A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD
SEVEN years rolled away, but so quietly that no perceptible change
appeared in the old village of St. Elvis. The hand of time seemed to
have paused in its progressive work, for though it had led some of the
children out of childhood into youth, and a few dear ones had here and
there been laid to sleep in the mossy churchyard, it had apparently
left all else untouched.
The crazy coach still "dragged its slow length along" every week to the
market town, and the grim old granite cross held its knot of gossips as
of yore.
The fast-growing ivy had somewhat changed the appearance of the
Rectory, having covered walls to the very roof, and the latticed
windows looked out like shining eyes from a mass of green. The
monthly roses, in spite of the keen February wind, had opened their
bright blossoms, and hundreds of tightly folded buds gave promise of
succession as they tapped against Eudora's easement above the porch.
But she could not open to them; her hand did not steal out to pluck
them as usual. Instead of the sweet young face that so often peeped
out, Miss Silexa's grey eyes peered forward, as if anxiously watching
for some one. We must look beyond her into the dimness of that
ivy-shaded chamber to know why her face wore that troubled look.
There, on a small old-fashioned bed with faded, washed-out chintz
hangings, lay Eudora Meredith, still called the child of the Rectory,
though seven years have increased her stature, and led her onwards to
"where the brook and river meet." The flush of fever was on her cheek
and an unnatural brightness in her blue eyes, as she turned wearily
from side to side on her pillow, panting for breath. She was very ill,
and Silexa knew it, as she stood waiting and watching for Dr. Llewellyn.
"Oh, why does not he come?" she thought. "He must have been detained,
or perhaps off on one of his ten-mile rides."
She walked to and fro impatiently, and with each creak of her stout
village-made shoes, a fresh dart of pain ran through Eudora's head. But
her aunt divined not the cause of those low moans.
It may be easily seen from this that good, worthy Miss Silexa was not
exactly the person for a sick-room. She could bind up the most terrible
wounds without flinching, and obey the commands of a doctor promptly
and well. But there was no rest in her composition, and the energy of
her active mind seemed as if it must find vent in noise and bustle. And
yet her anguish would have been keen if she had really known what agony
she was causing, for no one loved Eudora with a deeper love than she
did.
There was still a barrier between aunt and niece, for Eudora's timidity
and sensitiveness had grown with her growth, and she shrunk more than
ever from her aunt's touch. Silexa's eyes had not yet been opened to
see the cause, though she was painfully aware of the fact, and mourned
over it. She reasoned to herself about it with all her earthly wisdom,
but could not find the clue; the threads of life were still a tangled
skein, which at last grew so hopeless in their confusion, that again
and again the thought would come over her, that it was better not to
care at all about anything. And yet the glimmerings of light that ever
and anon shot athwart her path would not allow this.
She really wanted the God of her life, and was not aware how near He
was to her. It was a God afar off she sought. Like Hagar in the desert,
she only saw the burning sand and spent bottle; the springing fountain,
clear and sweet, flowing close at hand, was invisible. Its ripple had
long sounded in her ears, but she did not heed it, nor stoop to drink.
"You are shivering, child," said Silexa suddenly, as she touched the
little hot hand; "I will see about a fire at once."
And delighted at the idea of having something to do during these weary
moments of suspense, and vexed with herself for not thinking of it
before, she went off briskly to get sticks and fuel.
How the worm-eaten timbers shook under her tread, as she returned with
apron and hands filled! The chintz hangings trembled as she brushed
past the bed and knelt down in front of the grate to snap the sticks
one by one. The north-east wind was determined to baffle her if it
could, and, as soon as the red flame began to warm the cold chimney,
down came a gust which filled the room with smoke.
Poor Eudora coughed, and flung herself restlessly over to the opposite
side of the bed, longing for a quiet corner away from it all, but she
dared not speak. She tried not to hear that fearful rattle of coals and
fire-irons, and for some moments battled bravely in her pain against
the impatience that was fast gaining the mastery.
"There! It will burn now," said Silexa, at last, as with a triumphant
flourish of the blacklead brush, she gave another rub across the bars
of the grate, through which little jets of flame leaped and played.
"Here, Molly, take these things and bring me a duster."
Eudora burst into tears. "I cannot bear the noise, auntie; my head
aches so!" she added penitently, in answer to her aunt's astonished
look of inquiry.
There was no time for an answer. The doctor had arrived below, so
Eudora did not know what a pang of regret shot through Silexa's heart
as she went downstairs to meet him, reproaching herself at every step.
"Why, what is the matter with Dame Trot?" said the doctor cheerily, as
he entered. He looked upon Eudora almost as his own child, and having
invented this name for her long ago, she still kept it with him.
A glance at the flushed face showed him this was no slight ailment,
such as he had often relieved before.
