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ALLISTON HALL.
image024"SHALL I ring the bell, Miss Trafford?" I inquired, when dinner was over.
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"SHALL I ring the bell, Miss Trafford?" I inquired, when dinner was over.
"Don't call me Miss Trafford," she said, quickly; "call me Evelyn, it sounds much nicer, and is six letters shorter."
"But perhaps Sir William would not like it," I objected.
"Oh, papa likes everything I like," she said, decidedly. "I wish you to call me Evelyn, and I mean to call you by your first name too—'Miss Lindsay' sounds just like the brown alpaca. What is your Christian name?"
"My name is May," I said; "and I shall be very glad if you will call me May, instead of Miss Lindsay; I shall fancy I am at home again."
"Well then it's settled, May," she said, laughing; "and now you may ring the bell."
Soon after the dessert was cleared away, a rustling of silk was heard in the passages, the door opened, and three ladies entered the room.
The first was a stout, elderly lady, very handsomely dressed. In her younger days I felt sure she had been a beauty, and I think she must have been greatly admired. But she had, I thought, an unpleasant expression in her face, and a haughty and disagreeable manner.
"Well, Evelyn," she said, as she swept past me without a word or a look, "how are you feeling now?"
"Oh, very nicely, thank you, Lady Eldridge," she said; "Miss Lindsay and I have had quite a pleasant chat together."
"Miss Lindsay, ah! Yes, I see," said Lady Eldridge, turning to me for the first time; "the young person whom Sir William has engaged as your companion, Evelyn, I believe."
And then she took no further notice of me, but sat upon the sofa at Evelyn's side, fanning herself vigorously.
There was something in Lady Eldridge's manner which made me uncomfortable and uneasy, and I had withdrawn to the table with my work as the two other ladies advanced to the fire, not intending to take any part in the conversation, when a pleasant, gentle voice by my side said kindly, "You must be tired with your long journey, Miss Lindsay; had you to stop many times by the way?"
I looked up and met one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. It was not exactly a pretty face, and the features were far from handsome, but there was such a beautiful expression upon it that you could never have called it plain. I should have been very puzzled if any one had asked me how old she was. At one time she looked quite young, not more than four or five and twenty; and the moment afterwards I detected strong marks of care, or anxiety, or trouble on the face, which made me think she must be at least ten or fifteen years older.
I told her about my journey, and then she asked me one question after another, in the kindest, pleasantest way, as if she really cared to know all I had to tell her. She led me on from one subject to another, and I found myself telling her of our old home; of Maggie, and my hopes and fears for her; and of many other things, whilst Lady Eldridge and Evelyn were talking together on the sofa; and all the chill and repression which had come over me when Lady Eldridge entered the room entirely passed away, and I felt perfectly at my ease again.
When I told her of our leaving our dear old home, her eyes filled with tears, and she said quietly, "I know what a trial that is; I have gone through it myself. What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting and no going away!"
Such a happy, thankful feeling came into my heart as she said this. There was something in the way she said it, as well as in the words themselves, which made me feel sure that my new friend was one who loved the same Lord I loved. And, if I had felt drawn to her before, I was doubly drawn to her now.
We had no opportunity for further conversation, for Evelyn was growing weary of Lady Eldridge, and invited us to come nearer to the fire.
"Put away your work, you industrious girl," she said to me. "The brown alpaca always had her work close to her fingers' ends at a moment's notice."
"My dear Evelyn," said Lady Eldridge, "a most profitable way for a young person."
But Evelyn took no notice of her, and turned to my new friend.
"Where have you been all day, Lilla?" she said. "You have only been to see me three times."
"Have I been so negligent as that, dear?" she said. "I must mend my manners to-morrow; but I have been very busy writing letters, so you must forgive me."
Until I had turned to the fire I had not looked at the third lady who had come into the room. She was sitting languidly in an arm-chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed on the door, as if she were looking anxiously for some one to enter. She was decidedly advanced in middle age, yet she was dressed like a girl of seventeen: in a low, white evening dress, and a most elaborate gold chain and locket round her neck. She looked dissatisfied and restless, as if she was always striving to reach some object which was eluding her grasp. She took no particular interest in the general conversation which was going on, but seemed either lost in thought, or not thinking at all.
