Ella's treasure: a story of two continents

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Without God in the World. 7

II. Dark Memories . 10

CHAPTER ONE “Without God in the World”

A bright, glorious day in May was nearing its end. The sun was gently sinking to rest in the glowing west. Within the twilight of the woods deep silence reigned, unbroken even by the forces of nature mightily at work to call forth new, rich forms of life from the stirring bosom of the earth warmed and softened by the sunshine and showers of advancing spring. The lofty tree tops w T ere yet basking in the last rays of the setting sun, and from their topmost branches a thrush here and there was singing its vesper song to the departing day.

A broad highway wound its length between the woods on the right and jutting rocks on the left amidst which sturdy clusters of wintergreen grew in rich profusion. Gnarled roots and massive bowlders were covered with moss of many hues revealed by the adventurous rays of the sun that had found their way through the labyrinth of branches overhead. A few small lambs of snowy whiteness were eagerly nibbling the sprouting grass along the edge of the ditch by the roadside, now and then break¬ ing the silence by their plaintive bleating.

It was one of those sweet, fragrant spring evenings that linger pleasantly in our memory, and attune our minds to thoughts of gratitude to God, the giver of every good thing in nature and in life.

But to all this the lone woman gave no thought as she hurried along the winding path in the woods, her eyes staring unheedingly before her, as if she wished to shut out the sight of these evidences of God’s goodness and love.

To judge from her dress, which was neat but faded and threadbare, she was in straightened circumstances, although a certain dignity of bearing seemed to bear wit¬ ness of innate refinement and breeding. Her age might be in the neighborhood of thirty years, and sorrow rather than years had plowed deep furrows in her brow.

The expression in her features and in her fine dark brown eyes was hard and defiant, and bitterness played about her tightly compressed lips.

Her set, defiant face seemed to fling a challenge to the world at large, as if to say: If the world has been cruel and harsh toward me, I will repay it in kind. Though added burdens of sorrow are in store for me, I will not tamely bend my back.

By this time the woman had reached the highway. Before her an avenue leading up to the ironworks and manor house of North River made a wide opening in the woods. She crossed the highway and took a few steps along the avenue. Then she stopped and leaned her head wearily against the gray stem of an old fir. Her hard features softened, and a look of pathos crept into her eyes as she stood gazing upon the surprisingly beautiful vistas spread out before her. But the view contained no element of surprise to her. Many a time before had her eyes feasted upon the palatial manor house with its ancient aristocratic exterior and its evidences of modern comfort and luxury. Behind the mansion and its spacious park¬ like grounds could be seen the broad expanse of a lake dotted with islets that seemed to float lightly upon its glittering surface. In the broad valley to the left, where the gentle murmur of a brook vainly vied with the thunder¬ ous beat of the hammers in the steel mill, the smokestacks of the foundry towered high above the trees of the neigh¬ boring forest. Farther off the harsh, shrill song of a saw¬ mill was wafted in softer accents to the listener’s ears. The entire valley spoke loudly of restless activity, just as restless as the surging thoughts and memories that seethed in the mind of the lonely woman looking out upon the scene before her.

How many a time had she, Marie of Great Meadows, known as the prettiest and richest girl in the district, traversed the grounds and forests of this wide domain accompanied by hosts of admiring friends!

On yonder point jutting out into the lake stood the venerable old parish church with its steep-pitched roof and its towering spire. The sight of it called forth the memory of a day when she, myrtle cowned and arrayed in bridal veil, had w T alked proud as a queen up the central aisle to the altar, where she had spoken vows of love and fidelity in joy and sorrow, in prosperity and adversity. How utterly empty and meaningless those vows now seemed!

The ancient fir under which she now stood had many a time beheld her in the pride and beauty of early girl¬ hood and womanhood envied and admired by all, the cy¬ nosure of all eyes. Now she stood there alone and forgot-

IO Ella’s Treasure

ten, poor and forsaken, friends and happiness alike lost to

her.

The saddest thought of all—without God in this hard and cruel world!

CHAPTER TWO Dark Memories

For a long time Marie stood contemplating the view before her. She knew every winding path, every gnarled root, every open glade in the woods, every bend in the mountain stream, every rock washed by its turbulent waters—all were as familiar to her as her own features, all had thrilled her heart anew with every coming spring ever since she was a little girl pattering along at her mother’s side to yonder parish church.

Everything was as beautiful and bright as it always had been—everything but her poor lonely self. With kaleido¬ scopic vividness and rapidity her whole life passed in re¬ view before her mind’s eye. Long forgotten incidents and events recurred to her with startling clearness, until her heart ached and her eyes smarted with the briny tears that she vainly tried to wipe away.

