Chapter IX: A Sunny Gleam

A FLICKER of ivy leaves dancing up and down the wall and ceiling; cloud shadows passing, the hum of bees outside the open window; voices of children shouting at their play, and the murmur of the distant sea; this was what Eudora saw and heard as she lay dreamy and quiet, slowly coming back to life on the bright May morning.

Her eyes were fixed on the faded chintz. What a queer pattern it had! So weird and fantastic, suggesting endless pictures to the imagination. Faces grinned from the curves and lines; gnomes and sprites upside down, and sprawling, seemed chasing each other round and round, while here and there a butterfly reposed upon a huge flower.

Eudora had never studied it so intently before, and it was pleasant to lie there so perfectly still, and go on inventing stories. It was all such a confused jumble, and so intricate that it was impossible to follow out any regular pattern. And at last, she broke into a little laugh.

Lettice, who was sitting at work in the window, heard it, and bent forward with a sweet, glad smile to look at her. "Have you been awake long, my pet?"

"No, not so very long. I was laughing at the funny figures on my curtains. How long have I been here, Lettice? Somehow it seems as if all sorts of things had happened to me, and nothing would ever come right. When I try to think about it, I cannot remember clearly. I wanted to go down into the orchard where I found those pretty purple crocuses the other day. Oh, they looked so cool, and I thought it would be delicious to lie down among them, but I couldn't, and then I found out I was buried. You did not hear me calling to you as you walked above my head, and the earth was so heavy, and pressed me down. That was a dreadful dream, Lettice. Have I been very ill?"

"Yes, dearie, you have. But you are getting better every day now, we hope."

"Where is Ermyn? I want her."

"She will come some day to see you, but not yet. You must try to get a little stronger before you receive visitors."

Eudora moved on her pillow with a sigh, and wondered what it all meant, and why she felt so very, very tired.

At that moment, the door opened and her aunt entered, treading softly in list shoes, carrying a tray covered with a snowy napkin.

Eudora knew what this meant, and turned resolutely away, though she heard Silexa say in a low tone, "Try and get her to take a little; it is such good, strong beef tea. I made it myself, and the doctor says she must eat."

Lettice rose, and came close to the side of the bed where Eudora was lying, and said gently, "Auntie has brought something so nice for you. Shall I lift you up, dear, while you take it?"

"No, Lettice, I cannot; I am not hungry. I will ask for some by and by. Let me go to sleep again."

Lettice and Silexa exchanged hopeless glances. What was to be done? The doctor had given such positive orders, and he little knew the battle that was fought every day to get them carried out. Silexa racked her brain and the cookery-book to find suitable recipes, consulted Mrs. Llewellyn, and had even gone to market town herself to try and find something to tempt the delicate appetite, but she was seldom rewarded for her pains.

"Set it down, please, Miss Pryse," said Lettice, at last. "She will try presently."

Silexa stole away again, with a sad look on her face.

Mrs. Gwynne bent down closer to the pale cheek, and whispered something.

The blue eyes looked up into hers, and tears gathered in them, a look of pleading and of reproach that Lettice felt she must be proof against, as with a tender strength she raised the wasted form, and gently arranged the supporting pillows.

"One more spoonful," she said coaxingly; "and then I will not tease you any more."

These stages towards convalescence brought harder work to the good woman than those hours when the spirit seemed to hover so closely on the borders of the unseen world. They needed even more wisdom and patience, as only those know who have had much to do with illness. Eudora was, however, progressing as favourably as could be expected. But Lettice saw the time had not yet come to leave Miss Pryse single-handed, so she stayed on.

Poor little Ermyn missed her mother sadly. All the poetry and romance of her situation seemed to die out after she had worked hard for three or four weeks. The danger being over, she had now leisure to pity herself a little, and longings and regrets would steal into her heart as she contrasted these matter-of-fact duties with her delightful studies in Mrs. Llewellyn's quiet, pretty room. She was not yet allowed to see Eudora, so her sympathy was less keen than it would have been if she could have taken one peep at her thin, wistful face.

