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.