Chapter IV: The Desired Haven

IT was Sunday, and the old parish church of St. Elvis had been well filled for the Welsh and English morning services, which follow closely upon one another. And during the interval before afternoon worship, a Sabbath stillness brooded over valley and shore, as if to breathe the Saviour's loving message to weary hearts, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

The simple fisher-folk were conscious of the holy hush, as they gathered in silent groups near the cottage by the creek, outside the door of which a coffin was resting on wooden chairs. Tears fell softly from many eyes, as the white-haired and venerable-looking pastor appeared to take his place among the mourners.

For a moment he bent his uncovered head in silent prayer, and then in a distinct, though tremulous voice, gave out the following hymn, which was sung in Welsh—

"'Why do we mourn departed friends,
Or shake at death's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call them to His arms.

"'Why should we tremble to convey
Their bodies to the tomb?
Since there the dear Redeemer lay,
And cheered its dreary gloom.

"'The graves of all His saints He blessed,
And softened every bed;
Where should the dying members rest
But with the dying Head?

"'Thence He arose, ascending high,
And showed our feet the way;
Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly
At the great rising day.'"

The echoing rocks took up the notes of that song of hope as a gentle wind wafted it up the valley. And little Dora, who stood next to her aunt, looked up into the blue sky, and thought the angels must be singing too.

The hymn died away into silence, and the long procession wound slowly along the road towards St. Elvis. The service proceeded, the solemn silence only broken by the wailing of the babe, who beside the open grave, all unheeding of what was passing around, cried bitterly in the motherly arms of Lettice Gwynne.

"A sorer sight St. Elvis never looked upon," said one of the sailors, as he followed the others into the church for afternoon service. "God bless the baby!"

"Ay, mates, for sure He will. He has given His word for it," was Roger Rudd's fervent response, as he wiped away a heavy tear-drop with his coat sleeve.

Eudora went meekly into the Rectory pew with her aunt, after a wistful but ineffectual appeal to be allowed to stay beside Lettice and the baby.

To the child, this stately compartment was an imprisoning cage. Once inside it, she saw nothing but the bobbing up and down of a few high Welsh hats, even when she stretched her diminutive height to the utmost while standing on the seat during the singing.

All that came within her range of vision, when seated in one of the dusty corners, was first and foremost Aunt Silexa herself, who never failed to occupy the opposite angle, sitting sideways, so that the child always saw her sharp profile against the oaken boards.

Her working dress was exchanged for a black silk gown somewhat shiny with age, though rarely taken from its lavender-strewn wrapper except on Sundays. An old-fashioned black cloth cloak, which had been her mother's, and a black straw bonnet plainly trimmed with black silk, completed her costume. Silexa despised gloves, and had not a single pair in her possession.

Looking beyond the high edge of the pew, Eudora saw a bit of the dark-groined roof, or it might be her grandfather's silvery head and strikingly handsome face, as he stood in the pulpit, against one of the mouldy Norman arches; while immediately above her, near enough for her to spell out every letter, line upon line, was an ancient marble tablet, bearing the following inscription:—

_TO THE MEMORY OF_
_DAME ERMYN BRANDE,_
_RELICT OF SIR GEOFFREY BRANDE, BART.,_
_OF CASTLE LLANRI,_
_IN THE COUNTY OF PEMBROKE._
_BORN FEB. 1720._
_DIED MAY, 1798._
—————
_As a bequest to her native town of St. Elvis, the orphans of mariners
shipwrecked in sight of Porthmynwr, if dwelling in the town, shall be
entitled to the sum of two pounds sterling per annum, until they attain
the age of sixteen. If boys, a free education shall be granted them in the
Grammar School of St. Elvis, likewise endowed according to the last will
and testament of the said Dame Ermyn Brande._
—————
_REQUIESCAT IN PACE._

This tablet had been one of Eudora's earliest lesson-books. And whenever she sat in the pew, her eyes would stray towards it until by long practice she had made out all the letters, and their meaning began to dawn dimly, though the long words still puzzled her sorely. The "Requiescat in pace" she concluded at last, after much contemplation, must be a part of Dame Ermyn's name.