So she allowed all kinds of evil, selfish thoughts to creep into her heart, and make her unhappy. She wished she had been born a lady, with nothing to do all day but read nice books or do pretty work. Her coarse working dress was very ugly, she thought; she would rather be dressed in silk and satin, and live in a grand house with many rooms. Oh, she was much to be pitied, she was quite sure of that, and a big tear rolled down and fell upon her idle hands.

Something whispered in her heart, "Mother has to work hard all day long, and she never complains."

Ermyn listened to the voice, and thought how that dear mother would grieve, if she only knew what her little girl had been thinking about. She would work away with a will, and go up to the Rectory as soon as she could. If she could see her mother, it would help her to be good.

Happy thoughts flowed into her heart as soon as she began to be industrious again, and she actually found herself singing as she neared the Rectory gate. Ermyn was gifted with a singularly rich and beautiful voice, and she sang as naturally as a bird on its spray.

Eudora caught the familiar sound, as she sat propped up in a great arm-chair near the window, and Lettice, yielding to her entreaty, went down and fetched Ermyn in. The child, full of bright health, presented a strange contrast to her companion now, and warm tears of love and sympathy started into Ermyn's eyes as she looked. She tenderly kissed the white hand, as she knelt beside the chair, and felt no sacrifice could be too great if it only brought her darling back.

Ermyn would never forget the happy smile of pleasure that greeted her, as she laid some fresh hawthorn buds in the thin fingers. She had meant to ask when mother was coming home, now she could not. The chord of sympathy had been struck, and her heart was in time again.

Lettice wished she could see a more rapid improvement in the dear invalid as the days went on, but the progress was slow and weary. And she marked with sorrow that Eudora herself made little or no effort to get better; for if she did not fancy her food, she would not take it. And how could she recover if she did not eat?

On one occasion, when Silexa had turned away more disappointed than ever, after finding her dainties rejected, Lettice spoke.

"I think, dear," she said quietly, "you are very unkind to your dear, good auntie."

"Unkind, Lettice? Why unkind?" replied Eudora, flushing.

"Yes, unkind," repeated Lettice; "you don't know how hardly she toils for you, up early and late, getting all these nice things for you, and you never try to please her by taking them cheerfully and gratefully."

"I cannot make myself hungry," said Eudora pettishly.

But Lettice knew the shaft had gone home, and saw with pleasure from that time her words had not been spoken in vain.

Silexa's trial was by no means over, though she had strength given her now to take up her cross, and bear it meekly day by day.

Eudora did not know of the soul-conflict that had taken place. She was still painfully reserved with her aunt, and made it pretty evident sometimes that she preferred having Mrs. Gwynne beside her. Lettice used to soothe her patient by singing or repeating hymns and verses of Scripture. Silexa knew she would never be asked to do this by Eudora. She saw now with bitterness what a mistake she had been making through those long years of the past, in fencing round her warm, human heart with thorns, which pricked the childish hands that once upon a time had tried to enter.

"It is too late now; it will never be different." Thus she sat and mused one day, when Lettice had gone home for a few hours, and left her place to Silexa.

Eudora was lying on the bed asleep, and her aunt believed herself hidden by one of the curtains. After a while, the girl opened her eyes without stirring, expecting to see Lettice as usual at work. She was not there, and Eudora gazed as if spellbound.

Silexa's eyes were closed, and her lips moved, and on her knee lay an open Bible. Tear-drops stole out from under the lashes, and Eudora heard her own name murmured in endearing terms.

She could not bear it another moment. "Auntie! Dear auntie! Come to me. I have been so naughty and ungrateful to you, and I love you so dearly."

The wall of ice had melted for ever. And Silexa trembled for very joy as she pressed her darling closer and yet closer to her heart, whose once lonely beatings now throbbed in unison with the one great family in heaven and earth.

Lettice saw the happy light on both faces when she returned, and did not then hesitate to say what she had been fearing would distress the invalid.

"I must go home to-morrow, Miss Pryse; I find there are too many things to be attended to for me to stay away longer."

One repining murmur rose to Eudora's lips, for she loved her passionately, but this was instantly checked as she remembered the hint about selfishness, and the words that Lettice was so fond of repeating:

"'Even Christ pleased not Himself.'"

"Auntie is so good to me," she whispered, when her kind nurse bade her good-bye the following day.

