Chapter VI: A Light in the Tunnel

SILEXA neither saw nor heard as she passed the town-cross, for her heart was busy with its own bitterness, going back through the long years swiftly and steadily, as if searching for the hopes she had buried one by one. The grass grew on those graves, but the graves were still there; and the unexpected letter had come as a resurrection voice to revive her hopes. Yet she shuddered to think that they might be as short-lived as the spring leaves which autumn winds were now sweeping withered and brown to her feet.

The eternal beauty of the resurrection springtide, for which "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now," had not touched her stricken heart with its glow of anticipated gladness. Therefore, she could not "with patience wait for it," but yearned for present satisfaction, mourning to find each earthly treasure crumble into dust and ashes at her touch.

The straggling streets were soon left behind by her swift footsteps, and clusters of cottages by the wayside grew fewer, until solitary ones at rare intervals sprinkled the side of the hill she ascended.

It was a bare, rough bit of road, and the modern stone house on the top overlooked the whole village and valley, commanding a magnificent view of the broad blue bay that stretched away from Porthmynwr. Dr. Llewellyn lived here, and the good people of St. Elvis had not ceased to wonder at his choice of this exalted situation in preference to the snug house near the Rectory, where his predecessor and partner had lived and died.

Not a few grumblers were found to complain bitterly of the steep and stony way that had often to be surmounted before his services could be secured. But Miss Silexa was not among these, for she loved the pure, fresh breezes, and knew every hill for miles round. So she soon reached her destination, and had plenty of breath to spare to inquire for Mrs. Llewellyn, as an elderly servant appeared in response to her ring.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure she will see you," was the answer, "though, indeed, I'm sorry to tell you she has had a day of uncommon suffering. Master has been summoned again to Llanri, which, as you know, ma'am, is ten miles off. Please step into the parlour, and I'll go upstairs and tell my mistress."

In a few minutes, Miss Silexa was following her guide up the staircase and into the invalid's room.

Somehow this room never suggested sickness; it always seemed full of cheer and happy life, giving a mingled impression of soft tinting and comfort, though the surroundings were of the simplest character. Silexa always stepped very softly across this threshold, for a gentle spell seemed to bind her here, which she could never understand but only feel. She had to make her way across the length of the room to the westerly window, where streaks of sunlight played lovingly about the invalid couch, as if to console the patient sufferer lying there.

Mrs. Llewellyn knew, alas, that in this life her feet could never tread those green slopes she loved to gaze on, nor climb the purple hills now bathed in sunset glory. She must wait for "the far better," "the far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

The face resting among the cushions belonged to a woman past middle age, and bore the stamp of great suffering, which, instead of ageing the features, had beautified and ennobled them, giving a refinement which seemed to shield her from every rough or ungentle touch.

Silexa never had found a heart-friend in woman all her life. Persons, however intimate, could only get a certain length, when a repelling hedge of thorns barred the approach, and effectually secured her against further intrusion. And yet in her self-will, she had often yearned for sympathy, but the price demanded was too high, therefore, she put it from her. An unseen victor, however, had stolen round by a secret way, and, all unawares to the holder of the citadel, was storming and taking possession.

This was no other than the gentle invalid. A perfect stranger to St. Elvis until the last few years, when her husband brought her to try the effect if its celebrated climate, she knew nothing of the sad history of the Rectory, except what she had gathered from the gratuitous information of those about her, and what she had learned by her own quiet intuition.

Silexa liked her from the first, having never met any one with such an utter absence of curiosity in her nature. And she could talk freely, for Mrs. Llewellyn possessed that rare talent which invites confidence, but never forces it. So it came to pass that the weary heart often sought the shade and shelter of that sick chamber, and all unwittingly leaned upon the strength found there.