Eudora wondered if the dirty little marble angels at the head of the monument felt frightened at night when the church was shut up, and it was all dark and cold, with the wind howling through the trees outside. She remembered hearing Old Dinah tell Molly about the night of All Hallow E'en, and how she and some more old village crones had assembled in the churchyard at midnight to listen to the shrieking of spirits in the wind, prognosticating who would die in the ensuing year. This, and similar ugly superstitions, came crowding into the child's mind, haunting it with fear and dread. The words of the beautiful service fell unheeded on her ear, and the Saviour's message to the little ones did not reach her, neither could she see the Good Shepherd standing near to welcome the shivering lamb to His warm embrace, and shelter it on His breast for ever.

With a guilty start, she was suddenly and gladly aware that the service was at an end, and that Miss Silexa was unfastening the door of the pew.

In a few minutes, they were standing beside Lettice and the baby round the old time-worn font, in which baby was immersed (as was the custom in that part of Wales among both gentle and simple), and received the name of "Ermyn Silexa."

After the ceremony, Lettice took her back into her arms, praying fervently that the babe might indeed "not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner, against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ's faithful servant unto her life's end."

Little Ermyn, wrapped in a warm blanket after the immersion, was then carried to the Rectory kitchen, and dressed beside a bright fire.

Eudora's fears all vanished when she was really kissing the dear little one, and heard Lettice whisper, "Come down to the cottage to-morrow, my pet, and you shall nurse her as long as you like, and Davie and you shall have a nice play together, when he comes back from school. Now we must be getting home. Where's father and Davie?"

And Lettice stepped out into the sunshine, which beamed brightly on the sleeping infant.

Eudora stood long at the Rectory gate, watching the groups dispersing to their different homes in the village and down the valley. The sky was grey and dimpled, and there was a fresh stirring wind among the tree-tops. The child listened to the wind whispering among the branches, as the last sunbeams lit up her hair, and with a little sigh she turned into the house, for her heart had followed David and his mother to the old cottage by the creek.

Lettice walked along in the evening glow beside father and child, thinking of her dear ones who had passed beyond the sunset into "eternal day and endless light," and the words of the benediction were echoing in her heart:

"'The peace of God that passeth all understanding shall keep your
hearts and minds through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"

She felt that this peace was part of "the rest that remaineth to the people of God," in the midst of the storm and unrest of this world, the "peace, be still" that Jesus speaks to those who know His voice and follow Him.

Why did this peace not reign in the heart of the aged Theophilus Pryse, as, weary and worn-out with the duties of the day, he sought his silent study?

He had been telling his hearers of the love of God in Christ, and yet in his own heart there was a dreary blank. There was not a Gospel truth that he did not know and believe, yet his cry from the depths was,—

"'I am troubled, I am bowed down greatly, I go mourning all the day long . . . Mine eyes fail for Thy word, saying, When wilt Thou comfort me?'"

What was the shadow between him and his God? Alas! He thought the Lord had dealt hardly with him; the windows of his soul were darkened with sorrow, and he could not say with Eli,—

"'It is the Lord: let Him do what seemeth Him good.'"

Or with Job,—

"'Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not
receive evil?'"

The exceeding bitter cry of David was his:

"'O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for
thee!'"

No wonder that the light of the glorious Gospel of the blessed God failed to shine forth from him in its fulness. It was hidden under the bushel of sorrow, and the light struggled out but dimly.

The careless and hardened remained indifferent, because the fire was lacking; and "the joy of the Lord" not being his own experience, he could not speak of its strength to those who were needing its cheer in dark and toilsome days.

These thoughts passed through his mind to-night as he mused sadly in the firelight, until with streaming eyes he fell upon his knees, to falter out,—

"'Lord, be merciful unto me: heal my soul; for I have sinned against
Thee . . . That which I see not teach Thou me.'"