Lady Eldridge was giving an account of Eastern life, which she described as the most delightful life on earth. I found she had lived many years abroad, and was going to Constantinople the following spring. She could not settle in England more than a year at a time, she said.
"Those miserable skies; those depressing fogs; those dreadful rainy days, enough to make any one commit suicide who has lived in the East, my dear." And Lady Eldridge fanned herself again at the bare recollection of it.
She kept up a continual run of conversation for about half an hour; but she gave me the idea of being a woman who had hardly opened a book in the whole course of her life, and who was thoroughly ignorant of everything except the worldly ways of the worldly world—in which she seemed to be anything but ignorant.
But her chattering was brought to a close by a rap at the door, and the announcement that the gentlemen had arrived in the drawing-room.
"Those tiresome men!" said Lady Eldridge. "As if they could not amuse themselves for half an hour without sending for us. Well, Alicia, I suppose we must obey the lords of creation and go downstairs. Good-night, Evelyn, my dear."
And, without taking the slightest notice of me, Lady Eldridge sailed out of the room.
The other two ladies said good-night to both of us and followed in her train, and Evelyn and I were left alone.
"Well, what do you think of them?" she said, as soon as the door was shut. "Bring your chair close to the fire and tell me."
"I think that the lady who sat near me has one of the sweetest faces that I ever saw," I said. "I could quite believe in any one loving her at first sight."
"Oh, Lilla, yes; isn't she nice?" said Evelyn, carelessly. "Every one seems to like poor Lilla."
"Why do you call her poor?" I asked.
"Oh, because she has had so much trouble," Evelyn answered; "she was engaged to a young officer a good many years ago, and it was broken off; his father persuaded him to marry some one with more money. Lilla is papa's first cousin, and she often stays here; it is very dull for her at home; her father has married again, and his new wife is such a horrid old thing, who treats Lilla as if she were a child of twelve. But Lilla never complains; she is very patient. And what did you think of Lady Eldridge?"
"I had rather not say, please, Evelyn; I do not think it is very kind to talk about people so much."
"Oh, it won't hurt Lady Eldridge, I assure you," she answered; "she is miles too high up in the world to be hurt by anything you or I may say or think of her—at least she thinks that she is. Papa says she has nothing to boast of, if her antecedents were looked into. She was quite poor, and lived in some remote Eastern city, when her good looks attracted Sir Hugh Eldridge's attention, as he was passing through the place, and he married her. But she thinks herself a perfect queen now, and lords it over everybody. I often pity her poor maid. It is 'Lawrence, here;' 'Lawrence, do this;' 'Lawrence, do that;' from morning till night; for Lady Eldridge thinks it is a disgrace to do the simplest thing for herself, or even to know how it ought to be done. She boasts of being ignorant as a baby about all money matters, and cannot even pay a bill for herself. Silly old thing!" said Evelyn, contemptuously. "I have more respect for Alicia Hay than I have for her."
"Is that the lady who sat in the arm-chair by the fire?" I asked.
"Yes, poor thing!" said Evelyn. "She wouldn't talk a bit to-night. I know why, just as well as if I had been there. It was just because Lord Moreton didn't take her down to dinner;" and Evelyn laughed at the thought of it. "Didn't you see how she looked at the door every time a step came in the passage? Because sometimes papa comes up for a few minutes on his way to the drawing-room, to cheer me up a little, and sometimes he brings one of the gentlemen with him; but they didn't come to-night, so poor Alicia was quite disconsolate; she had not the heart to talk to any one. And if she only know—oh, if she only knew—what Lord Moreton really thinks of her!"
"Poor thing!" I said. "Is she very fond of him?"
"Oh, not of him in particular," said Evelyn, laughing; "but you see poor Alicia is getting old; she really is, though she would be very angry if any one told her so, and she wants very much to be married, and to have a home of her own."
I was not sorry when Evelyn asked me to ring the bell for her maid Clemence, and I was at liberty to go to my own room, for I was very tired after all the travelling and excitement I had gone through that day.
I lay awake for many hours, watching the flickering of the firelight, and listening for the striking of a large clock in the hall, whose deep, sonorous voice could be heard in every part of the great house.
