THE GOLDEN SHORE
A FLAKE of snow! How slowly it fell through the hushed air! Feathery
light and soft, it came all silently to greet a little daisy, that
looked upward and received it with a smile. It was the herald of a
winter storm, and Lettice from her cottage door looked up into the
darkened sky to watch "the whitening shower fall broad and wide and
fast, dimming the day."
"I wish the child had not gone to St. Elvis this morning," she said to
Old Roger. "She will be storm-stayed now."
"Never trouble, lass," he replied cheerily; "she is in good safe
quarters up at the grey house, though really me!" he added, stepping
outside. "This 'is' snow, and no mistake! We haven't had such a fall
this side Christmas for many a long year. I'm thankful our poor sick
lambie at the Rectory is taken away to a warmer fold. This cold would
have killed her, but I miss her sweet face."
"Ay, indeed, and so do I," said Lettice, with a sigh, as she watched
her father walk towards the jetty.
She felt unusually depressed that morning, but she could not tell
exactly why. A sense of loneliness and desolation had descended on
her with the departure of the family from the Rectory, for she had
leaned more than she was aware on Miss Silexa's firm strength and sober
judgment. Mrs. Gwynne's disposition was naturally timid and shrinking,
though God had made her calm and patient. And now He had some hard
lessons for her, which she must learn "alone" with Him.
Ermyn had gone up early into town to learn tidings of the travellers,
and with dismay she looked out from Mrs. Llewellyn's windows to see
the storm come sweeping up in white masses through the valley. There
was a bright, cheery letter from Miss Silexa, telling of a quiet, easy
journey to Southsands, where they were established in comfortable
lodgings in a terrace looking out upon the quay and shipping.
"It seems strange," she wrote, "to be in this large, fashionable
watering-place, where we do not know a soul. Mr. Lyndwood has asked
some friends to call on us; and Eudora is already better for the change
of air. Her appetite is considerably improved, and quite a new world
has opened to her wondering eyes."
Ermyn read the letter again and again, dwelling on Dora's message to
herself and Lettice, and wishing she could be with her.
"If you like to write a note, I will put it into mine," said Mrs.
Llewellyn.
So Ermyn wrote one in her clear, pretty hand, folded it, and laid it on
Mrs. Llewellyn's little table, and went again to look out. The weather
was more hopeless than ever. And seeing there was no prospect at
present of fulfilling her promise to return quickly, she took off her
bonnet, and settled down quietly to her work.
Three days passed before she was able to go home. The snow had
continued to fall so heavily, that the road between St. Elvis and
Porthmynwr was completely blocked; and as for the meadow path through
the valley, there was no indication of such a thing. Deep snowdrifts
had filled up the hollows, and it would have been most perilous to
attempt to find a way through them. And when the snow melted, there
would be a swampy waste of waters, abounding in dangerous bogs and
marshes.
On the fourth day, however, a cart track had been cleared along the
high road. And Ermyn was soon running full speed on it, clapping her
hands together that she might feel her numbed fingers, while her warm
breath floated before her like a wreath of smoke.
Lettice came out on the causeway to meet her. And Ermyn saw at once by
the expression on her face that something was the matter.
"Hush, dearie!" she said, raising a warning finger. "Step softly, and
come in as gently as you can. Poor granddad is very ill; he had a bad
fall on the rocks last night. The fog was so thick, and the snow so
slippery with the thaw that he missed his footing, and fell over the
jetty at low tide. It would not have been half so bad if he had fallen
into the water. But, oh, those sharp, cruel rocks! They have hurt his
poor back and head, and I don't think he will ever be able to stand
again. I thought he was dead when they carried him into the house."
The tears had sprung into Ermyn's eyes as she listened, and she flung
her arms round her mother's neck, sobbing.
"Hush, darling!" whispered Lettice. "Don't let him see you crying. A
kind neighbour is beside him now. It was such a pitch-dark night, I
could not send for the doctor. But this morning I saw him riding across
the hill to that cottage, so Jem Lewis has gone after him. I know he
will come as quickly as he can."
"Oh, mother, mother!" said Ermyn in a low tone, following her over the
threshold. "What shall we do? Dear, dear granddad! I wish I had not
gone away."
The good doctor soon obeyed the summons, and gave, as he always did,
words of cheer with his valuable surgical skill.
But Lettice knew by the kind pressure of his hand and sympathising look
as he passed out, that he thought the case a very, very bad one.
"Keep him as quiet as possible," he said; "and you, my little maid, be
a good girl to your mother."
Old Roger was seldom conscious for weeks, and he would moan
distressingly when moved or touched. Yet he prayed, though
incoherently,—
"Good Master, Dear Lord! I can bear it if Thou art with me in the fire.
Jesus, Lover of my soul."