To the self-reliant Silexa, this study of glad and submissive patience was a perpetual puzzle. She could believe in stoicism and self-imposed martyrdom, but "rejoicing in tribulation" was with her an impossibility. Therefore, she had been inclined to doubt if such a thing was ever genuine, until she found it existing here in living force. Indeed, her new friend's faith bore not green leaves only, but showed fair blossom and pleasant fruit, inviting the wayfarer to turn aside and rest under its shadow.

"How kind of you to come! And I know you are so busy," was the cheery greeting, as the soft eyes sought to read the meaning of an increased expression of care and anxiety that rested on her visitor's face. "Sit there," she added, pointing to a comfortable chair beside her, "and you will get the benefit of these bright blinks of sunshine."

But Silexa had already lifted over a sensible-looking cane chair, as she never felt comfortable in a low easy seat. And Mrs. Llewellyn, remembering her preference, did not remonstrate.

"Where is my little pet, Eudora? I have not seen her since the terrible wreck."

"I sent her down to Mrs. Gwynne after dinner," was the reply, given somewhat absently, as the restless grey eyes wandered away across the wide expanse of sea with a hungry yearning in them. Then, as if recalling her thoughts, she added resolutely—

"The child mopes, and I do not know what to do with her. I have no book-learning to give her, and if I had my hands are too full to attend to it, and she idles about getting her head full of Molly's nonsense. I am anxious to do my duty by her, though she is as scared and timid as any hare whenever I come near her, as if she thought I was going to hurt her. I don't know what ails the child."

Mrs. Llewellyn was silent for some minutes, as her thoughts roamed away to the grim old Rectory wrapped in its sadness, and to the little life growing up within its grey walls stunted and sickly, for lack of sunlight, moral and physical. Then she said quietly, "Will you let her come to me for two or three hours every day? I have been longing to ask you, but feared to take her from her grandfather."

"Oh no," said Silexa proudly; "thank you all the same, but I did not mean to ask favours. A child is always a plague and worry, especially in sickness. I would teach her myself, only what learning I had has grown rusty; and my mother considered my education complete when I had finished a sampler and done a piece of worsted-work for her chair."

"I have no doubt you could do a great deal for the dear child if you had the time to bestow on her," replied Mrs. Llewellyn, smiling at her friend's self-depreciating remark; "but do let me help you!"

"It would not be at all fair," continued Silexa; "you have enough to do to bear your suffering without any additional worries."

"She will not trouble me," pleaded the quiet voice; "it will be only a pleasure to have her. And when I am in pain, she will find her own amusement. Do not deny me my request; it will be a real kindness to let me have her. Please allow her to come to-morrow, and we will try the experiment."

"You are very kind," said Silexa at last, gratefully, seeing that Mrs. Llewellyn really wished it. "I will speak to my father about it, but will you promise to send her home when she is troublesome?"

"Yes, I will," was the ready response.

And the bargain was concluded, as Silexa closed the discussion by producing a basket of new-laid eggs carefully arranged in fragrant hay.

"I will put them here in a safe corner," she said, cutting short the flow of grateful thanks. "I am so glad you can take them, for we have plenty. Now tell me about Mary."

"Oh, I had such a bright letter from her this morning; she is working very hard now, and has taken the place of pupil teacher that she may save us expense, and still have the advantages of the school. Maurice is a great expense to us now, and will be more so every year."

"How old is he now?"

"Eleven, and Mary is sixteen; you hardly know her at all, only having seen her in the holidays. And I was so ill the last time she was at home, she was able to go out very little."

"No, but I liked her bright, sensible face, and thought she was made of the right stuff for getting through the world well."

Mrs. Llewellyn smiled and was silent, but in her heart there echoed her Saviour's words,—

"'I pray not that Thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that
Thou shouldest keep them from the evil.'"

Then she said, "Our little Dora will soon learn to love her. And when Mary comes home next summer, she will be able to go about with her and see some of the lovely spots on this strangely wild and beautiful coast."

"Oh, Eudora is like a wild goat among those places; she does not know what fear is in climbing about."

Silexa paused in the middle of her speech, and a strange shadow crept over her face as she added, "I feel as if she were my own; I have had her ever since she was born."

