while Eudora, a little child of six years old, crouched beside the dresser, terrified by this dismal story of death and drowning.

The effect of Miss Silexa's entrance was like that of a flash of lightning.

"What are you standing staring there for, you great goose?" said she, angrily facing the petrified girl. "Get on with your work, and remember life's short enough to do it in; that's 'your' lesson for to-day if you'll learn it, you idle wench."

"Eh! But, Miss Pryse—have you heard?" interrupted Old Dinah.

"Heard!" screamed Silexa. "Who could help hearing, I should like to know; with all the women like a pack of crows over a bit of meat, and the men with their tongues wagging like a thirsty dog's? Of course we have heard. You didn't think but that the Rectory would be the first to be told. And now I suppose you've been gabbling on to Molly all your pack of lies and nonsense about corpse-candles and such-like rubbish, and you think it all true because God in His wise providence has chosen to take that poor soul unto Himself, and her body is to lie with us here at St. Elvis. 'Tis a pity you have not got something better to think about.

"Here, Dora, child, run and feed the fowls; they are calling for their breakfast. You will find the corn-basket on the store-room table.

"I should have thought you would have known better," she added, as the child ran off, "than to talk such stuff before that baby, who is as frightened as a bird at all times, with that scared look in her blue eyes. Go home, Di. I've no charing to be done to-day, and you only hinder Molly if your hands are not scrubbing or carrying, and she's idle enough as it is. Here, wait a minute."

And the mistress dived into the larder, reappearing in the space of time that the old woman took to hobble across the kitchen to the door. "I expect you haven't had your breakfast; gossip is as satisfying as food, no doubt. Take this plate of potatoes and this bit of dripping, and fry yourself a good meal, and to-morrow there'll be a day's work for you here, for we shall be busy."

Old Dinah grasped the plate with a thankful clutch as her bright eyes twinkled greedily over it, but with her thanks there mingled disappointed mutterings about the news she thought she had been the first to bring, and Miss Silexa's reception thereof.