She saw herself as a self-willed and indulged child of wealthy parents, Magistrate Carl Clarkson and his wife Anna Marie of Great Meadows, who had the reputation of being just as rich in pride as in goods and property.

Then she saw herself budding into young womanhood, tall of figure and fair of features, with sparkling dark brown eyes and cheeks like the glow of early morning. How well she remembered the pride she had felt when she attracted more admirers than her pretty sister Agnes, with

Ella’s Treasure i i

whom she had never been able to live in peace and con¬ cord !

Again she saw the throng of young men from far and near who had been attracted by her beauty, her sparkling wit, and, it must be confessed, by her great expectations of wealth and position. With almost brutal frankness she had given them all to understand that their prospects were small indeed of winning the heart and hand of such a girl as Marie of Great Meadows.

With anguished heart she recalled the manly face and figure of one youth who would never have ventured to approach her, had not her feminine arts lured him on. And when he put his hopes and his all to the test, how heartlessly had she not trampled upon his loyalty and his love! She rejected him because the riches he had to be¬ stow on her consisted, not in gold and position, but only in a noble, faithful heart, and sturdy, capable hands.

How vain and foolish she had been! Rather had she surrendered the warmth and sunshine of a faithful love than her dreams of wealth and station in life.

In her folly she had reasoned then that her beauty and her talents must not be buried in the simple round of duties of a humble home, where she would be outranked by her sister and her friends, over whom she had queened it so haughtily. Proudly she had determined that of all the women in the district she would yield precedence to none with the possible exception of Baroness von Bielertz of North River Manor.

In consequence of this determination she had at last without hesitation given her hand to Henry Bernard, the proud owner of stately Elmwood. Henry was a man whom she neither loved nor respected, but whose beauti¬ ful estate and broad acres had won her heart. Well she realized that it did not compare with North River Manor, and that she could not hope to rival the baroness, but she would far outstrip all other rivals in wealth and station. Her husband’s vacillating character assured her of abso¬ lute sway in her own home.

One of the reasons for her hasty resolve to marry was that she no longer felt at ease in the home of her child¬ hood. Her sister Agnes had married a childless, wealthy widower, who after the death of her father had assumed the management of Great Meadows, and she soon discov¬ ered that it would be impossible for her to endure the domineering control of her sister Agnes in the home where she, the self-willed Marie, before had ruled supreme. She therefore regarded it as a great personal triumph when she could display the beauties and advantages of her own home to her secretly envious sister.

At Elmwood Marie fondly believed that her happiness was assured for all time to come. Here her vanity re¬ ceived its full meed of adulation. Here her rule was unquestioned, not only by dependents, but also by her dot¬ ing husband, who greatly admired his pretty wife, and never ventured to cross her will. For this she secretly despised her husband, and used his wealth only as a means to further her social ambitions. Not content with being an honored member of the respectable middle class, she exerted all her skill to gain admission into the exclusive circle of the gentry.

But this was far from being an easy matter. Despite his wealth, her husband was rustic and unpolished in his manner. The atmosphere of the farm clung to him as the soil to his boots. Therefore Marie determined that her husband must become a merchant and thus rise to a higher position in the social scale.

With her customary vigor and resolution Marie brought about this change and henceforth the young cou¬ ple at Elmwood assumed the name of their country place and came to be known as Mr. and Mrs. Elmwood. Marie at once began a campaign of conquest where costly dinners and fashionable receptions played an important part.

Toward her sister she now began to assume an air of lofty condescension that caused the former’s blood to boil with anger and wounded pride. The thrifty mistress of Great Meadows warned her sister of the dire results of her extravagance, but all such warnings were received with a smile of superiority, and dismissed as being prompted by envy alone.

But the day dawned when Marie was to experience the truth of the saying, “Pride goeth before a fall.” If her life had hitherto been, outwardly at least, a flower-strewn path, it now became a thorny path, indeed, that plunged her into the depths of misery and despair.

Her husband wholly lacked the ability to carry on suc¬ cessfully the various intricate business enterprises upon which he had launched; nor had he the firmness neces¬ sary to stem the tide of extravagance which was bearing him irresistibly onward to financial ruin. To escape un¬ pleasant scenes he kept his impending insolvency a deep secret from his wife. With utmost secrecy he converted into money the poor remnants of his once large estate, and then one night he absconded without giving his wife the least intimation of his future plans or destination.