He never seemed to lose his hold of Christ, and would repeat fragments
of texts, and a line here and there from hymns that he had learned and
loved during his time of health.
"Where are the lads?" he said one night. "They haven't 'all' come to
Jesus yet; no, not 'all.' But the door of mercy is open wide, and 'I
will in no wise cast out,' says Christ."
Neighbours and fishermen would come crowding in with inquiries and
offers of help. And Lettice feared they must think her very unkind as
she entreated them not to stand in the doorway, keeping the pure air
from the sick man. But she could not prevent one and another stealing
in now and then, on tiptoe, for a look at the dear old patriarch.
And his mates would beg her to let them take it in turn to share the
night-watch with her. This was an offer she gladly accepted, for the
strain was daily growing heavier. There is much real sympathy and true
kindness often to be met with among the poor, and none knew this better
than Lettice during her long, bitter trial.
"You must write to Davie," she said one day to Ermyn, as Christmas drew
near, "and tell him to come home, if possible, for these holidays. I
fear if he is prevented, he will not see dear granddad again."
This was the first intimation of danger Ermyn had comprehended and hot
tears fell on the paper as she wrote. But it did her good to pour her
heart out to David.
He came as quickly as possible, and with his coming, hope lightened
the heavy heart of his stricken mother. His grandfather knew him as
he entered and sat down by the bedside, and the wrinkled hand was
stretched out to take David's within its feeble grasp.
"My boy," he said, looking at him, "thy old granddad is brought very
low, but the Lord is my light and my salvation. I will trust, and not
be afraid."
The cottage was not so dreary after that, for David was the support and
comforter of all, during his month's sojourn at home. It seemed to give
Roger a lift, for he was certainly better, and able to be propped up in
bed, and even got as far as to sit out sometimes in his great chair by
the fire within shelter of the settle.
Mr. Williams, the clergyman in charge, was most kind and unwearied
in his visits. He would come to read and pray beside Roger, and talk
cheerfully to him about what was going on at St. Elvis, encouraging him
in return to tell him some of his sailor yarns to help to pass those
long winter days.
David conceived an enthusiastic admiration for Mr. Williams, and
whenever he could be spared would find his way to the lodgings over
the post-office, where the two young men would enter into long and
interesting discussions on all kinds of subjects, which David found
most refreshing in the midst of his anxiety.
"I find my inability to speak the Welsh tongue such a drawback," Mr.
Williams said to him one day. "I did not study it until I was grown-up,
and although I know it well enough to get through the service pretty
well, and read some sermons Dr. Pryse lent me, I find I cannot get at
the people in their homes, for when they begin to talk it fast, I am
obliged to tell them I cannot understand. I suppose you speak it well?"
"Oh yes," laughed David; "but no merit to me, for I have been
accustomed to it from my cradle. We never speak anything else at home
unless strangers come in. Grandfather likes it best, and I love the
sound of the Welsh tongue."
"How I wish you were in our Church," rejoined the other; "it stands in
great need of Welsh-speaking clergymen."
In reply, David confided to Mr. Williams his final resolution to seek
ordination to the Episcopalian ministry, adding that his fondest wishes
would be attained could he but be found worthy to aid the venerable
pastor of St. Elvis in tending there the flock of Christ.
"But what," said Mr. Williams, "will the friends say by whom your
education has been provided?"
"Some of them will be disappointed, no doubt. But from the first they
left me free to decide on my future course."
"Then you can return to college under these altered circumstances?"
"Assuredly; and should I ever be able to do so, I shall in any case
repay the cost of my education, or provide, in time, for some other
poor student, without asking to what church he belongs."
On this, the friends parted; Mr. Williams, who had considerable
influence, silently resolving to forward David's purpose to the
uttermost.
But the cloud that had opened to show its silver lining while David
remained at home closed over again dark and drear soon after his
departure. There was no prospect of Old Roger being ever able to ply
his fishing trade again. He had to sit idle in the chimney-corner, and
his carefully saved earnings were dwindling down until very little was
left.
His loving daughter told him not to trouble about it; she would work
hard enough to support him. But he knew she was already toiling far
beyond her strength, and this thought would creep in sometimes to dim
his bright faith.
Lettice strove hard to hide their fast-increasing poverty from Ermyn.
And it was not until one of the cows had fallen sick and died, and the
other had to be sold to a neighbouring farmer, that the good woman was
fairly overcome, and Ermyn found her sitting inside the doorway weeping
bitterly.
"Mother, darling mother!" said Ermyn, kneeling down beside her and
crying too. "Tell me what it is. Oh, let me help you if I can!"
So Lettice told her all, and hid none of the sad truth.
"Mother," cried the girl joyfully, "there is the box upstairs that you
have been putting all my little presents of money and savings into ever
since I was a little child. It is heavy now. We must open it and use
what is there. Oh, I am so glad you would not let me spend it before.