The next morning I awoke before it was light, and had been dressed for more than an hour before Clemence came to conduct me to her young mistress's dressing-room. I found Evelyn lying on a sofa by the dressing-room fire, in a pretty pink dressing-gown, and with her fair hair hanging down in long waving tresses. She looked a perfect picture, I thought, and one that any artist would take pleasure in painting. She seemed pleased to see me, but was languid and tired, and not so much inclined for talking as she had been the night before.
Breakfast was brought up soon after I arrived, and, whilst we were eating it, the door opened, and an elderly gentleman came in. He had evidently been very handsome in his younger days, and there was a cheerful, pleasant, good-tempered expression on his face, which made him look younger than I imagine he really was.
"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, brightening up the moment that she saw him, "I am so glad you have come! How naughty of you not to come last night! I wanted you so much to see Miss Lindsay—May, I call her now," she added, laughing.
Sir William shook hands with me very kindly, and said he hoped I should soon feel at home, and that his little daughter would not wear me out with her chattering.
"Now, papa, what nonsense!" said Evelyn, gaily. "May was at home when she had been here ten minutes, were you not, May? And she likes chattering just as much as I do. You talk just as if she was the brown alpaca I told you about. But she is not a bit like her; she is so nice, papa, and we get on together famously."
"That's right," said Sir William, seating himself on the sofa; "and how is my little puss this morning?"
"Only a little tired, papa," she said, wearily; "the pain kept me awake last night."
He looked at her very anxiously, I thought, as he stooped over her, and gently arranged her pillows, as carefully and tenderly as any woman could have done.
"Keep very quiet this morning, little girl," he said; "I will not let any of them come near you. Miss Lindsay will read to you, and you can lie quite still."
"Oh no, thank you, papa," she said, cheerfully, "let them all come; it does me good to have people coming in and out; it amuses me; they are so funny, some of them, aren't they, papa? Don't they make you laugh sometimes?"
Sir William made some evasive answer, and glanced towards the end of the room, where I was sitting at work.
"Oh, you need not mind her, papa," said Evelyn aloud, "she is not the brown alpaca. I mean to tell her everything, and to talk just the same when she is in the room as when she is out of it."
Sir William seemed rather amused at the rapid friendship that had sprung up between us, but it did not appear to displease him, for he smiled kindly at me, and gave me a few more words of welcome as he rose to leave the room. But when he got to the door he said gravely:
"Lord Moreton is very anxious to see you this morning, Evelyn; shall I let him come when you got into the other room?"
Evelyn laughed heartily.
"Yes, if it is any amusement to him, papa," she said; "I am sure he amuses me. Oh! If you had only seen him the other day; he came up when Alicia Hay was sitting beside me, and neither of them spoke a word. He sat looking at me, and she sat looking at him; and they were both perfectly stupid."
"Lord Moreton is a very worthy young man, Evelyn," said her father, gravely.
"Oh, a very worthy young man," she repeated, in exactly the same tone, so exactly that I could scarcely keep from smiling; "but the worst is, papa, that I don't like very worthy young men; they are so dreadfully uninteresting—at least, if Lord Moreton is a specimen—they sit and look at you, and then clear their throats, and try to make some feeble remark, and break down in the middle. Oh dear! It is so amusing. Now Cousin Donald never does that; he can make himself very agreeable; I wish he would come to see me."
"Donald has other business to attend to," said her father, rather sharply; "he has no time to lose now. Donald must make his way in the world."
"Yes," she said, rather sadly; "poor Donald!"
"I do not know why he need be pitied," said Sir William, dryly; "if he will only work, he will soon be able to earn a very fair income."
"But Donald does not like work," said Evelyn; "he says he would like to be independent, and to have plenty—plenty of money."
"He never will have plenty of money," said Sir William, almost angrily, as he shut the door.
"Papa does not like poor Donald," she said, as soon as he was out of hearing; "but he is so handsome, and he has such nice brown eyes. I do not know why papa dislikes him so much. I think it is because he is afraid he likes me too much. It is very strange that he does like me. I should have thought that he would have hated me; because if I had never been born, Cousin Donald would have lived here, and would have been just like papa's son. That makes me feel so sorry for him."
"Is he much older than you?" I asked.
"Yes, he is six years older," said Evelyn; "and papa and mamma had been married a long time, and they thought they would not have any children of their own, so papa was talking of adopting Cousin Donald, and educating him and leaving the property to him. Uncle and aunt were very pleased about it, because they have so many children. Cousin Donald is the eldest of thirteen now, and there were plenty of them even then, so they were quite willing to spare him to papa. But of course when I came, I put an end to all that little plan," she said, laughing.
