A PARABLE FROM NATURE
THE winter was a long and dreary one for the cottagers in St. Elvis and
Porthmynwr. A scarcity of provisions, owing to high prices and lack of
labour, pinched the poor, and was the cause of much want and suffering.
There was sorrow also; for stormy seas and hurricanes had greatly
swelled the ordinary roll of casualties along the coast.
The Rectory kitchen was besieged by hungry people; and Silexa and
Lettice worked away, as only brave hearts can, striving to do all in
their power for the needy and helpless. Yet there was this difference
in the work of the two women. Silexa, careful and cumbered, worked
with her eyes fixed only on the task in hand. Lettice laboured all the
lighter, because in her toil she found leisure to sit at the Master's
feet and hear His words.
Both had their reward; but in the empty void of one heart these words
ever echoed and made themselves heard, in spite of toiling hands and
busy brain, "One thing is needful." The other heart was so filled and
satisfied with Christ Himself, that it could only take up and repeat
the glad assurance, "Your joy no man taketh from you."
The winter snows heaped themselves up across the undulating plains,
thereby shutting away this quiet little Welsh corner from the rest of
the great world. Few cared to traverse the dreary high road at this
inclement season; so the story of its joys and sorrows never went far
beyond the village, as in their quiet round the months moved slowly
onwards towards the spring.
It came at last, and "primrose stars in the shadowy grass" shone in
the Rectory garden and the green hollows of the valley. The stream in
its gay gladness hurried sparkling along through daisy-tipped meadows,
inviting little children to come and play beside it, while the aged and
infirm crept to their cottage doors to warm their stiff limbs in the
reviving sunshine.
It happened on a bright May morning, while the dew yet rested on the
grass, that Lettice was seen wending her way towards the breezy cliffs,
carrying the child Ermyn in her arms. She sang a snatch of pleasant
song, for her heart was in tune with the May gladness, and the little
one laughed back at her in merry glee, clasping a dimpled arm still
tighter round her neck.
They were going towards the "sainted well" which stood in a thymy field
amid broad sunny slopes that stretch down to the edges of the red and
purple sandstone cliffs, whose feet are washed by the fickle waves. The
well was sunk in a hollow in the side of a hill which rose abruptly
behind it; sprays of ivy and tufts of fern formed its canopy, and waved
pleasantly to the winds as they came up from the sea. But no sunbeam
could ever pierce the grot within, where lay the icy, sparkling waters,
which ebbed and flowed with the tide, yet were always fresh and sweet.
Rude steps cut in the sandstone led down to the bottom of the well, the
depth of the water at fullest being about three feet.
The villagers had ever regarded it with the greatest veneration, for
tradition said its waters sprang up miraculously for the baptism of a
holy saint, and that it was endowed with healing properties for persons
suffering from rheumatism and other ills; also a special blessing was
supposed to rest on the babe whose limbs were often dipped within the
fern-fringed fountain.
Lettice could hardly help being tinged with the superstitious reverence
that surrounded this sacred spot, for she had been taught from her
earliest childhood to venerate and love it. No water seemed so fresh
and pure as this, and she would often come with her pitcher to fetch
a draught of it for some poor sick one, who fancied a drink from its
cool recess more than anything else. Lettice firmly believed with many
others that there was a special virtue in these waters; and therefore,
now that the warm days had come, she determined her little Ermyn should
share in the benefit, and accordingly brought her every day for a dip
in the sacred spring. The fearless, hardy child certainly throve under
the treatment, returning rosy and joyous from these morning rambles.
Lettice watched with motherly pride the development of health and
beauty in her cherished nurseling, who daily grew dearer to her heart.
She loved to see the dark brown eyes raised to hers with each childish
appeal, and to hear the innocent prattle at her knee; for the little
one seemed always happiest when beside her.
