given myself four hours' respite, I felt relieved,and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, whenfirst I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but whenDavid 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 withalacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gypbegan to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature indistress, jumped out and patted him.
"Give Gyp a good dinner," he called back to the servants; "and expect mehome to-morrow."
Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been--as theremight have been had they known...
It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I tookthat drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day beingsometimes as a thousand years, it _is_ very long ago. It has pusheditself so far back now in the recesses of my memory--so many events havefollowed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what wedid. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their trueproportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present thatdrive 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 ofTintern 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 Ientered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst ofjoy.
I had always loved beautiful things--God's world had always a power overme. 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 beenwhen 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 thevoices 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 countryso 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, alittle gurgling stream--now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts ofgrass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, andthe place black and barren--what a change to the banks of the Wye, andthe ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious forthe first time that the day was a spring one--soft, sunshiny, andbright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise anddelight; 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, butnot longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour."
When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, inhalf-an-hour I would tell him.
But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy--no, that is thewrong word--to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that Iwas not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should haveanswered, "No, no, I have a worldly heart;" but sitting there in theruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity.Last night I had said "My Father," with the faint cry of a hardlyacknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of achild. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a verypresent help, for my present need.
The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, claspedmy hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy thattwined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under thewestern window outside--I could see their reflections--two men, of theacknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these menand the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But Idid not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning wasthe lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child thatmorning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thoughtcame to me in connection with both--God did it; the old monks of Tinternare with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be forgood, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can getquite away to God, even death must be good.
It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once thegood, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light cameback to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about thedeath of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in theloveliness 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 Godput long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, andpillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts musthave given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, butthe heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been atwork here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and hadvisions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another andgreater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalemmay have been much in their thoughts as the light of their paintedwindows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.
Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics wasgone, 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 narrowvision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom theydimly sought will fully reveal Himself.
"David," I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, "itis 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 mywatch, 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, doyou feel that here?"
"Yes, dear, I feel near God," he took off his hat as he spoke, "I thinkGod 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 ofearnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thoughtto me here is another."
"What is that?" I asked.
"_Thou remainest_," raising his head and looking up at the sky, "allothers may leave us--all, home, earthly love--all may pass away, only toleave 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--Godremains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divinehand."
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 mybrother; "I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has alwaysgone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled inprayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; shesaid God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and wouldalways love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, mydear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, soanxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about thatmoney I lent him. Not that _I_ care for it, not in the least, but Ilike the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything rightdown in the mine. When I remember how _nearly_ he was shipwrecked, andnow see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I'm not quite sureyet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for Godis leading him."
I looked at my watch again, it was four o'clock. I must speak.
"David," I said, "do you love God better than any one?"
The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David's heart at once;he turned round and looked at me.
"
I _do_ love Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?"
"You would never be angry with God whatever He did?" I said, again.
"Angry? no, no; what a strange question."
"I have a reason for asking it," I said.
"Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter,what is wrong?"
David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp whichunconsciously was fierce.
"There is something wrong," I whispered.
"Something you have been keeping from me?"
"Yes."
"All day?"
"Yes."
"How dared--" checking himself--remaining silent for a second, thenspeaking with enforced composure.
"Tell it