This blow fell with crushing effect upon Marie. She shrewdly suspected that financial difficulties were the cause of her husband’s sudden flight. These suspicions were promptlv verified when in one fell swoop adversity descended upon her, sweeping away all that she had prized most in life, and leaving her with her three little girls utterly impoverished and defenseless.

What was she to do now? Her relations with her sister Agnes had never been cordial. From earliest child¬ hood a bitter rivalry had existed between them who should have been united by bonds of sisterly love and sympathy. Least of all would her still unbroken pride permit Marie to turn to her sister for help in her adver¬ sity.

But partly for the sake of public opinion and partly from a reluctant sense of duty, Agnes desired to appear generous and magnanimous. She induced her husband to provide a yearly sum sufficient for the rental of two small rooms. “As for the rest,” she said, “Marie must earn her own living. She is young and strong, and it is high time for her to learn the blessedness of honest labor instead of continuing in her attempts to play the part of a grand lady.”

Yes, Marie realized that she must find employment. But what should she do? Aside from cooking, which she had learned from her mother, fine sewing was her only accomplishment. Pride and expediency alike caused her to decide upon sewing as a means of livelihood. But she found it no easy matter to support herself and her three children by this means, especially in the rural districts where the earnings of a seamstress were small indeed. Early and late she labored to provide food and clothing for her little ones, and smarting eyes and hollow cheeks bore witness of the desperate nature of her efforts. Pov¬ erty and want stared her in the face, anguish filled her heart and tears dimmed here eyes, but her proud nature i5

remained unbroken, and she presented a defiant front to a cruel and unfeeling world.

There was One, however, whose heart went out with loving sympathy for the poor woman, namely He before whose eyes all things are naked and laid open. But Marie did not know Him. To her He was the unknown God whose helping hand she thrust aside, and whose knocking at the door of her heart she left unheeded. Weighed down by misfortune as she was, the thought of God’s love served only to harden her heart, and His Word served no other purpose than to furnish texts for sermons that made no appeal to her, because she could not think of God as a living and present God, who interfered in behalf of His poor, suffering children here below.

Jesus, “The Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world,” had once occupied a place in a gilded frame on a wall of her former home, but there had never been any room for Him in her heart. Therefore she continued on her dark and weary way without God, without hope. She considered herself forsaken by God and man, never stopping to realize that her own proud nature had erected a barrier between herself and the love and sympathy of God and her fellow men. If her self-will and sinful pride were to be humbled, God must needs employ sterner measures to accomplish this.

Her youngest daughter, little Rosa, was the darling of her mother’s heart. One day it was discovered that she had been seized with scarlet fever then prevalent in the neighborhood. Already many a loving mother was shed¬ ding tears of bereavement upon the new-made graves of dear ones in the churchyard near the shores of the lake.

For several days Marie fought for the life of her little darling, and at last death seemed to acknowledge defeat.

A sudden turn in the sickness gave promise of convales¬ cence. The mother wiped away her tears and began to hope.

But her bitter cup of sorrow was not yet full. Through the sickness of Rosa and her oldest sister Vera the mother’s slender resources were completely exhausted, proper nourishment was lacking to restore the strength of her dear ones. Especially did it tear the mother’s heart to hear little Rosa vainly calling for milk, of which there was no supply. Marie was still too proud to beg, or to reveal to the world her dire necessity.

As a result, Rosa suffered a sudden relapse. In despair the frantic mother swallowed her pride and rushed to a neighbor, pleading for a cup of milk. This she promptly received, but when she got home she found that help had come too late. The Good Shepherd had come to carry home His little Lamb in His arms. Little Rosa had been transplanted in better soil, but her despairing mother thought of her only as dead and lost to her forever.

Marie was inconsolable. All other trials were as noth¬ ing in comparison with this bitter blow. Had God sent this sorrow upon her? How then could He be the God of love?

Or was it a punishment for her sin? If so, what par¬ ticular sin had she committed to merit punishment so se¬ vere? In her days of prosperity had she ever turned the poor and needy away from her door? Had she not rather sought them out and supplied their wants with lavish hand? Why then should this affliction befall her?

Alas for her proud heart! It was impossible for her to see that she had been sufficient unto herself, and had gone her own way without thought of God or the need of His loving guidance.

If she only had a single true friend to whom she might now turn! Had her mother lived she would have known how to cheer and comfort her. But death had long since deprived her of a mother whose unwise indulgence had done much to spoil her favorite child. Perhaps her sister would come to her aid. She would flee to Agnes and implore her forgiveness for past offenses. Perhaps some crumbs of the abundance in her childhood’s home would fall to her lot. Surely Agnes would not slam the door in her face. She might even supply a bereaved mother with a little white shroud with which to deck Rosa for her last sleep.