Baby fingers would waken her in the morning with their soft touch,
and tiny feet trotted after her through the rich meadow grass in the
pastures hard by, or climbed the sunny uplands if the cows had strayed
higher in search of the herbage they loved. The dumb creatures knew
the little child as well as their gentle mistress; for while Lettice
filled her pails with sweet, warm milk, Ermyn would stand fearlessly
at her side, and put out her small fingers to be licked by the great
rough tongues, or run off delighted for handfuls of grass and flowers
to feed them with. Sometimes she would tumble over and roll down a
gentle slope, for her bare, rosy feet were not very steady yet; still
she never seemed to mind, but was up again in an instant. Shoes and
stockings were as yet an unknown luxury to the little maid, for Lettice
never cared to hamper babies with them until they were old enough to
run upon the roads, as she had a notion that it was much more healthy
to let the little feet have the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.
Strangers often came to St. Elvis in the bright summer time, and in
course of their ramblings about Porthmynwr would not unfrequently stop
and speak to the uncommon-looking child, so strangely unlike her pale,
hard-working mother.
Whenever this happened, jealous pangs would assail the heart of
Lettice, for fear her treasure might be claimed and taken from her. She
was always curt and reticent in replying to remarks or inquiries made
about the child, and the locket never saw the light of day. Yet Mrs.
Gwynne was pleased when people noticed her beauty, and Ermyn became the
possessor of many a penny and bright threepenny piece, which the mother
put by in a little box as a future store for her darling.
David mounted guard over his pet whenever he was not at school, and
was her most devoted servant. She would stand and watch for him on
the little bridge where the brooklet slipped away to join the sea,
and directly she caught sight of him would run off through the soft
grass to meet him, and like a mischievous elf, could never resist the
pleasure of turning to chase the ducks. It was the rarest fun to her
to see them launch upon the heaving waters of the creek with flying
splashes, but she did not mean to be unkind, for she loved all birds
and animals, and neither David nor Lettice had ever chidden her for it.
The boy was constantly devising new schemes for her amusement, and she
soon discovered that with him she had only to ask and have. He would
cut little wooden boats for her to sail in the brook; they would then
launch them among reeds and grasses, and running down to the head of
the creek, watch them appear from under the bridge, when the fairy
craft would be welcomed by shouts of laughter and clapping of hands.
Then he would take her to all his favourite haunts and hollows up the
valley, and climb its cragged sides to get the flowers she fancied.
They would have long plays among the planks of timber on the jetty. And
sometimes on a holiday, Old Roger would take them round in his boat to
a lovely white-beached cove, and call for them again when he had done
his fishing, unless they got tired, and went home by St. Elvis.
There was not a sailor in the hamlet who did not love the child; and
she always accepted their rough endearments and kindly words with
the dignity of a little duchess. And when there arose quarrelsome
discussion as to who should carry her down the steps to the boat, she
would patronisingly single out the one she wished to do it, and so
settle the matter, soothing the disappointed ones with a bright smile.
She was thoroughly the child of the hamlet, and there was not a man
who would not have risked his life for Ermyn, so that Lettice had no
fears for her safety, when she allowed her to find her way to the jetty
alone, which she was soon able to do.
Old Roger loved to see her about, and she often trotted towards him as
he sat mending his nets, or arranging his tackle below the causeway.
And many an idle moment did she beguile him into, while answering her
questions and doing her bidding.
Ermyn did not go to St. Elvis very often, for Lettice generally went by
the high road, and had enough to carry with her baskets and marketings
without the weight of the child. But she had been taken more than once
to see Mrs. Llewellyn, who was always interested in her, and helped
Lettice, by making garments and giving advice about the little one.
Miss Silexa rarely went down to Porthmynwr, for she had enough to
attend to at St. Elvis. So it happened that she saw very little of her
godchild until she was five years old, when one day, having occasion to
go in that direction, she visited the cottage.
Lettice was busy ironing, so Miss Pryse, who hated sitting with her
hands before her, took up an iron and helped her.
Ermyn was playing and talking to herself beside the old chest, keeping
school with a row of stones she had arranged, in lieu of pupils. The
two women talked, and Silexa furtively watched the child. Presently she
said, "Ermyn is old enough to go to school now; when are you going to
send her?"
"Oh, not yet," pleaded Lettice. "I could not let her go to St. Elvis
alone; and Davie teaches her every evening. She knows all her letters
now, and is beginning little words."
"Oh well, then, there is no hurry. Come here, Ermyn; I want you."
But Ermyn did not want Miss Silexa, and turned away with a wilful
little shrug of her small shoulders, to resume her play.