Davie put five shillings in last summer, and I will work and earn such
a lot more. I know I can. I will go up this afternoon and speak to Mrs.
Llewellyn about it."
"No," said Lettice, as a proud pang shot into her heart; "let us keep
our trouble to ourselves as long as we can."
Yet she felt she was wrong as the words fell from her lips.
"Oh, mother dear, why?" pleaded Ermyn. "She is so good and kind; do let
me go to her! I want her to tell me how I can best help you."
And the child begged so hard that at length she obtained a reluctant
consent.
Mrs. Llewellyn's heart opened in sympathy at once, and she reproached
herself for not having sooner thought of the scheme that now presented
itself to her mind. Ermyn was an exquisite fancy-worker, and under her
tuition had learned to do some very beautiful embroidery in coloured
silks. Mary had made many friends in London during her residence there,
and to some of these her mother proposed she should write, and try to
get orders for this work.
The appeal was responded to in a few days, and demands for the lovely
work flowed in faster than Ermyn's fingers could supply them. When the
first liberal payment in gold arrived, how proud and happy she felt
to take it home and refill the scanty purse, thus lifting some of the
pressure from the dear ones there.
Meantime, Lettice was learning her lesson. She had not been made aware
before how much pride lurked in her heart, and perhaps it was for
this reason God sent her a trial that laid it bare. She, the thrifty
housewife, who had always managed so well to make both ends meet, and
keep want far from her dwelling; she, who with Miss Silexa had so
often dispensed the alms from the Church funds, rejoicing that she
never stood in need of them herself; "she" to be poor and needy, and
obliged to put in her claim also at the Rectory for the dole of bread
and other necessaries that were given away at stated times to destitute
parishioners!
The flesh rebelled, but the spirit prevailed. It had been a subtle
snare, for she actually discovered she had been proud of her pride,
and it was not without a sore struggle in a strength not her own that
she conquered. Yet the chastened look on her sweet, patient face told
to those around that poverty had come as one of God's good angels, to
reveal unto her more fully the mysteries of His grace. Her cup was
still filled, because she held it under the Fountain of living water,
whose source can never fail, though earthly springs may run dry.
"The barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail,
according to the word of the Lord."
One morning she was reading to her father the daily portion from her
precious Bible, and she came to the words,—
"'Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in
necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when
I am weak, then am I strong.'
"I thought," said Lettice humbly, "that we were good if we bore these
troubles patiently, and tried not to murmur; but these words go beyond
that, father. I have not taken pleasure in distresses for Christ's
sake; I have only striven to bear them in silence."
"Don't be afraid, my lass; our good Lord knows all about it—the
fightings without and the fears within; and He says,—
"'My grace is sufficient for thee.'
"That means, it will meet every need and so fully satisfy us that we
shall be even joyful in tribulation. See what His grace did in the
prophet's heart when he could say,—
"'Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in
the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall
yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there
shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will
joy in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength.'
"Now, my lass, we are not so badly off as that—praise be the Lord;
though He has seen fit to take away both the cows, there is yet meat in
the fields, for we never had a finer crop of potatoes than this year.
Things are never so bad but what they might be worse. There is an old
saying and a true one, 'God writes straight on crooked lines.'
"When I lie here upon my bed and count up all the Lord's mercies, why,
I can't number them, for—
"'They are new every morning: and great is His faithfulness.'
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy
name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits:
who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with
loving-kindness and tender mercies; who satisfieth thy mouth with good
things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.'
"'Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation,
or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or
sword? . . . Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors
through Him that loved us.'"
The aged man clasped his hands together and looked upwards, lost in the
contemplation those holy words had awakened, and Lettice went to her
work, and there was music in her heart all the day long.
It was a grief to Ermyn that she could not be more at the cottage, but
she needed Mrs. Llewellyn's counsel and advice about her delicate work,
and the light was better for it in larger rooms. So she used to set out
as early as possible and not return until dusk, when she would bring
back with her a merry brightness that was like sunshine in the old home.
Lettice fondly hoped her father would struggle through the winter and
revive in the warm spring time. But as the days lengthened, she saw
with grief that his "strength was but labour and sorrow."
He sat less frequently in his chair, though sometimes she could
persuade him to have it placed just outside the door in the sunshine,
where he could feel the fresh breezes come up from the sea, and watch
the sailors among their boats. He seemed to enjoy it at the time, but
gradually this was too much for him, and he would lie down again on his
bed dreamy and quiet for hours, and soon grew too weak to leave it at
all.
One afternoon Lettice watched a tear slowly course down his
weather-beaten cheek, and she rose softly to smooth back the long white
locks from his noble forehead, saying tenderly, "What is it, father?
Are you in pain?"
"No, my lass, no," he answered, as a sweet smile broke over his face
like a glory; "the pain is all gone now, but the boat is ready, very
nearly ready, Lettie, my girl."