Silexa stood beside the pillow and watched every movement as he laid
his finger on the rapid pulse, and a great agony filled her heart as
she looked and listened, for she read the anxiety on his face that he
could not conceal.
But he spoke so tenderly and cheerfully to his patient, that instead
of arousing any fear, he filled her young heart with rest and comfort,
and even called up a smile on her face as she promised to be good and
patient and do as she was told. He bade her good-bye, and followed Miss
Pryse into another room.
There the talk was grave and earnest, and Silexa listened with the
shadow of a great fear darkening her heart.
"We must get hold of Mrs. Gwynne at once," he said decisively. "I think
she may be able to come, and there is no one like her for a case of
this kind. The child must not be left until, please God, we can see a
decided change for the better."
For a moment a wave of jealousy rose up in Silexa's heart. "Who so
fit to nurse her darling as herself? Why should Lettice interfere?"
Then she recollected, sadly, how many calls she would have which must
prevent her giving exclusive personal attendance in the sick-room; so
she conquered the bad feeling and acquiesced.
"How shall I let her know?" she said. "We are so short of hands to-day.
I have no one who can go."
"Oh, I will send Ermyn off at once," replied the doctor; "she is with
my wife every morning, you know, so I shall find her there now."
And hastily mounting his horse, he rode away.
Ermyn's swift feet were soon traversing the meadow through the valley
to the cottage, and as she ran, many were the thoughts that crowded
in upon her now sorely troubled little heart. Eudora, her friend and
companion, the one she loved with all the passionateness of her strong
nature, her sister playmate, what had happened to her?
"Very, very ill," were the words she had heard, and kept repeating to
herself, while her imagination was busy filling up the details there
had not been time to learn.
A sob came swelling up from the warm young breast, and fast-falling
tears hindered her from seeing clearly where she stepped, but she must
not rest a moment until she had delivered her message. Rapidly her
thoughts reviewed the happy past, which rose distinctly before her like
a fair bright vision; Eudora's frequent visits to the cottage, the
fleet play hours spent together on the smooth, glittering sands in the
shadow of the purple rocks; the long rambles over moor and fell and
tangled copse, and the busy mornings in Mrs. Llewellyn's quiet room.
For when Ermyn was old enough to go to school, Eudora had pleaded that
she might share her lessons; so the studies had gone on together, it
being the great delight of the elder to impart all she knew to her
little playfellow and friend. Ermyn's bright intelligence soon repaid
the labour, and being by far the quicker of the two in learning, she
gained upon Eudora until they were pretty nearly equal. And this was
the retrospect of happy years.
Mrs. Llewellyn used secretly to cherish the hope that Ermyn would
one day be claimed and given her right position. But the years were
speeding away, and the circumstances of the wreck had faded from
memory. No one asserted a prior claim to the ocean waif. She would
always be the child of St. Elvis now, and all rejoiced with Lettice
that her treasure was not taken from her.
Mrs. Gwynne was standing busy at her wash-tub when Ermyn neared the
cottage. But seeing the child was running at full speed, she stopped
and began stroking off the soapsuds from her arms and wiping her hands
in her apron, as she went out to meet her.
Ermyn, panting and quite out of breath, ran forward and clasped her
arms tightly round her foster-mother's neck, and hid her face in her
bosom. Lettice did not hurry her with questionings. She always waited
with a quiet trustfulness that made her a rock of strength to lean on
in trouble. She led the child within the doorway, and sitting down, put
one arm round her and drew her to her knee. The gentle touch soothed
Ermyn, and in that motherly clasp she gave her message, while the calm,
patient eyes looked down upon her with a soft light in them.
"My little girl," said Lettice, kissing her tenderly; "we must not
murmur against God. This sorrow is of His sending, and, if it be His
will, He can turn it into a blessing.
"'When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?'
"Mother's lassie will be brave and helpful, I know, and do all she can
for me."
"Yes, mother; what shall I do?"
"You will have to get granddad his meals, and feed the chicks, and
mind the house, and do all you can to keep things straight while I am
away. Thank God, I have kind neighbours, who are all willing to do me a
hand's turn when I am extra busy. You may begin now, dear. Put on your
pinafore and pare these potatoes for dinner, but run first to the well
and fill the saucepan and kettle."
Ermyn obeyed quickly, proud and happy at the thought of being put into
a position of trust, while Lettice set quietly to work to leave her
house in order and prepare for being away from it for several days.
One neighbour and another came dropping in while she was thus occupied,
and she did not appeal to them in vain for help. Lettice had moved
among them as a ministering angel for many years, nursing the sick
and comforting the sorrowful, and no one had ever heard her speak an
ill-natured word behind any one's back. Mrs. Gwynne rarely needed
help, being such a thrifty housewife and manager; and for this reason,
there were many now who were only too glad to have an opportunity of
returning in kind some of her loving service. So one promised to finish
the washing, another to milk the two cows daily, and another to make
the butter.