Lettice spoke, and a word or look from her was sufficient. The little
rebel crept shyly towards Miss Pryse, as she sat down, and beckoned her
over. Ermyn raised her large brown eyes with a far-away wondering look
in them, as the lady lifted her upon her knee.
Silexa never could make children talk; a timid shrinking and a silent
awe was invariably the reception she met with at their hands, and it
troubled her, though she did not betray her disappointment.
There was silence in the room while Silexa earnestly contemplated the
baby features; then setting her down on the floor again, she said
abruptly to Lettice—
"Do you ever see a likeness to any one there?"
"Yes," replied Lettice, "but I thought it was only my fancy."
"Fancies are more troublesome than facts sometimes," muttered Silexa.
"I wish this one had never come into my head."
And the strong woman rose, and walked towards the cottage door, where
she could see nothing for the mist that had suddenly dimmed her eyes.
"The child will alter," said Lettice quietly, going on with her ironing.
"She will never lose those beautiful eyes, Lettice. I never saw any
like them except—"
No need to mention the name both knew so well. It had not passed
Silexa's lips for years, and those about her forbore to utter it in her
presence. Yet "many waters cannot quench love; neither can the floods
drown it"; her lost and dead ones were still vividly before her. How
she longed to snatch that little unconscious child, and press her to
her aching heart. It could not be, and she felt sorry she had spoken.
Lettice watched her sadly, and silently prayed that "the Holy Ghost the
Comforter" might enter that stricken heart, and bring peace and joy
from a loving Father, through "the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ."
Silexa little guessed that this request was going up, for as she bade
her humble friend farewell, she only thought the burden was too heavy
for her, and that she was bearing it alone. Yet she was dimly seeking
after the God of her life. She was unwittingly a learner in His school,
though she quarrelled with the lessons.
"We see God's decrees when they bring forth their fruits, all actions,
good and ill, sweet and sour, in their time; but we see not presently
His blessed end, and the good that He bringeth out of His holy and
spotless counsel. We see His working and sorrow; the end of His counsel
and working lieth hidden and underneath the ground, and therefore we
cannot believe. We see red earths, unbroken clods, furrows and stones;
but we see not summer lilies, roses, and the beauty of a garden." ¹
¹ S. Rutherford.
Silexa left the cottage, and stood on the causeway for a moment, as
if hesitating whither to go next, then slowly turned in the direction
of the jetty, picking her way among loose stones and slippery seaweed
below the wall where Roger moored his boats. She finally climbed up to
a bare boulder of rock above the tide-mark, where she sat down, and set
her face seawards.
It was low tide; and the curving Roman jetty stood high and bare from
its foundations, and the creek looked nothing better than a slush-lined
way. The rocks, fringed with seaweed, made a picturesque and irregular
coast-line, while from them, here and there, hung chains yellow with
rust, by which boats were fastened. The waters outside the jetty heaved
and swelled, as if impatient to hasten their meeting with the fresh
stream that had been flowing down steadily from the hills to meet the
sea. But the brook had lost all its joyous ripple as it neared the
shore, and was oozing sleepily through slimy green seaweed and forsaken
rocks.
"A picture of my desolate heart," thought Silexa; "every joy dried up,
and empty spaces left that nothing can fill."
And the tears she had restrained in Mrs. Gwynne's presence fell in
warm drops upon her hand, which was instantly raised to dash them
impatiently away. But they cleared her vision, for when she looked
again, she saw the stream, though but a slender thread, struggling
towards the sea.
"It will reach it at last," she thought. "O my God! That I might reach
Thee! Is it true that we may lose ourselves in the ocean of Thy love?
Oh, to get away from this miserable self for ever! But it cannot be.
With such a past as mine, which will haunt me till the day of my death,
how can I forget?"
Poor Silexa, she read but half the parable nature was spreading out
before her. The mill-stream crept but a short way down the creek, when
the returning tide approached to welcome it. The boats heaved gently,
and began to rock against the advancing undulations, while the ocean
lay calm and broad beyond. Deeper and deeper it swelled towards the
shore, until the unsightly mud was covered and all the rocky hollows
filled up, and a blue band of bright sparkling water girdled the rocks.