"Have you indeed? Then I don't wonder you are so fond of her. She was born in the old home, then?"

"Yes, just six years ago; her father was drowned a few days before."

Mrs. Llewellyn looked away towards the sunset when she saw the deathly pallor that overspread the face of the narrator at these words, and connected it in her mind with something she had heard long ago. In that moment, her woman's heart had read the secret of Silexa's life, though her intuitive delicacy guarded the betrayal of the discovery.

And when Miss Pryse heard the quiet comment, "Poor orphan babe!" she little guessed the truth was no longer bolted and barred from human ken. And a short sigh of relief escaped her on finding the conversation had turned into another channel.

The tender hand had found the wound; the healing must be given silently and unconsciously.

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy."

"What a pleasure it will be for Eudora to go down and see the baby! You must ask Lettice to bring it up to show me very soon."

"She told me she intended to come," said Silexa; "it is a fine healthy child. I suppose you have heard about the christening?"

"Oh yes; and my husband has been making endless inquiries about the wreck, but can hear nothing that throws any light upon the parentage of the child. I wonder who the infant belongs to."

"I don't think Lettice wants it claimed now," replied Silexa; "though I tell her she is a fool to burden herself with it."

"She will have her reward," Mrs. Llewellyn said gravely; "and I trust the little one may prove a joy and blessing to her both now and in after years. How is your father, Miss Pryse?"

"Very feeble, thank you; he has been upset to-day by news from a distance."

"Indeed," was the quiet response; "I am sorry for that; he is too weak to bear any agitation."

Silexa inwardly chafed at this calm comment, though she scarcely knew why. There was a tempest in her heart, and though sore tossed, she was too proud to ask for succour.

The family trouble could not be a secret, for every one in the village knew about it. Silexa had been often conscious of a silent sympathy on this subject from the doctor's wife; therefore she half hoped for a question from her to-day which would give her an opportunity to speak of what had caused hope to shine anew like a beacon light.

Oh for a voice to tell her it was no phantom! But pride again stepped in; she would not solicit sympathy, and turned away from the look of questioning love in her friend's eyes to say, bitterly, "One is doomed to disappointment in this life, and hope is but a shadow to those who pursue it."

"'Hope that is seen is not hope,—'"

said the gentle voice;

"'for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for
that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.'

"Faith and patience are our wings in trouble. Have these failed?"

"I 'have' waited for twelve long years," was the bitter answer.

"Ah yes, I know you have; and waiting years are always long ones."

Silexa was silent.

"But our Heavenly Father is so loving; He never lays a burden upon us that we are not able to bear, because He giveth more and more of His all-sufficient grace to support and cheer. I remember during my journey to St. Elvis, the train had to pass through a long, dark tunnel, and as my eyes sought to pierce the gloom, I noticed at intervals bright lights had been placed, whose rays lighted up the bare dripping stones. And every here and there, a shaft from above let in the light of heaven, as if to give promise of sunshine beyond. This, thought I, is a picture of our troubles. We shrink and fear as we plunge into the darkness, but every now and then we see the lamps of the promises shining so brightly that we cannot help thanking God and taking courage. And the light of heaven is let in upon our path, telling us that though 'weeping may endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning.' If I mistake not, a light has been shining down into the tunnel to-day in the shape of that letter."

"Oh, it is nothing to cling to," said Silexa sadly. "No name given, or any clue by which we can trace it."

"And is there nothing to be thankful for?"

"Yes, 'one' thing," replied Silexa sternly; "the disgrace of our family has been wiped away—the money has been restored."

"Thank God!" said Mrs. Llewellyn. "He will devise means for the banished one. Only trust Him. It is such a comfort to think He knows the end from the beginning, and that nothing happens by chance."

This was a new creed for Silexa, and she was but dimly conscious of its comfort, though a glimmering ray had stolen into the poor, dark heart, in spite of closed windows and drawn-down blinds. Yet she felt, as she went out from that gentle presence, she was no longer a lonely woman, for a friendly hand had pointed out the error of her life.