"And where is your cousin Donald now?"
"Oh, poor fellow, he is in a bank, and he does so hate doing sums; he always did. They make his head ache, he says. He likes riding and shooting and fishing, and all such things, just the kind of life he would have had here, you know; it is very hard for him, is it not? And I am afraid he is rather lazy, and they say he wastes his money. But he is so good-looking, and I really think he cannot help it—yes, I really think he cannot help it."
"Cannot help what?" I inquired.
"Oh, being extravagant," she explained. "He buys beautiful little bouquets for his button-hole, and all sorts of little unnecessary things of that kind, and the money goes very fast. But it must be so hard to see pretty things and not to be able to buy them. I should never be able to do that; as soon as ever I see anything I like, I send into the shop and have it brought out to me at once."
I smiled to myself as I went on with my work, for I was thinking how different Evelyn's experience had been from mine. She seemed to guess my thoughts.
"I suppose you have not always had everything that you wanted and wished for?" she said.
"Everything I really wanted—yes," I answered; "everything I may have wished for—no."
"Oh dear! Was it not very tiresome?" she asked.
"I think it was good for me," I said.
"Good for you!" she repeated. "That's just like the brown alpaca. How could it be good for you?"
"I think it made me enjoy all the more the good things which were given me," I said—"things that perhaps you might have thought nothing of, and things which would have given you no pleasure at all."
"What sort of things?" asked Evelyn.
"Oh, any little present that was given me; any new book, or picture; any little pleasure, or treat of any kind. We had so few new things, that when anything fresh came, it was prized and valued more than I can tell you. I really think it gave us more enjoyment than far grander things would give you."
"Oh, I dare say," said Evelyn; "there are some things that I wish for just a minute, and then when they come I do not care for them. If you only saw the number of books on those shelves, the leaves of which have never been out. I wished for them, and ordered them, but when they arrived I had given up wishing for them, and I have never begun to read them."
I thought of the little shelves at home which had held my small library, each volume of which was the prized gift of some friend, and which had been read and re-read, until I know their contents almost by heart.
Before I had been long at Alliston Hall, I came to the conclusion that the enjoyment of this life is much more evenly distributed than many of us think. For where pleasures are many, the enjoyment that they give is comparatively small; whilst where they are few and far between, they cause so much larger an amount of enjoyment, that the lives of those who receive them are quite as full of sunshine and brightness as they would be if their pleasures were more in number.
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CONSCIENCE AT WORK.
image026MY life at Alliston Hall was a very happy one. Day after day went by without any care or anxiety, and every one was so kind to me that I could not feel lonely or homeless any longer.
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MY life at Alliston Hall was a very happy one. Day after day went by without any care or anxiety, and every one was so kind to me that I could not feel lonely or homeless any longer.
The more I knew of Evelyn Trafford, the more I loved her. In spite of her light, careless way of talking, there was a great deal of genuine kind feeling in her, and I am sure she did all in her power to make me happy. I never once remember, the whole time I was with her, feeling uncomfortable on account of my position in the house. Both Sir William and Evelyn treated me as if I were one of the family, and I received nothing but kindness from their numerous visitors and friends. Lady Eldridge was the only exception. She, whenever she made her appearance at Alliston Hall, thought it her duty to keep me fully aware who she, Lady Eldridge, was, and who I, May Lindsay, was, and of the immense and immeasurable distance between us.
The guests at Alliston Hall did not pay very long visits, so I had constant change and variety in my life, and heard and saw a great deal more of the outer world than in our quiet country home.
And yet, although everything around me was so pleasant, and though every one was so kind to me, I had not been many months at Alliston Hall before I began to feel restless and unhappy. For I felt that I was not walking so closely with God as I had done before. I had become cold and careless, rising late in the morning and hurrying over my prayers, and then going through the day in an idle, careless spirit, hardly ever thinking of my Lord or trying to please Him.
