Chapter XV: David and Eudora

THE summer sunshine was glowing fervently in the green Welsh valley, its sleepy stillness being scarcely broken by a sound. The dusky long-horned cattle strayed dreamily along to stand in a cool swamp near the stream, or sought the shadow of bits of projecting rock, as they whisked off swarms of persistent flies with their tails. The murmur of bees was heard in one long hum through the flowers, and a cloudless blue sky canopied over all. Even the sea had a slumbrous sound, as the sparkling ripples ran up in succession over the shining sand, for there was no wind to wake them into mirth.

The ivy-grown Rectory was still and quiet, with every blind drawn-down to keep the sunbeams from the shabby carpets and curtains. This was one of Silexa's careful habits, and she often sighed to find that in spite of her vigilance, both colour and pattern had somehow contrived to escape. Voices and clatter were combined as usual at the back door, where the daily business went on in the old accustomed round. But in front, the flowers in the small circular beds on the lawn seemed to have it all to themselves. But no, surely the thick branches of the weeping willow stirred, as a sound of merry laughter came from beneath its leaves.

"It is much too hot in here," cried Eudora; "this close green keeps away all the air from us."

"I thought you would find it so," laughed Ermyn, "but we need not stay here. Let us go across to the garden opposite. There are so many shady corners there."

"Yes, so we will," replied Eudora, "but let me run in first and fetch my hat. The shadows will soon lengthen now, and when it gets cooler, we will walk towards the sea."

"How bright and strong she has grown!" thought Ermyn, as she watched the lithe figure step across the grass. "Her hair looks as if sunbeams were at play in it. Oh, how glad I am to have my darling back again!"

The two girls formed a striking contrast, as, with their arms linked together, they passed through the Rectory gate and crossed the road—Ermyn's hair shining glossy and dark against Eudora's soft, golden locks. The blue eyes and delicate complexion of one fair face setting off the rich, rare beauty of the other.

The enclosure they entered was a good specimen of a thoroughly old-fashioned garden, or rather gardens, for there were four or five of them leading out of one another by small doors. In the first were mostly flowers—roses, sweet-peas, mignonette, hollyhocks, geraniums, clove carnations, nasturtiums, and scabius. It was too hot to linger here, so Eudora led the way down a step into the next division. It was a well-stocked place, but instead of trim neatness there was luxuriant confusion. A dear old rural garden, telling of plenty and contentment, as one sat in its quiet nooks, far-away from the hurry and haste of noisy, panting cities.

"Let us climb up on this medlar bough," cried Ermyn, as, springing lightly from the ground, a canopy of leaves spread green above her.

"Is there room for two?" said Eudora. "Ah yes, there is a dear little niche close to the trunk; that is delightful! Now, Ermyn, I am quite sure you have a great deal more to tell me."

For it seemed to Eudora that hitherto she had had all the talk. There had been so much to relate, the friends having been separated for a longer period than was at first anticipated when the flitting took place from the Rectory.

The year that had been such a long and sad one in the cottage by the creek had brought back with its autumn tints the good old rector and his daughter, but not Eudora. The change to Southsands had done such wonders for the delicate girl, that the doctor whom Miss Pryse consulted there thought it would be a foolish risk to expose her to another winter in St. Elvis until her health was thoroughly re-established. Silexa had therefore yielded to the kind entreaties of Mr. Lyndwood's friends that she might stay with them until she was quite strong.

So, in the midst of a happy household of healthy, merry young people, our quiet Eudora had found that good spirits and innocent recreations, combined with numerous interesting and intellectual pursuits, were among the good gifts showered down from the bounteous hand of our loving Father, "who giveth us all things richly to enjoy."

It was a bright page in her life; and she was delighted to go over it all again with Ermyn, who had pined and longed for her friend, thinking the spring would never pass. But it did at last, and in the summer sunshine her darling had come back. They both felt the talks would never end.

"But, Ermyn, why did you not tell me about David?" whispered Eudora, burying her head among the thick leaves to hide the blush that deepened on her cheek.

"We wanted it to be a surprise to you," replied Ermyn, without looking round. "Davie made us all promise faithfully we would not tell; and you don't know how very difficult it was to keep the secret in my letters."

"But you did keep it," laughed Eudora, untying her hat and flinging it on the ground. "I was sitting in the old high pew with auntie that Sunday, when, just as service began, and I expected as usual to see grandpapa's white head appear in the reading-desk, whom should I see but David! I could not believe it at first, for I did not even know he was at home. How I started when I heard his voice! Auntie gave a little smile from her corner, and then made herself grave again; while I—oh, Ermyn, how foolish I was!—I was obliged to bend my head quite low and pretend to be looking for a book on the cushion, because the tears would come into my eyes."