And the Lord, who is "very pitiful and of tender mercy," heard the cry of that sorrow-laden soul; the answer was already on its way. God's angel had been waiting until the moment when he should be commanded to "fly swiftly" to the weary waiting one, whom the Lord had been teaching and leading, though by a way he knew not, towards "the city that hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God."

The Lord of the kingdom had also provided means for feeding the flock with food, which the pastor's hand was too feeble to give them.

He has always His "hidden ones," His faithful few in reserve, to set the stream flowing that from various causes sometimes fails to run in appointed channels; and Roger Rudd, the lowly fisherman, was one of these.

The old sailor had long been in the habit of gathering about him on a Sunday evening a number of his companions in labour, and any others who cared to come and hear something out of the Book of God.

"They are too busy like in the week," he would say, "to give much heed to the Holy Scriptures, so I like to have them in and talk to them a bit about the real country beyond the waves, and the dear Saviour who wants to take us there."

It was all real to Old Roger, and he made it real to his hearers; this was why they heard him gladly.

Every corner of the cottage was carefully arranged, with a view to giving a comfortable and cheery welcome to those who strayed in to listen, and soon every nook and cranny was filled, and the old patriarch sat in the midst, calmly turning over the leaves of his great Bible, waiting to begin.

Lettice had one foot upon the rocker of the cradle, and David knelt as close to it as possible peering over the edge with his bright eyes to watch the sleeping baby, who, being an object of general interest throughout the fishing-hamlet, was an evident cause of the cottage being more crowded this evening than usual.

"I think, mates and neighbours," Old Roger began, "the Lord is very good to put so much about the sea into His blessed Book, as if on purpose for us poor sailors, as well as for those we leave ashore to look out for our return. It seems as if it was because He knew we should often be in danger, and need the comfort out in the cold and wet, shipping heavy seas, and fearing rocks ahead, at the mercy of winds and waves. Ah, we need something besides a plank betwixt us and the waters then; we want to see the Light of Life as our beacon star, and to feel the 'everlasting arms' underneath us, and hear the voice of Jesus say above the roaring of the storm,—

"'It is I; be not afraid.'

"I hope the poor drowning ones who went down last week before our very eyes had Him very nigh them, for an arm of flesh could not save them in their sore distress. If they called upon him, they were surely holpen, and would find the path through the sea was only the shortest way home. I think we'll read one of the stories about Jesus and His fishermen to-night, in the fourth chapter of St. Mark, from the 36th verse. Here, Davie, your eyes are younger than mine, and ye'll be a better scholar than your old granddad; read us the words, my boy."

So David took the book and read:

"'And when they had sent away the multitude, they took Him even as He was in the ship. And there were also with Him other little ships. And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full. And He was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake Him, and say unto Him, Master, carest Thou not that we perish? And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. And He said unto them, Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith? And they feared exceedingly, and said one to another, What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?'"

"Ay," said Roger meditatively, as if the subject was too mighty for him to handle, "St. Matthew, when he tells us the same tale, calls it 'a great tempest,' so I reckon they were finely tossed about, and it was pretty nigh over with them. Ah, some of us have felt like that before now, when darkness was round about, and drowning stared us in the face. We thought God had forgotten us, and that He did not care. But He is a loving Father, and He don't want us to think hard thoughts like that, so He has told us by His prophet Isaiah that—

"'He hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand.'

"Just think of that! Why, then, He must be holding us in that hand as safely as if we were on the dry land.

"'Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, Thou
stillest them." (Ps. lxxxix. 9).

"Jesus says, 'My sheep . . . shall never perish, neither shall any man
pluck them out of My hand." (John x. 28).

"Never perish! No, not even if they drown, for the same hand that holds them will rock them to sleep, to wake them up in glory. Our blessed Lord slept soundly on a pillow, though the waters were roaring and filling the boat. We also may have a pillow to sleep on in the storm—the pillow of the promises—and with our heads on that, our sleep shall be sweet:

"Yea, we 'shall lie down, and none shall make us afraid.'