For some time this did not make me at all unhappy. I had so much to think of, and there were so many pleasant visitors staying in the house, and so many books to be read, and there was so much to be done to amuse Evelyn and to make the days pass happily for her, that I gave myself no time to think about the state of my soul. But the visitors left and we were quiet again; and then I felt an empty, dissatisfied feeling in my heart, which I cannot put into words. My conscience was very busy now, and brought to my recollection all my neglect of my best and dearest Friend, all my coldness and indifference to Him. I would have given anything to feel His presence as in times past; but He seemed far away from me, and I felt too cold even to pray to Him. But though I had so terribly forgotten Him, my Lord still remembered me.
It was Sunday afternoon. Evelyn had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I went out into the garden till she awoke. There had been showers all the morning, but now the sun was shining brightly, and the rain-drops were sparkling like diamonds on the grass.
I went along one of the grassy terraces, and turned down a quiet path, shut in by evergreens, which led by a gentle descent down to the sea. This was my favourite walk, and I always chose it when I came out alone. There were several seats on this path, so situated as to catch a peep of the sea through the shrubs and trees, which grew down to its very edge.
As I turned a corner in this winding path, I suddenly came upon Miss Lilla Irvine, sitting upon one of the seats reading her Bible. I apologised for disturbing her, and was going to turn back, when she asked me if I would not stay a little and read with her.
"You and I love the same Lord, May," she said; "I know we do, and I think it would help us to talk together of Him sometimes; at least," she added, "I am sure it would help me."
"Oh, Miss Irvine," I said, as I sat down beside her, "if you only knew—"
"If I only knew what?" she said, gently.
"If you only knew how careless I have been lately; I have hardly thought about Him at all."
"What has been the matter, May?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," I answered; "I think everything has been too smooth and nice lately; somehow, it is easier to do right when the road is rather rough; don't you think it is, Miss Irvine?"
"Yes," she said; "when things go wrong, and all seems against us, we are driven to prayer, May—we feel we must pray then; but we ought not to need driving into our dear Lord's presence."
"Oh no," I said; "I know we ought not."
"And oh, May," she said, earnestly, "if we get self-confident, and leave off prayer, we shall soon have a fall; we are not safe for a single moment if we are not strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. You will be having a fall if you do not come back to Him, May."
"I wish I could come back, Miss Irvine," I said, "but it is easier to get wrong than to get right again. I got up this morning rather earlier, and tried to pray, but I could not fix my thoughts on what I was saying; all sorts of things kept coming into my mind, and I gave it up at last."
"Yes," she said, "I know what that is; heart answers to heart. I have often found it so; when I have left God, and have been pleasing myself, I have lost the power to pray."
"How is it, Miss Irvine?" I asked.
"I think," she said, "that the Holy Spirit has been grieved, and without His help we cannot pray."
"Then what do you think I should do?" I asked.
"I think," she said, "you should go back to the Lord, just in the same spirit in which you first came to Him. Go to Him, and ask Him to receive you—to take away all the sin which is separating you from Him, and to give you the comfort of His presence again. And then I think you should especially pray that you may once more have the help of the Holy Spirit. I like that old hymn so much:
"'Return, O Holy Dove, return,Sweet messenger of rest;I hate the sins which made Thee mourn,And drove Thee from my breast."'So shall my walk be close with God,Calm and serene my frame,So purer light shall mark the roadThat leads me to the Lamb.'
"Will you not go back to Him at once, May?" she said, laying her hand upon mine.
"Oh, Miss Irvine, I will; indeed I will," I said.
"Go now, dear," she said.
So I left her sitting there, and went on, down the winding, shady path to the sea. It was a quiet, solitary place. The only sounds that were to be heard were the splashing of the waves upon the rocks, and the cries of the white sea-birds as they flew backwards and forwards on the little rocky islands which lay about half a mile from the shore.
I knelt down in a sheltered corner, and felt myself alone with God. I do not think that I have ever realised the Lord's presence more than at that moment. And then I confessed it all to Him, all my coldness, all my carelessness, all my neglect of prayer, all my indifference to Him. I came back to Him, and asked Him to receive me, and to give me the light of His countenance again. And then, as Miss Irvine had advised me, I prayed very earnestly for the Holy Spirit, pleading that promise—
"If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?"
Oh, how thankful I felt that Miss Irvine had spoken to me that afternoon! I am sure that God put it into her heart to do so.
When I went back to the house, I found her still sitting in the same place, and she said, as she took hold of my arm to walk home with me:
"Is it all right, dear?"