And when Lettice felt the clasp of her arms about her neck, as Eudora kissed her and poured out her grateful thanks, it was a more precious reward than any other payment.

Ermyn was in a wild state of delight when she looked out and saw her mother coming across the meadows. Lettice had not told her for certain that she would return, lest anything might detain her. It was indeed a festive homecoming, for kind neighbours gathered round to tell her how glad they were to see her back again.

And Ermyn, proudly and shyly, drew from the cupboard a cake of her own making and baking, which was duly partaken of and praised.

"And, mother," cried the child, with a shout of delight; "Dick Rees has just brought this letter, and I am sure it must be from David! Come close to granddad, and read it now. Please do, there's a good mother!"

David's glad mother needed no second bidding, and the letter was accordingly read over and over again; for it contained the joyful news that her son would arrive the last week in June to spend his six weeks' holiday at home in the dear old cottage. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to have this treat, for the journey was an expensive one, and he had thought it his duty, in these leisure times, to accept invitations to assist ministers in the Connexion who needed help, being thus enabled to save up a nice little sum towards his next homecoming.

He had done well and honourably in his college life, and his tutors spoke in the highest terms of his conduct. His mind had developed freely under the great advantages and careful training he had received. He felt that God had called him to the high and noble work of the ministry, and looked forward with intense pleasure to the fulfilment of his hopes.

St. Elvis felt not a little proud of his success, after his education at the town grammar school, and intended to give him a hearty welcome when he should appear in his native place again. But when one day the crazy old coach stopped at "The Jolly Sailors," and amongst the passengers a tall gentlemanly young man in black stepped down, no one recognised him.

Lettice and Ermyn had been watching together for him at the inn door, and thought he had not come, when suddenly the good woman became aware that the stranger who had run towards her and was now giving her a hearty hug was none other than her own son David.

"And where is my little sister?" he said, drawing the blushing Ermyn closer to him, and looking with surprise and delight at her lovely face. "I am still a little taller than she is," he added, laughing, as, giving an arm to each, the joyful trio set out towards home.

Those were indeed happy holidays, for not a cloud appeared to dim any one's enjoyment. More homes than one rejoiced together, for there was gladness also in the doctor's household. Mary had come home at last, not to say good-bye again; and Mrs. Llewellyn was full of motherly pride to welcome her handsome son Maurice, now a hard-working medical student, who hoped some day to return and share his father's practice.

The old Rectory smiled also, for Eudora, though still looking like a fragile flower, grew strong enough to come out and enjoy the summer sunshine and fresh sea breezes. A quiet donkey was found for her, and the good old times seemed to come back again, as David walked beside her, leading it carefully, while Ermyn skipped and sang for joy. There was no caste in that simple village town, for those who loved each other had the strongest ties to bind them together.

Ermyn, the fisher-maiden, still called Eudora her sister-friend, and Mary loved them both. Maurice hailed his old companion more heartily than ever, and the two would walk together for miles along the lonely coast, or climb the serrated ranges of rock to lofty heights, whence they could view the whole peninsula of Dewisland, that terminates in the bold headlands and jagged rocks so often fatal to unfortunate mariners. Their geological and botanical studies were pursued with interest, and they would sit and discuss their treasures among Druidical circles and great boulders.

It was such pleasant companionship that neither liked to think how soon they must part again. Both young men felt, as they trod the streets of David's native town, that good soldiers of Jesus Christ were sorely needed there; soldiers brave and strong to fight against the sin and ignorance around; and they earnestly prayed that this great work might some day be theirs to do. But they did not need to wait till the future to begin it. David found leisure during his holiday to read and pray with the sick and dying, and Maurice gave his help and sympathy wherever he found it needed. Thus they called down upon themselves the blessings of the poor.

It sometimes happens that a season of unusual brightness is given us as a preparation for cloudy days. The cup running over, and the table ready spread, may be in the presence of unseen enemies and trials, against which we must be strengthened to go forward and fight. Those happy summer days came to a close all too quickly, and autumn winds and falling leaves were heralding the reign of winter, which was expected to begin early this year.