"He is such a dear, good brother," said Ermyn; "I am so proud of him, and I cannot tell you what it is to have him once more in the old home. Our precious mother has not to work any more now, you know. Davie will not let her, and she looks so sweet in the nice black silk gown he brought her. No one has such a dear mother as we have, I am sure."

Eudora sighed, and was silent for a moment before she answered; for her memory was busy recalling the countless times that Lettice had taken her on her knee when she was a little child, to stroke the fair head that nestled to her bosom. "I wish she were my—Oh, Ermyn, look at that greedy bee! He has got more honey than he can possibly carry."

Ermyn, unsuspectingly, did as she was bid, and then turned to look at her friend. "You never used to have such beautiful rosy cheeks, Dora. I am so glad you went to Southsands. Are you tired of sitting here?" she added, noticing that Eudora's eyes had a far-away look in them.

At this moment David appeared, approaching from a distance. The girls were silent until he came up to the garden gate.

Mary Llewellyn at the same time approached from the opposite direction.

"I came to look for you," she said to Ermyn. "Mother wants you about something. Can you come home with me now?"

"Yes," replied Ermyn; "I meant to come this morning at any rate. Good-bye, Dora; I shall be with you again by and by."

David and Eudora stood for a moment to watch the two figures as they turned to climb the hill.

"Are you going across now, Miss Eudora?"

"Yes, I am," she answered, smiling, and waited for him to speak next.

He was, however, silent.

And she exclaimed, with a gaiety that seemed forced, "I must get that lovely cluster of wild roses," suddenly springing towards the hedge, where a long and beautiful spray waved high in air.

As she did so, a piece of honeysuckle that was fastened in her dress fell to the ground. David picked it up, and then helped her to gather the wreath.

Eudora took her hat off, and twisted it in gracefully with the ribbon.

David watched her in silence. "You were very happy at Southsands, were you not, Miss Eudora?" he said, lingering at the gate.

A bright light came into Eudora's eyes as she answered, "Oh yes, so happy! My friends were all most kind to me, and we used to do such pleasant things there. But I often longed to come back to St. Elvis, in spite of it all."

"You are not tired of us yet, then?"

"Davie! Mr. Gwynne," she added, blushing crimson, "how can you say anything so unkind? I never want to live away from St. Elvis, never, never."

"Please do not call me Mr. Gwynne," he pleaded. "Have you forgotten our games on the beach, and all we used to do together?"

"Oh, but you don't seem a bit like the same; you are such a tall—" "Gentleman," she was going to say, but checked herself, feeling he had always deserved that name, for the chivalrous courtesy of his manner was nothing new. "I could scarcely believe it was you," she stammered, "when I saw you come into church, and yet I was so glad."

A smile like a sunbeam broke over David's grave, earnest face, as he heard these words. "You will come out again in the old boat soon, won't you?" he said, holding the Rectory gate open for her to pass through.

"Yes, I will," she answered, with a half-sad look.

"Good-bye, Miss Eudora."

"Good-bye, David."

Eudora had not missed the bit of honeysuckle, and he did not remind her of it as he held it in his hand.

"How foolish I am!" he murmured, as, striking down through the meadow path, he turned towards home. "How dare I ever dream of winning her? My fair queen-lily, growing so far beyond my reach! I must bury my love deep down in my heart, and let a crust of hard work grow over it. She must never know it, for it is quite hopeless. How can I, a poor curate, and not even of gentle birth, think for a moment of asking her to share my labour? And yet she is not proud. No, simple and sweet as a spotless flower. But I am poor," he added bitterly, "and so is she. God has given me a mother and sister to care for; I must not ask Him for another gift until He sees fit to bestow it upon me Himself. He has granted me my heart's desire in placing me among my own people, and to feed and nourish them faithfully and well shall be my life-work.

"O my God, grant that I may be one of Thy true under-shepherds, following in Thy footsteps, to lead the flock beside green pastures and still waters. My Saviour Christ, let me spend and be spent for Thee!"

No one had known of the sharp struggle in David's heart, through those weeks of suspense, when Eudora hovered between life and death in that terrible illness. Ermyn's letters had grown sadder and sadder; he hardly expected to see the sweet face again. He thought God was going to call her home. Then had come the joyful tidings of hope. Her bright springtime was not to end here; he would still see its lovely blossoming.

Oh, those happy weeks, when he had walked beside her, leading the donkey so carefully, and fearing every breath of the strong sea-breeze as it blew upon her in its freshness. David's heart knew then for the first time in all its force what kind of love his was for Eudora Meredith, but he had kept it hidden and still. It was too sacred to show to any one. He would not pain her with what he believed to be a hopeless affection. He must pray to be made brave and self-forgetful in his work among the people.