"Yes, Miss Irvine, I hope so. I have asked Him to forgive me, and I think He has."
"Yes," she said, "if you have asked Him, I am sure He has. He is always ready to forgive us, if we will only go to Him. If we only realised how much He loves us, May, and how much it grieves Him when we are cold and heartless to Him, I think we should be more careful never to leave Him."
As I look back upon that part of my life which was spent in Alliston Hall, I cannot be too thankful that God gave me the friendship of Miss Lilla Irvine. I found in her a true friend, one in whom I could confide all my troubles and anxieties, and one who was ever ready to sympathise with me and to advise me. Her visits, to my great joy, were very long ones. At the time of which I am now writing, she spent several months at her cousin's house, so that I had many opportunities of seeing her, and of learning to love her more and more.
As Christmas time drew near, the good sisters at Branston Manor House wrote to ask me to spend Christmas with them, and Sir William most kindly gave me a fortnight's holiday.
Evelyn was very loth to part with me, and told me she would be dreadfully dull whilst I was away. But Sir William would not hear of my refusing the invitation, and promised to do his best to make up for my absence.
"Oh dear, oh dear, it will be a long fortnight!" Evelyn said, the night before I left. "You shouldn't be so nice, May; if you were only a little more disagreeable, just the smallest degree more like the brown alpaca, I should not miss you half so much!"
"Very well," I said, laughing, "I will come back provided with spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and be as prim and precise as you please, and then I suppose I shall get plenty of holidays! Not that I want holidays," I said, in a different tone, as I noticed the troubled expression on her face, "I was only joking, dear Evelyn; my whole life here is a holiday—I am very, very happy, you are all so good to me."
"Just as if we could help being good to you, May," she said; "I told you that I loved you at first sight, and always should love you, and I am sure I do. And I do hope you will enjoy being with your little sister, only you must be sure to come back as soon as they can spare you."
It was six months since I had seen Maggie, and my heart beat very fast as the train drew up at Branston Station, and my little sister came forward to meet me. She had grown very much since I had seen her last, but she was the same dear, simple-minded child as when I had left her, and was just as loving and true.
Old John was waiting for us with the two luxurious horses, and we drove to the Manor House at the usual measured pace.
It was quite touching to see the welcome which the three kind sisters gave me. If I had been their own child, they could not have seemed more glad to see me. Miss Jane, especially, took me under her wing from the moment that I entered the house, and it would indeed have been my own fault if I had not spent a pleasant Christmas time at Branston Hall.
But what I enjoyed, perhaps, more than anything else, was hearing Mr. Claremont's sermons. There was something in his plain, practical way of preaching, which went direct to my heart, and I always came away from hearing one of his sermons feeling thoroughly dissatisfied with myself, which perhaps, after all, is the best proof how very useful they were to me.
On the last Sunday of the year, especially, I felt that indeed there was a message for me. In both his sermons that day Mr. Claremont spoke of the year that was past, gone for ever, with all its shortcomings and sins, all its neglected opportunities, all its wasted moments. In the evening his sermon was addressed more especially to the unsaved in the congregation, urging such not to let the last moments of the old year pass away until they had been to the fountain, Christ Jesus, the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness, and had washed their sin-stained souls till they were whiter than snow.
But in the morning Mr. Claremont spoke to Christians, to God's own children. He spoke of the sins of which we Christians had been guilty during the past year, and above all of our sins of omission. He told us that God had given to each of us a special work to do for Him, and that if we did not do it, the work would be left undone. And then he asked us whether all those who lived in the house with us were amongst the saved. Were there any, was there one, with whom we spoke day by day, and whom we loved perhaps very much, and yet whom we knew to be still outside the refuge, still unsaved?
And then Mr. Claremont pleaded with us, if this was the case, to give ourselves no rest until that one was safe in Christ, but to speak to him about his soul, and, whenever we had an opportunity, to plead with him, and to urge him to come to Jesus before it was too late.
"Another year gone, just gone, and your loved ones still unsaved. Oh, what if this new year should be their last! What if next New Year's Day, the opportunity should be over, and they should be gone! Children of God, up and be doing, let not their blood be on your heads. Oh, if they should come up to you at the last day, and say, with bitter reproaches, 'Why did you not warn us? If you really believed, knew that this was before us, why did you not give yourselves no rest, day nor night, until you knew that we were saved from it? Oh, why not?' What will you say to them then? Friends, be up and doing, for the night cometh when no man can work."