Eudora seldom went outside the Rectory now, for her severe illness had left her painfully susceptible to cold. And a short dry cough smote sadly on the ears of all who heard it. Yet Dora had never been so happy in her home-life before, for there was nothing in its atmosphere to chill or distress her now, though her aunt was as full of life and generous activity as ever. Mrs. Llewellyn and Lettice rejoiced together to see all that capability and energy, like a glad stream, flowing in the sunshine, instead of in the shadows.

Silexa had brought her talents to the Master, as the disciples did of old with the few loaves and fishes, and He had blessed them. Now she could feed a multitude, and yet have enough and to spare. But her Lord must test and try her still further. And as the burden pressed more heavily, so by His grace did she grow stronger to bear it, and face what to her was a terrible trial. They must leave the Rectory for a year. The doctor had said that, humanly speaking, this was the only chance for saving Eudora's life.

Thorough change to a dryer and more sheltered climate might revive the flickering flame, which seemed gradually but surely dying out. The sacrifice must be made, and that at once. Silexa would not send away her child amongst strangers, and she could not leave her father in his infirm state. There was no time to be lost.

A substitute for the rector was found in a young clergyman with private means and temporarily without a charge. Mary Llewellyn promised to go daily to the Rectory to look after Molly and Dinah, give out the parish stores, and to help in every way, so far as her duties to her mother would permit.

Some travelling trunks of a very ancient date were routed out from their repose of years in one of the Rectory garrets, where they had been well-nigh buried among the lumber stored there. But the packing was weary work, and a sore puzzle to Miss Silexa, whose little world of interests had all been shut in by St. Elvis and its belongings for so many, many years. She rummaged among the old stores, and while she did so, hidden things were brought to light, which caused a flood of associations to rush in upon her memory.

"I was so happy in that old dress," she said, half aloud, taking up a scrap of faded plaid. "I cannot bear to throw it away."

She looked tenderly at it for a moment, debating whether it should be flung into the heap of rubbish at her feet. But it was silently restored to the place whence she had taken it. A palette and a box of colours, all caked and dried, and a bundle of paint-brushes next caught her eye. She took them up one by one, and kissed them with a face expressive of the deepest agony.

"Oh, Edward, my darling!" she murmured. "Why did you do it? I shall never see you now again, on this side the grave. But God has you in His keeping somewhere," she added, calming herself. "His love is infinite."

The packing was finished in time. And on the last evening, when the boxes were all corded and sent away to the inn overnight to be ready for the early start on the coach, Miss Silexa unhung her cotton bonnet from its peg in the hall, and went softly out alone, as the evening shadows were lengthening.

It had been blowing a hurricane all day, but the storm had passed, and there was a bright, evening glow. The sun was setting in stormy gold, circled by black, and the sky was of a pale, green colour, with flaming amber and copper clouds rushing across it. The hilltops were still capped with white mist that lifted and floated, and crept down the sides of the green valley.

Silexa walked far on into the twilight, and then turned towards home. The rent clouds appeared white near the moon, whose crescent sickle seemed to cut a path through the surrounding blackness. The wind rushed and roared through the Rectory trees, making them sway and toss in an agony of unrest, while every casement in the old house rattled and shook, as the clinging ivy was made here and there to loosen its clasp of the dear old walls it sought to shield.

Silexa heeded not the rude gusts; she was looking at the brightness above her.

"'They shall see His face,'" she murmured; "that is where the path is leading."

"'There shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.'

"'O send out Thy light and Thy truth: let them lead me; let them bring
me unto Thy holy hill...'

"This night of sorrow is breaking towards eternal day. And though the shadows increase, a dawn is coming when they shall flee away for ever.

"'Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully
with thee.'"

There was quite a crowd round the dilapidated old coach the following morning, when the little party from the Rectory set out to walk towards it. Miss Pryse supported her aged, white-haired father, who leant heavily on her strong arm. Eudora followed, with Mary and Ermyn on either side of her, and Lettice behind, carrying wraps and parcels.

Hands were stretched out for hearty shakes of farewell; blessings were uttered and voices trembled with emotion as countless good-byes were said.

Silexa gave one long look at her old home as the coach lumbered off, and felt she had been torn up by the roots.