For Marie to resolve was to act. She left her two little girls and her dead Rosa in the care of a neighbor woman and started off on foot for her distant home. She gave no thought to her faded dress and shabby shoes. An irre¬ sistible yearning drew her onward to the dear home of her childhood, within which she had not set her foot since her husband left her a destitute and forsaken woman three years ago.

The large two-story building with its handsome trim¬ mings and pretty grounds was just as she remembered it from by-gone days. The windows stood open, and the curtains fluttered gently in the spring breeze, as if to beckon her and bid her welcome home. The old oak still cast its shade over the house, and the two weeping birches still stood sentinel one on each side of the main entrance. The cherry trees were decked in pure white, and the sanded path along which she was hurrying was bordered with dainty spring flowers that seemed to join with the thrush in the top of the oak in sending her a joyous greet¬ ing.

Would Agnes also have a word of welcome for her sorrowing and penitent sister? So Marie asked herself anxiously, as she turned the knob of the kitchen door and hesitatingly entered in.

The mistress of the house and her maids were busily engaged in baking. The fire from the open hearth was re¬ flected from the brightly polished copper and tin ware arranged along the shelves fastened to the kitchen walls.

So busily occupied was Agnes that several minutes elapsed before she became aware of her sister’s presence. When the mistress of Great Meadows did observe her, Marie was destined to drain the last bitter dregs in her cup of sorrow. The reception accorded Marie by her sister and brother-in-law was of the coolest. It was ap¬ parent that they had neither forgotten nor forgiven the slights they had suffered at the hands of the proud mis¬ tress of Elmwood. Biting words and stinging allusions were showered upon her. She was repeatedly reminded of their munificence in bestowing on her the annuity nec¬ essary to pay the rent for her humble home, and this without any hope or expectation of ever being repaid.

Marie’s arrival also caused an annoying interruption in the pressing work of kitchen and pantry that day. A great dinner party was to be held at Great Meadows in honor of their only son, whose tenth birthday anniver¬ sary was to be celebrated with lavish display. All the notables of the neighborhood were invited, and the fond mother hoped that the feast she was providing would be the talk of the district for weeks and months to come.

The son was a robust, handsome boy of lively disposi¬ tion, and thoroughly spoiled by his doting parents, over whom he lorded it as a tyrant.

Having overheard the words of his elders, this spoiled child now gave his aunt to understand that her presence in the house at this time would be a disgrace to himself and his parents, and was therefore not to be thought of.

There they stood confronting each other, the woman of twenty-eight and the boy of ten, so like each other in appearance and temperament that they might well have been taken for mother and son, pride and anger flashing from two pairs of dark brown eyes.

“You are the very picture of what I once was!” Marie cried. “But the hand of God has laid hold on me and punished me for my pride. Some day God will also pun¬ ish you more severely, perhaps, than he has punished me.”

Then turning to her sister Agnes, she continued: “And you, Agnes, who laugh at your son when he tramples upon the feelings of your poor sister, if there is a righteous God in heaven, you will have more of sorrow than of joy in your child. An now I take heaven and earth to witness that my foot shall never again cross your threshold, nor will I ever again accept so much as a drink of water un¬ der this roof. Here also I fling at your feet the pittance you gave me to help defray the expenses of my poor little Rosa’s burial. Take it and give it to your son as a reward for the fidelity with which he has interpreted the feelings of his parents toward a crushed and despairing kins¬ woman. Farewell for ever!”

With flashing eyes and burning cheeks she stood before her relatives as an avenging Nemesis. Pale as death, Ag¬ nes used her best efforts to persuade her sister to stay over night at least. In the morning, she promised, they would take her home in the carriage. They would sup¬ ply her with a basket of food for her children, and would also furnish a suitable shroud for poor little Rosa.

“Not another minute will I stay here,” Marie declared in a voice of icy coldness. “Never again will I enter this place which was once my home, but which this day has witnessed the last ties of love and kinship severed and trampled under foot. I pity you, if God one day deals with you as you have dealt with me.”

With these terrible words Marie vanished through the door, leaving her relatives mute and stricken. With lag¬ ging steps she proceeded along the way uniting two homes, neither of which had anything but sorrow to offer her. Gladly would she have eased her heart pain by giving vent to loud lamentations, but she had learned to control her wounded feelings and repress her anguish, though her heart was near to bursting.

So this was the end of her hopes! Whither should she now turn for help and consolation ? Musing thus despair¬ ingly, she became aware of tripping steps approaching, and of a child’s voice calling to her:

“Auntie, Auntie! Forgive me—come back! Dear, dear Auntie, come back to us! Forgive me, or I will never have another happy day! O Auntie, come!”

