David's Little Lad

I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves, early spring flowers, and dear birds’ notes. Gyp got up from the mat where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change, but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David’s study and sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall on it. It was Noel Paton’s “Mors Janua Vitae.” I suppose most people have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter’s proof home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy’s; she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it more closely – the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad, – stirred my heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of God. I pressed my hands to my face; “God give me strength,” I said very earnestly. This was my second real prayer.

I had hardly breathed it, when David’s hand was on my shoulder.

“So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I was wishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have been lonely. Mother and Owen quite well?”

“Yes, David.”

“And my boy?”

“He is well.”

“How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle; but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about.”

“David,” I said suddenly, “you are not yourself, is anything wrong?”

“No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, and have been rather saddened,” then with a smile, “I did miss the little lad, ’tis quite ridiculous.”

He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he looked worn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quite that expression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, or my face would betray me.

“How nice the old place looks?” I said.

“Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coal country; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine – turning out heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynon to-morrow, and I will bring you back then – ”

“I will stay,” I said.

“I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of this unwholesome atmosphere for you.”

“Oh! I must get back to-morrow,” I said.

I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not the least idea what I was saying.

“But there is no real fear, dear,” added David, noticing my depression. “You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seem like old times – or stay” – pulling out his watch, while a sudden thought struck him – “you don’t look quite yourself, little girl; you have got tired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when you arrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which will occupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down to Tintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey.”

“Oh! yes, David,” I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he must have mistaken for pleasure. “I will go with you. I should like it; but can we not get back to Ffynon to-night?”

“A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will do so, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner.”

He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. No fear now that my heart was not aching – it was throbbing so violently that I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I ever feared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certain light out of David’s eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could not whisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing in the world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage him to talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now – worn, weary, not quite himself – recurring each moment to one bright beacon star – his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone in the wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God’s love shone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this would happen at Tintern.

I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours, and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do not care what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news to him in his home and the child’s. This study where he and Amy sat together, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he has knelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be the spot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it is true. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenly and rudely torn away; but not yet, and never at Tynycymmer.

Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch – it was between eleven and twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings by four o’clock; this would enable us to catch the return train from Chepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynon in the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, I would, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two.

Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the least idea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simply obeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, I grew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beat tranquilly. Having given myself four hours’ respite, I felt relieved, and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, when first I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but when David returned to tell me that the carriage was at the door, I was calm. He found me with well-assumed cheerfulness, looking over some prints.

“Now, Gwladys, come. We shall just catch the train.” I started up with alacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gyp began to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature in distress, jumped out and patted him.

“Give Gyp a good dinner,” he called back to the servants; “and expect me home to-morrow.”

Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been – as there might have been had they known…

It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I took that drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day being sometimes as a thousand years, it is very long ago. It has pushed itself so far back now in the recesses of my memory – so many events have followed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what we did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself. Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case, then some, who don’t understand, may call me heartless. For when I entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of joy.

I had always loved beautiful things – God’s world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in the very dust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country – a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream – now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren – what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one – soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.

“May I sit here,” pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, “may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?”

I was conscious that David’s eyes were smiling into mine.

“You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour.”

When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him.

But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy – no, that is the wrong word – to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, “No, no, I have a worldly heart;” but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said “My Father,” with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need.

The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside – I could see their reflections – two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both – God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good.

It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.

Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.

“David,” I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, “it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here.”

“Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one.”

David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.

“Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?”

“Yes, dear, I feel near God,” he took off his hat as he spoke, “I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern,” he continued, “it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Thou remainest,” raising his head and looking up at the sky, “all others may leave us – all, home, earthly love – all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God.” I was silent.

“Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern – God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand.”

I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy?

“And God’s mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys,” continued my brother; “I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not that I care for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember how nearly he was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I’m not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him.”