"And I'll come and clean up the cottage as often as I can," added a
fourth; "for the child is not fit to do rough work."
"Thank you," said Lettice; "I can trust you all to see she comes to no
harm while I am away."
"Who would harm a hair of her head, I'd like to know?" replied Jem
Lewis, who had run up the causeway to fetch some tackle for the old
man. "She shan't be hurt, missus, as long as there's a man in St. Elvis
or Porthmynwr to fight for her. Bless her heart!"
So amidst all these assurances Lettice departed.
It was several weeks before she saw her home again, for a stern battle
was fought with disease and death, while she watched and prayed by the
sick-bed; and the strain grew heavier day by day.
Eudora became rapidly delirious, and the weakened and excited brain
broke through the restraints that love and obedience had exercised
before. The very presence of her aunt in the room seemed to irritate
her, and she kept crying out for "Lettice, dear Lettice!" not knowing
she was beside her. "Oh, don't let auntie come to me; she is so unkind,
and makes such a dreadful noise! Go away, go away!"
Silexa's heart was well-nigh broken; this seemed the crowning sorrow
that would at last make the weight of all that had gone before more
than she could bear. If she had been a weaker woman, she would have
wept passionately. But she could not shed a tear now, only her face
wore a look of stony, abject grief as she moved about softly, obeying
orders in silence.
Mrs. Gwynne's eyes often filled with tears to see her look of gratitude
when she called for help, or asked Miss Pryse to take her place while
she lay down for a short sleep.
"God is teaching her," thought Lettice; "but it is a sharp lesson this
time."
The still, silent house seemed deserted by its inmates, and the
villagers would creep stealthily round to the back door to ask Molly in
whispers how the young lady fared. And Molly and Old Dinah could only
cry when they answered, for the doctor shook his head and looked more
grave and sad each time he came.
Downstairs, in the dingy study, sat the aged pastor day after day in
his chair, waiting for tidings from the sick-room. But what a change
had passed across that wrinkled face! God's own calm was resting on it,
almost giving it the reflection of an unseen glory. Ten years ago he
had found his way into the green pastures as a little child. The burden
no longer pressed sore upon him, for Christ bore the weight of it, and
now the yoke was easy. The once proud man, who had for so many years
fought against God in fretful complainings and hard, bitter thoughts,
was now the meek and lowly disciple, saying, hour by hour,—
"Not my will, O Lord, but Thine be done."
And now as he sat there with a great silence all about him, his heart
could rest in peace. "The waves and the billows are rolling over me,"
he said one day; "but they break first upon the Rock of Ages on which I
stand."
He could do nothing for his "little love," as he still called her, but
pray, and that he did without ceasing, wrestling and pleading with
submission for the precious life that appeared to be ebbing away so
fast. He was giving the best possible help; for these prayers sustained
and succoured the brave women above who were doing the outward work,
and using every means in their power for the youthful sufferer. Hope
flickered and waned, yet "his heart was fixed, trusting in the Lord."
He went bravely through the public services on Sunday. But when he came
to the words, "Your prayers are earnestly desired for Eudora Meredith,
now lying dangerously ill," sobs were audible from minister and people,
so dearly was she beloved.
One night the crisis drew on, and a few hours must decide either for
life or death. Lettice begged that no one should come near the room,
but promised to summon Miss Pryse immediately in case of need.
Silexa turned away to her own room, and fastening the door softly, fell
on her knees, and prayed as she had never prayed before.
"O Thou Lord of life and death, hear my cry! My God, come not as the
Judge, to bring my sins to remembrance, and slay my child."
The conflict grew too agonised for words. She was reviewing her life of
self-will and rebellion, and her head bowed lower and lower in bitter
contrition.
"My Father!"
How softly those two words were uttered!
"My Father, I am Thy child. Do with me what Thou wilt. Thy will be
done. My Saviour, Christ, I hide me in Thy side. Grant me Thy peace."
She rose, and silence filled the room. A soul was launched that night
upon the great ocean of God's love, and angels sang over it. Did
her spirit catch their music, as a faint smile overspread her worn
features, and she looked up towards heaven?
She was afraid to stir or break the silence by a movement. Her ear was
strained to hear the slightest sound in the next room, but it was all
as still as the grave, only the great silver watch on the mantelpiece
ticked on. She drew aside the window curtain to look out at the shadowy
darkness, and saw by the light of a pale waning moon the headstones in
the churchyard. A shudder passed through her frame, but she did not
move. A black, heavy cloud came across the sky hiding the faint gleam,
and all was dark.
She sat on and on, until the last star died out, when suddenly a gentle
tap was heard at the door, which made her start and turn pale. She
opened softly. There stood Lettice, white and calm. She laid her hand
on Silexa's arm, saying, "Your darling is safe; the present danger is
over; she has passed into a sweet, natural sleep. Thank God!"