"Well, we must go on with the Gospel story. The poor sailors came in a great fright to wake up their beloved Master.

"'And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace,
be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.'

"Ah, mates!" said the aged seaman, looking round on his hearers with kindling eyes. "It must have been grand to see Him, and hear Him say those words. Can't you see those great roaring waves fall quiet as a lamb at His feet? And the wind hushing its breath to listen to His voice? We have the same Master with us to-day, if we will but hear Him. He is saying the same words, 'Peace, be still.'

"'Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith
the Lord; and I will heal him." (Isa. lvii. 19).

"We are lost, lost, hopelessly lost! Rigging, spars, and timbers all rotten! And sin and death, like hungry waves, are swamping our boat. The ship is sinking. Eternity is near. What must we do to be saved? Stretch out the hand of faith and take hold of Him.

"'Lord, save me . . . I perish.'

"A look at the Crucified One, and we are safe.

"'He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us
from all unrighteousness.' (1 John i. 9).

"For—

"'All we like sheep have gone astray . . . and the Lord hath laid on
Him the iniquity of us all.' (Isa. liii. 6).

"Oh, believe and live; cry to the Holy Spirit to open your blind eyes that you may see the Lord of Life, and then take Him to be your Saviour. You will need no other, whether on sea or shore.

"This is all written for those who—

"'go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.' (Ps. cvii. 23-24).

"Davie, read in the hundred and seventh Psalm, lad."

So David found the place and read:

"'He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'" (Ps. cvii. 25-31).

"You have got the Lord's offer to-day," resumed Roger; "don't say 'No' to it. Some think if salvation is so easy to be got, they can stretch out their hand any day to take it. No hurry now. That won't do, my friends. Don't put out to sea in a leaky boat; she may be all tight and trim for fair weather, but how about the storm? The water will soon rush in and swamp the ship when it finds out the hole in her. The Lord is bidding us now 'to make our calling and election sure' by believing on Him. Will you listen? It may be too late to-morrow. 'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.'"

"Who," said Roger, with vehemence, rising and looking round, "who will have Him for their own to-night?"

"I will," and "I," said one voice after another, carried beyond themselves by the reality of the message so faithfully delivered, while a sob here and there escaped from the heaving breasts of the strong men who listened, and were bowed by the Holy Spirit of the Lord.

"Will you?" said Father Roger solemnly. "Will you have Him for your Master, and serve Him faithfully 'even unto death'? Can you by the power of the Holy Ghost promise this? Then you may trust and not be afraid; then you may be sure your Saviour is always in the ship beside you, come storm or shine. When your hearts are failing you for fear, and human help can do nought for you, turn away from the tossing waves, and hide your face in the bosom of Jesus, and think of the heavenly harbour whose lights will give you a brighter welcome than any you ever got on earth. Never forget to take the Master aboard—that is the secret for us poor sailors.

"'The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

"'The sea is His, and He made it: and His hands formed the dry land. O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our Maker. For He is our God; and we are the people of His pasture, and the sheep of His hand. To-day, if ye will hear His voice, harden not your heart.'

"Now, let us sing—

"'Why those fears? behold, 'tis Jesus
Holds the helm and guides the ship;
Spread the sails and catch the breezes
Sent to waft us through the deep,
To the regions where the mourners cease to weep.

"'Led by Christ, we brave the ocean,
Led by Him, the storm defy;
Calm amidst tumultuous motion,
Knowing that our Lord is nigh.
Waves obey Him, and the storms before Him fly.

"'Though the shore we hope to land on
Only by report is known,
Yet we freely all abandon,
Led by that report alone;
And with Jesus through the trackless deep move on.'"

A simple prayer, followed by fervent Amens, closed the service; but Old Roger would never have thought of giving it so grand a name.

"It was only a bit of a talk with the lads," he said.