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.