Lettice thought he was wandering, and said, "Do you want to go out in
your boat, father?"
"I am sailing away in it, my child, and my Lord the Pilot is going to
slip the cable soon. My face is set towards glory's shore. It won't be
long now before I am there, and I was crying to think of leaving you
behind."
Lettice took one long look into the dear, dim eyes, then laid her head
down on the pillow beside him, and sobbed her heart out there.
"Lettie! My Lettie! Listen to what He says,—
"'I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'
"'A Father of the fatherless and Judge of the widows is God in His holy
habitation.'
"Lettie, I leave you in His keeping,—
"'and underneath are the everlasting arms.'"
The sacred words fell like balm upon her troubled spirit, and she heard
the voice saying once more within her soul,—
"'Peace, peace, be still!'"
And there was a great calm.
A sound of footsteps in the outer room made her rise to see who had
entered. It was Mr. Williams, who stepped softly in, and holding out
his hand, asked kindly for her father.
The old man recognised his voice, and cried out:
"Come in, come in, sir. I'm so pleased to see you. Reach him a chair,
Lettice, and pull back the window curtain a bit farther, that he may
see what I have to look out upon. There!" he said, as his daughter
obeyed him. "There's the sea, rolling so grand and beautiful! God's
sea, sir," he added reverently, and with poetical fervour. "I love
to lie and watch it. The tide is fast coming in now: its ebbings and
flowings are sweet music in my ears. It makes me think of the voice of
many waters, and the harpers harping with their harps before the throne
of God on the crystal sea. I know the words of the new song they sing,
and I shall be joining with them soon."
"Yes," replied the young man, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "You
will soon see 'His face; and in His presence there is fulness of joy.'"
"Amen!" responded Roger fervently, as Mr. Williams noted in silence
what a change had come over the furrowed face since he had last seen
it. He had grown to love the old man dearly, as all did who came in
contact with him.
"Shall I send for David?" he asked huskily.
"No, sir, no; it will be too late, poor lad, now; for with to-morrow's
dawning, and perhaps before, I expect to—
"'see the King in His beauty, and to behold the land that is very far
off.'
"I shall see none of them again now until the glorious resurrection
morning. Kind Miss Pryse, and the dear old parson, and that sweet
dove, Miss Eudora—they will all come back to find another grave in the
churchyard, but I shall be above."
Mr. Williams drew his Bible from his pocket, and read:
"'Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in
Me. In My Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so I would
have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare
a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto Myself that
where I am, there ye may be also.'
"'Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me
where I am; that they may behold my glory, which Thou hast given Me:
for Thou lovedst Me before the foundation of the world.'"
Lettice was watching her father as he drank in the words, when she
suddenly saw him sink back on the pillow in a death-like swoon, and
both knew the end was even nearer than they thought.
"I have sent for Ermyn," whispered Lettice, as she applied
restoratives. "See, he is coming to himself again now."
"Where am I, Lettie?" said the old man faintly. "It was all so dark,
but I can see you again now."
"Yes, father dear, it is all right now, isn't it?"
"Ay, my lass—
"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort
me.'"
"'When thou passes through the waters, I will be with thee; and through
the rivers, they shall not overflow thee,—'"
whispered Mr. Williams.
Again there was a stir in the outer room, and Mary Llewellyn entered
with Ermyn at her side.
Roger knew Mary, and beckoned her nearer. Then, after the courteous
custom of the Welsh, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Ermyn drew near softly, and knelt down beside her mother close to the
bed, and many of Old Roger's sea-mates and neighbours came dropping in
one by one, until the cottage was nearly full.
"There stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I
serve," said the dying voice.
And all held their breath to listen.
"As He was with Saint Paul, so He will be with me.
"'They sounded and found it twenty fathoms; and when they had gone a
little farther, they sounded again, and found it fifteen fathoms.'
"The water is getting shallower and shallower; there is land ahead!
"'They feared lest they should have fallen upon rocks.'
"Ah! But I have no fear, for the Anchor of the soul both sure and
steadfast is mine, and it is fixed within the veil.
"'They cast out the tackling of the ship'—
"That is, I take it, all my worldly affairs and cares. They are all
thrown overboard, and Christ alone is with me in the vessel. I see the
red harbour lights gleaming! They who sleep in Jesus rest well."
"Let us pray," said Mr. Williams, as the aged pilgrim ceased, exhausted
with the unnatural effort.
"Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee; the Lord
bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee,
and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee,
and give thee peace, both now and evermore. Amen."
There was no time for further words, for as the sunbeams streamed in
rosy and golden, and the waves washed up in a long farewell against the
boundary wall, a sigh, gentle as an infant's, loosed the silver cord,
and the golden bowl was broken. Old Roger had gone home to God.