Poor Eudora! The love had come into her heart too, but she could not speak of it to a human being. Her dear Lettice was David's mother. She must be utterly silent on this point with her. Aunt Silexa never seemed to suspect such a thing for a moment, or if she did, she had not betrayed her thought by look or sign. As for Ermyn, it had not entered into her mind for a moment that her brother could regard Eudora with other feelings than she did herself, her friend now, and her playfellow in past years. The trio would be always unbroken.

"I don't think he cares for me!" sighed Eudora, as she ran quickly upstairs to her room over the porch, and watched David calmly walking away towards Porthmynwr.

It was one evening soon after this little episode that Ermyn lured Eudora away for a ramble along the cliff. For a while they rested at the Sainted Well, drinking the clear water, and playing with the ferns that fringed its margin. Ermyn had told Eudora about the visit of the mysterious stranger to St. Elvis; and they now began to discuss the matter again, wondering why he had painted the picture, and what his name was. Their speculations ended in their weaving a most romantic tale about him, and the innocent girls little guessed how near they were to the truth as, rising, they continued their stroll.

The coast path wound along most unevenly through the prickly gorse, making long detours round volcanic-looking hollows, where the land had gradually given way to the encroachments of the sea, leaving precipitous sides down the rocky cliffs, from whence at a great height one could look down and watch the waves break into the caverns below. It was an unsafe route for strangers, but for Ermyn and Eudora, who had been accustomed to run along it ever since they were quite little children, there was no danger.

"The sea will look lovely from Chanter's Seat to-night," said Eudora; "we must wait and see the moon rise."

"Yes, we can," replied Ermyn; "for Davie promised to come and fetch us."

Eudora's heart felt very light after that, as she climbed down the bit of sloping rock and gave her hand to her companion. One jump, and they were both hidden from the public path by an angle in the cliff, where was a ledge hollowed out in the stone overlooking the whole bay, and known by the name of "Chanter's Seat." It was so-called from the peculiarity of its echo, which had the charm of doubling and trebling the power of the human voice, so that when any one sang there, it was with a marvellously rich and beautiful effect.

"Oh, what a glorious sunset, Ermyn! Just look at those colours across the water."

The two friends sat together side by side, watching it in silence. The blue bay stretched out calm and lovely before them, with rose-colour and green lights playing across its surface, while beyond, over the horizon, rose the shadowy cloud-land, whose pink and purple outlines seemed to belong to an ethereal and glorified shore.

"What a depth the sea is below us!" said Eudora, as they leaned over to gaze down at the gorges, clefts, and chasms into which the water rose and roared, ascending in fountains of snowy surf, and retiring again with a low murmur, in a line of fretted foam along the sands.

There was a fascination in watching it. They felt so safe in their eyrie in the cliff, as they looked and listened, entranced and quiet.

"I must gather some of that samphire for auntie," said Eudora, scrambling towards the edge, where the spiky green of this sea-loving and aromatic plant crept low on the ground in the greatest profusion.

"Wait, Dora, I will come and help you. Oh, what a funny smell it has! I don't think I like it at all."

They were startled in their occupation by hearing footsteps above them.

"Ah, Davie, there you are!" cried Ermyn, in glee. "Come down; we are only waiting for you to begin our singing."

"Miss Llewellyn will be here presently," he answered. "She would not allow me to wait for her, as she was detained in the village, but I see her now in the distance just crossing the stone wall."

"I will run and meet her," shouted Ermyn, as, springing up, she bounded off like a young fawn.

Eudora looked wistfully after her, but it was too late to follow the fleet runner, and she did not know whether she was pleased or not to be left alone with David. She felt more shy of him every time they met now, for a wall of ice seemed to have grown up between them which puzzled them both. How they longed for the old days to come back again, as they sat there exchanging commonplace remarks! It was a relief when the others joined them.

"Now," said Mary, seating herself, "I am going to have a treat. You three are going to sing me, 'Lift thine eyes to the mountains.' Please make haste and begin."

The singers looked at each other and smiled, then the glorious melody burst forth, rich and clear:

"Thy Keeper shall never slumber," sang Eudora, in soft contralto; while David and Ermyn took up the words, "Never, shall never slumber," until the last faint notes of the anthem died away in a whispered hush of melody.

"Now, little sister," said David, when they had finished, "let us hear you sing alone, 'Oh, rest in the Lord.'"

Ermyn obeyed.

Peace and rest sank down into each soul as the holy words fell softly on the still evening air. Yea, hope and courage also, as more than one heart prayed for the child-like spirit of perfect trust in a loving Father who never slumbers, while He watches over the sons and daughters of His care.

They talked long of this rest and peace, then of "the golden homes beyond the sunset," and, long after the glow had faded, wended their way homeward in the moonlight, silently, side by side.