It was too much. Miss Pryse tried to speak, but no words would come.
Lettice held up a warning finger, and stole back to the sick-room.
Silexa turned away and wept, but in tears of joy, for a glad
thanksgiving filled her heart. And for the first time, she felt a great
gift was hers, and that it had come down from "the Father of lights,
with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning." "For God,
who commanded the light to shine out of darkness," had shined in her
heart "to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the
face of Jesus Christ." Silexa had risen from among the dead, and her
resurrection life was begun.
During these weeks of anxiety and suspense, Ermyn had led a busy life;
and constant activity was the best remedy for her sad heart. Her mind
could not be always dwelling on the Rectory sorrow, for she had to
puzzle out many little duties, which she found she must perform alone.
Hitherto she had had her mother to run to, and ask how this or that was
to be done. Now she had to find out for herself, and it was first-rate
training, for no telling or teaching is attended with real and lasting
benefit until the learner puts rules into practice by personal effort.
Her neighbours were very kind, and helped as much as they could,
but they had their own work to attend to, so Ermyn was often thrown
entirely upon her own resources. The thought of planning and helping
mother was a great stimulus, and she used to fancy how she would look,
on her return home, to see how well she had acted the part of little
house-mother.
When her grandfather had finished his dinner, and gone off again to
his boats, she would wash up the plates and dishes, and put everything
neatly away, change her coarse working dress for a clean print one, and
brush out the pretty dark hair which fell about her shoulders. She used
to fasten it up while she worked to keep it out of her way, and would
sometimes delude herself into the idea that, although she was only
twelve years old, people might then think she was a grown-up woman. As
soon as everything was completed to her satisfaction, she would put
on her bonnet, and set out for St. Elvis. There was no need to lock
the cottage door, for Old Roger would be in and out. He was always
uncertain as to time, and the neighbours would give an eye to see if
any stranger came.
Ermyn would go first to the Rectory, and steal in softly with hushed
breath, to turn the handle of the study door, and slip in. When not
among his people in the village, the aged rector was generally to be
found in his great mahogany chair, and he would look up with a quiet
smile of welcome. These were like angel visits to the dear old man, and
broke in like sunlight on the dreariness of his days. She used to creep
gently to a stool at his feet, and hold his hand, while he whispered
the latest tidings from the sick-room. Then she did her best to comfort
him, though it was hard work sometimes, for words would not always
come, and they both wept together.
After bidding him good-bye, she would often find her way to the weeping
willow in the corner of the garden, the scene of many a happy play
hour. The shells and stones were all there, eloquent in their muteness,
and the branches looked mournful, as if they had no heart to spread
their leafy tent again. On the day when hope was at its lowest ebb,
Ermyn went slowly out of the garden gate, and having occasion to go up
to the centre of the village to buy a few necessaries at the general
shop, she determined to diverge from her ordinary direct route to the
doctor's house.
Having made her purchases, she packed them neatly into the basket on
her arm. But as she quitted the shop, a woman beckoned to her from one,
of the cottage doors beyond.
"Here, my dear," she said; "come over and tell us how Miss Eudora is
to-day."
And as Ermyn answered sadly that there was no change for the better,
one old woman lifted up the stick on which she had leant as she hobbled
towards the group, and said solemnly:
"Ah, we shall see her beautiful blue eyes no more; indeed, and it's
true. She will be laid in her coffin soon. I saw the corpse-candle last
night."
"What was it like?" asked Ermyn faintly, her heart beating in terror.
"Oh, it was there and no mistake. You know I live just where I can see
the Rectory, and after I got into bed last night, and had put out the
candle, all at once a bright light streamed in, and filled the room
with a beautiful rose-colour, which grew deeper and deeper as I lay
shaking and watching it. Thinks I to myself, I'll get up and see which
house it is. So I looked out, and there from Miss Eudora window it
shone like a bright star, and then gradually faded away. 'Tis a sure
and certain sign, whatever any one may say, for I've seen it scores of
times when the neighbours died, though Miss Pryse would think me a fool
for saying it. Why, what is the matter with you, child? Don't look like
that!"
Ermyn had turned from red to ashy white, as the heedless old woman ran
on; then her eyes filled with tears, and she said, "It is very unkind
of you to talk like that to me. Mother says we ought not to believe in
these tales. Do you really think it is true?" she added wistfully, as
her susceptible nature yielded to the superstitious suggestion.
"There, now, don't scare the poor lamb any more," said another woman,
who had joined the idlers. "She'll know about it soon enough, I'll
warrant."
The end of the sentence was lost upon Ermyn, for she had turned and
fled, and was now hastening towards Mrs. Llewellyn's house, where she
knew soothing and comfort awaited her.