The mountain stream had found its home; its wanderings had not been in
vain. So is it when we set out to find our God and Father. When we are
yet a great way off, He comes to meet us, and we lose ourselves in Him.
While Silexa mused by the shore, Mary Llewellyn seated herself in the
westerly window overlooking the bay, beside her mother's couch. And
a smile of glad pleasure overspread the face of the invalid as she
saw that the loveliness without caused the active fingers to drop the
half-stitched wristbands, while the bright eyes took a long look down
the valley.
"Mother," she said, at length, turning from the window towards her,
"you don't know what good it does me, when I am in London, teaching, to
think you have this to look at."
"Yes, darling; there should not be a repining thought in the midst of
such beauty. I often think of the 23rd Psalm when I look down on those
pleasant slopes and follow the winding of the green ribbon that marks
the course of the stream. My Lord has indeed made me 'to lie down in
green pastures, and led me beside the still waters.' 'My cup runneth
over,' and it is such a joy to know that He is filling it."
"Mother, how can you be so patient in such a suffering life as yours?
I don't think I could bear it as you do, for little things make me
impatient."
"I have had my lesson to learn, Mary dear, and failed as long as I
tried to do it by myself. At last I just gave up struggling to master
it in my own strength, and then God Himself was my Teacher. My own will
was broken, and His perfect will was put in its place, and the yoke
became easy and the burden light."
"But you pray that you may be made well, mother, don't you? I ask that
for you every day."
"And your prayer is being answered, my child. It 'is' well, and it
'shall' be well. To be made a vessel meet for the Master's use, even
though tried and purified by the fire of suffering, is not this to be
well? To know that He is sitting as the Refiner, until He sees His own
image reflected in the tried silver, is not this rest and peace?"
"But, mother, God is our Father, and full of mercy and love. It cannot
be His pleasure that His loved ones should suffer."
"No, and that is why we are told, 'Though He cause grief, yet will He
have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. For He doth
not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.'" (Lam. iii. 32,
33).
Mary was silent for a few minutes. Then, as she watched a group of
clouds slowly closing over a bit of blue sky, she said, "Yet the clouds
must be very heavy sometimes, and days of pain must be dark ones."
"'No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous,—'"
repeated her mother.
"'Nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of
righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.'
"'Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit
the keeping of their souls to Him as unto a faithful Creator.'
"I 'have' committed all to Him, and the care of it I leave entirely
with Him, for He hath said,—
"'I the Lord do keep it: lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and
day,' and 'He that keep thee will not slumber.'"
Mary was about to reply, when a knock at the door interrupted the
conversation.
"If you please, miss," said Deborah, "Widow Gwynne's son has come up to
see you and Miss Eudora would like to go out in his grandfather's boat
to-morrow morning, because he can take you round to Clythwr Cove, while
he goes a-fishing, and call for you again; if you will please to say
what time you will be on the jetty."
"How delightful!" cried Mary. "And we will take dear little Ermyn, too.
But no, I cannot go," she added, looking at her mother; "we should be
away for hours."
"Do not be uneasy on my account, darling. I am so accustomed to
solitude that I have grown to enjoy it, and it will be a greater
pleasure to me to know the sea breezes are brightening your pale London
cheeks with roses, than to have you beside me all day. I want you to
make the most of your holidays, dear, for the time so quickly slips
away."
Mary had stepped back to her mother's couch while listening to her
answer, and she now stooped down and kissed the delicate features,
saying as she did so, "I hope the time is not very far off, mother
dearest, when I shall come back never to leave you again. It is this
thought that makes me brave and patient for work now. Very well,
Deborah, we will go. Stay, I will run down and speak to David myself; I
want to tell him Maurice is coming next week."
And closing the door gently, Mary sped away, to find David watching
with eager interest the busy occupants of the six beehives that stood
in a row against a sunny wall surrounded by sweet flowers.
The following day was one of bright summer splendour, and the little
party met at the appointed time on the Roman jetty, where Old Roger had
his boat ready. At length they were all seated, and the little barque
rode out on the sunny tide as the white surge seethed and rushed in
foamy frets round the groups of purple rocks whose sides and top were
gay with orange lichen creeping over them.