The anguished words reached her ears, but she did not pause to behold the sorrowful face and the tear-dimmed eyes of the pleading boy. Hardening her heart, she pro¬ ceeded on her way as if she had neither seen nor heard him.

“Auntie, dear Auntie, forgive me. I was a naughty and wicked boy, but I will never treat you so again, if you will only forgive me, and mama, and papa, and come back with me now. Do come, Auntie!”

But Marie was deaf to his pleadings, and continued on her way until she could no longer hear the heart-rending sobs of her little nephew. But she could not hinder their echo from resounding in her heart as she passed wellknown landmarks about which the tenderest memories of her childhood clustered, but which now only added to the bitterness of her despair.

But she must not dwell on these memories of former days, nor loiter on the w~ay. The red disk of the sun was rapidly sinking toward the horizon in the west, and as yet she did not know where she would find a place to rest her tired limbs for the night. She must make haste to reach a place where no one knew her, and where she might weep out her grief unseen.

Poor Marie, she dared not hope that God would guide her to a friendly haven. She felt that God’s anger rested heavily upon her, and that she had less of mercy to expect from Him than from her fellow men. Had she only known it, she would have been cheered by the thought that the all-seeing eyes of God were upon her, that they fol¬ lowed this poor, bleeding sheep lost in the wilderness, and that the Shepherd’s loving arms were already extended to save and rescue her.

But of this Marie had no knowledge, as she trudged wearily along, plunged in dark, brooding thoughts. The fragrance of the forest assailed her, the songs of thrushes were borne upon the evening breeze to her ears; but all the beauties of nature only served to lend added weight to the burden of anguish and hopelessness that filled her soul.

CHAPTER THREE Kiln Point

The highway along which Marie was walking made a sudden turn round a steep bluff overgrown with towering pines. As Marie made the turn, she stopped amazed and thrilled by the magnificent view that opened up before her, bathed in the rays of the setting sun.

The swift stream, whose deep bass blended musically with the happy spring songs of the forest in the neigh¬ borhood of the ironworks, here bridled its turbulence after having plunged over the falls into a deep, broad basin, where it continued on its way as calm and serene as it before had been noisy and riotous.

Some rods beyond the highway it flowed round a point of land covered with pine trees fringed by birches and elms on the side facing the. stream. This point of land was locally known as Kiln Point from the ruins of an ancient kiln which had occupied the extreme point for hundreds of years. Only a trace of the kiln now remained, but in the center of the point where the trees had been removed now stood a new-built cottage, whose yellow boards were as yet innocent of paint, but in whose open windows snow-white curtains fluttered in the evening breeze. The solemn pines, the elms and birches of lighter hue, the sparkling river that girdled the point, all these presented a picture so attractive that the lonely wanderer on the highway was aroused from her gloomy reveries, and paused to feast her eyes upon the scene.

How well she knew the place and the legends -of ghosts and witchcraft that clustered about the ancient kiln. Farther up the point could still be seen half-buried stones from the foundation of a cottage long since fallen to ruins and removed. According to local tradition this cottage had been occupied by an old woman whose name was Ella, and who was known and feared throughout the district as a witch of evil repute.

On black and stormy nights many a wayfarer had seen the glimmer of a light flitting from place to place at this point, and the old people said with a shake of the head that it was old Ella who was out again hunting for hidden treasure.

Marie well remembered how frightened she had been when she had to pass this place after dark, momentarily expecting to catch a glimpse of Ella and her flickering lantern. But now Kiln Point no longer seemed haunted by ghosts and witches. From her position on the highway under the bluff it appeared to Marie a veritable fairyland.

“Surely,” she thought, “those who have braved the superstitions of the place, and have created for themselves a little paradise here, must be happy people, and at peace with all the world.”

The tramping of a horse and the grinding of wheels suddenly aroused Marie from her reveries.

“Who lives here?” she abruptly asked the boy driving the cart.

“Otto Leander,” replied the boy. “He has bought the Point from John Flood of Floodhurst, and built the cot¬ tage yonder.”

“What is the place called now?” Marie inquired.

“O, people still call it Kiln Point, but I have heard that the baroness wants it to be known as Fair Point,” the boy informed her, shaking the reins to start his horse.

Marie lingered as if she found it impossible to tear her gaze from the neat little cottage on the Point. Her cheeks grew paler, and her breast heaved with sudden emotion.

So this was the home that Otto Leander and his wife Gertrude had built for themselves through their thrift and the blessing of God!