Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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.