Old Roger steered carefully while two of his mates plied the oars
steadily, for the contending currents and sunken rocks made navigation
difficult and dangerous along this coast. Free and fearlessly the boat
rose above the waves—the children shouting for joy as they watched the
buoyant water.
At length the last point of rock was rounded, and they glided
tranquilly along the broad blue bay. In about half an hour the smooth
sands of Clythwr appeared, and the boat was run ashore. David stepped
out first with Ermyn in his arms, followed by Mary and Eudora.
Then the fun began in good earnest, and David, proud to lead the way,
did the honours of the cove thoroughly. There were deep fringed pools
to be looked into, where lay the wondrous sea-flowers or anemones
waving and unfolding their feathery and brilliant petals, while
seaweeds—crimson, golden, green, bright with varying hues—spread
themselves out in delicate tracery beneath the clear water. The
children climbed the rocky and wave-worn staircases to hide themselves
in the caves, and make them echo with merry laughter.
When they were tired and wanted to rest, David called out,—
"Come here, Ermyn, and show Miss Llewellyn how you do lessons by the
sea."
David hunted about and found a stick with which he began to trace
letters on the sand.
"Here comes a wave, Ermyn, to wash it away!" cried he. "Be quick and
say the word. Right! Now for another. Ah, little sister, you have lost
it," he said gently, as the excited child stretched out her eager
hands, as if to stay the advancing water.
"Ermyn," said Eudora at last, "I think we don't want any more lessons.
Let us go and have a good long play in the caves. We may, mayn't we,
Mary?"
"Yes, darling; and you may take the basket and unpack it, and spread
out our dinner. And when it is ready, come and call us. Be careful not
to fall on the sharp rocks."
Off set the delighted children, full of the importance of their trust,
leaving David to enjoy one of his greatest pleasures—a quiet talk with
Miss Mary. How eagerly he looked forward to her holidays, for she
had been a truly kind friend to him, always ready to help him out of
difficulties and give wise counsel.
Mary quickly perceived the boy possessed talents and a capacity for
learning far above the average of his class. And it had been a great
interest to her from time to time, during her visits home, to guide his
aspirations into the right channel.
"There is the making of a scholar in that boy," she had said to her
father, "if only the right stepping-stones can be found for him; he has
a mind far beyond boats and fishing-nets. What is to be done?"
Dr. Llewellyn had thought over the matter. But beyond lending him
books, and encouraging his son Maurice to make a companion of him
during his holidays, he could do nothing.
There was no help to be counted upon from the Rectory; for Miss
Silexa, who was the ruling spirit there, highly disapproved of too
much book-learning for the poor. "It makes them discontented with the
station in which God has put them," she said; "and those who are not
born gentlemen should be content with an honest calling, and live and
die as their fathers before them."
So Mary never mentioned the subject to her; and to speak to poor,
feeble, old Dr. Pryse would, she knew, be quite useless. Therefore, the
matter had rested until now.
However, help was presenting itself from an unlooked-for quarter. The
Calvinistic Methodist minister, who was a great friend of Old Roger
Rudd, had often taken notice of David. And seeing that he was a shrewd
lad, able to talk well, ardent and sincere in his piety, and with his
heart set on being some day able to preach to his fellow-villagers,
he promised to use his interest to gain admission for him into an
English college, established for the free training of young men for
the ministry, without any formal stipulation as to the particular
body of evangelical Christians with which they would eventually ally
themselves. David had therefore now a hope that at the expiration of
his time at the grammar school of St. Elvis, he might pass on to higher
studies; while the freedom which the college permitted was especially
congenial to David, who had not as yet made up his mind as to his
special place in the flock of the "One Shepherd."
This was the piece of news that he had been keeping to tell Mary. And
she listened with untiring interest to the story of his high hopes and
longings, believing that David had chosen the Lord as his portion, and
that now he desired to live the life that would best glorify Him; so
she could wish him "God-speed" in this new path which seemed opening
before him.
David never forgot the talk on the beach that sunny day. It came back
to him again and again when he stood on that white-pebbled shore, and
Mary was far-away from him in the heart of busy London, learning in the
path of lowly meekness how "to labour and to wait."