"Hitherto she had subdued her calamities, not by the power of a faith which sustains, not by the effort of a patience which has learned to wait, but by a careless, practical stoicism; by a secret defiance of the decrees of Providence." ¹ Strength in weakness, life in death, wealth in poverty, joy in sorrow; these paradoxes she had never reconciled, therefore the words, "'Not my will, but Thine be done,'" yet lacked their interpretation. It is a mysterious handwriting to all who stand not on the heavenward side of the cross of Christ.

¹ Madame de Gasparin.

From this time, bright days dawned for the little Dora. And all through that winter, in storm or shine, she ran off to spend happy, busy mornings with her kind friend at the top of the hill.

Mrs. Llewellyn found an apt pupil in the child, and from her couch she would watch with silent admiration the steady perseverance and application that in time accomplished the neatly written copy or rightly proved sum.

She soon discerned that Eudora was one of those children whose clever brain would, if allowed full scope, soon wear out the delicate body, and therefore she very wisely made recreation preponderate over study. The eager little gatherer would bring in treasures from wood and shore—bits of lichened sticks, ferns and fungi, leaves and mosses, shells and stones.

They were always called dirt and rubbish in the Rectory, and Eudora never ventured to carry them farther than the secluded corner of the garden, where the weeping willow received and guarded them. It was indeed a strange new joy to have them welcomed and admired. And this gave fresh interest to her walks, as she was ever seeking for another's pleasure as well as her own.

But best of all, she loved her lesson from the Bible; for to the child this had always been a dry, sealed book. Now her world was peopled with Scripture characters. How she loved to hear those grand Old Testament stories of the beautiful garden of Eden, the building of Noah's ark, the call of Abraham, the meeting of the faithful Eliezer with Rebekah by the well, the story of Joseph, and the wanderings of the children of Israel. With what breathless anxiety did she listen to the history of Daniel's fearless integrity, and his night with the lions, and how she trembled with the wicked king Belshazzar at the mystic handwriting on the wall.

And the sweet story of Bethlehem, though oftenest told, was never tiring; for her little heart had opened to let the love of the Saviour in; and He welcomed her to Him to be His child for ever. She sang about Him in the beautiful hymns she learned. And when her kind teacher was unable to attend to her, which often happened during her bad attacks of pain, she would creep behind the curtain in the window, and her soft, sweet voice was like David's harp to the sufferer, seeming to lessen the great agony.

In this quiet retreat, seeds were sown in little Dora's heart,—seeds of gentleness and patient meekness under suffering, which would bring forth fruit in after years. By being a ministering child, she was unconsciously fulfilling her Saviour's command, "'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me'"; for our share in the burdens of others must be part of the learning that will make us like Jesus. This early training taught her to be a sympathising and tender nurse, and, by watchfulness and obedience, to become the ready helper and comfort of her invalid friend.

Kind Deborah, the old servant, was spared much thought and anxiety when the child was with her mistress, for she would remember the hour for the medicine, and her young feet would trot about on errands, and fetch the daintily prepared tray from the kitchen, where her sweet face and pretty ways always ensured a welcome.

Even this little child had the unspeakable pleasure of feeling she was of use in the world. And though Mrs. Llewellyn would often secretly regret that so fair a flower should be blooming more among the shadows than the sunshine of life, she hoped and prayed that Eudora might be all the holier and purer for it, and grow up like the spotless lily of the valley, whose retreat is often only to be traced by the fragrant odour it diffuses around.

And thus the little life was circled by love and varied interests, and in the latter, Baby Ermyn held no small share, for scarcely a day passed without a happy run down the valley to the cottage to play with the toddling creature, who always welcomed her with a cry of delight.

The unselfish, motherly heart of Lettice marked with joy the change that had transformed the delicate, sickly blossom into a bright, healthy flower that could now rejoice in the sunshine of God's beautiful world.