"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."