As Mr. Claremont spoke, one face was ever in my mind's eye, one form was ever before me. It was Evelyn Trafford, my own dear little Evelyn, of whom I thought. I knew she was not safe. Loving and amiable and sweet tempered as she was, I know that she cared nothing for the Lord I loved. She had been brought up entirely for this world, and she had never been taught to think of things above.
And yet what could I do for her? I had sometimes tried to get a word in, edgewise as it were, for my Master, but it was very difficult, and it never seemed to do any good.
Sometimes I thought it did harm. If she was alone with me, she turned the subject so quickly, and called me precise and particular, and did not seem so much at her ease with me afterwards. And if any one else came into the room, she would begin to talk almost scoffingly of all that I loved and reverenced, as if she were determined to show me how little she cared for it all. And so I was beginning to think that it was wiser to be quiet and to say nothing.
Yet this sermon had made me uneasy. If Evelyn, my dear Evelyn, should die unsaved, and I had never once really spoken to her about her soul's interests, oh, how I should blame myself! And yet, when could I do it? How could I begin the subject?
I met Mr. Claremont the next day, as I was going to see one of Miss Jane's sick people, and I ventured to tell him how much I had felt his sermon.
"But does it not require very great wisdom in speaking to others?" I asked.
"Undoubtedly," he said; "there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silence."
"But with me, Mr. Claremont," I said, "it always seems the time to keep silence."
"Have you been looking out for an opportunity?" he said. "Ready to speak and longing to speak, whenever and as soon as God shall give you one?"
"Hardly that," I said; "I have often thought I ought to speak, but have always persuaded myself that it was not the right time to do it."
"Ah!" he said. "Perhaps if you look carefully within, Miss Lindsay, you will find that at the bottom of it all there has been a little cowardice, a little unwillingness to be brave for the Master's sake—please forgive me for saying so—but I have often found it so myself. Often, when I have neglected speaking to others about their souls, I have found that it was not from want of opportunity, but from want of courage to use the opportunities that were given me."
"Yes," I said, "I believe you are right."
"Pray for opportunities to be given you, be on the look-out for opportunities, and use the opportunities as soon as ever they occur, and you will, I am sure, Miss Lindsay, find that there is indeed a time to speak, as well as a time to be silent."
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ALICE FITZGERALD.
image029I WENT back to Alliston Hall determined to be on the watch for the time to speak, and longing most earnestly for that time to come.
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I WENT back to Alliston Hall determined to be on the watch for the time to speak, and longing most earnestly for that time to come.
Evelyn welcomed me very warmly, and told me she had never known a fortnight pass so slowly.
"Have you many visitors here?" I asked.
"No," she said, "there is only Alice Fitzgerald; I did not know she was coming when you went away, but I found out she was staying with friends of hers not far-off, so I asked her to come here on her way home: her father is an old friend of papa's."
"Alice Fitzgerald!" I repeated. "Alice Fitzgerald, I wonder if it is the same!"
"The same as what, May?" she said, laughing at my astonishment. "Do you know an Alice Fitzgerald?"
"No," I said, "I do not know her; but she is a great friend of a friend of mine."
"Well, this Alice Fitzgerald—how pale you are, May," said Evelyn, suddenly stopping short in her explanation; "are you very tired?"
"No, not at all," I said; "go on, I want to hear about your Alice Fitzgerald."
"Well, my Alice Fitzgerald is a very pretty girl, at least I think she is, and a nice sort of girl, though she isn't a bit like you. I don't mean that you are not nice, you dear old thing," said Evelyn, laughing, "but she is quite different from you; I'm rather afraid you will quarrel."
"Oh no, I hope not!"
"No, you must not quarrel," said Evelyn, "though she has some very strange ideas; but, after all, what does it matter what one believes?"
I was about to answer her when the door opened, and the subject of our conversation entered. She was a tall, fair-haired girl of about my own age, and was indeed, as Evelyn had said, very pretty.
"Alice, this is my friend, May Lindsay," was Evelyn's introduction, as she came in.
Miss Fitzgerald shook hands with me pleasantly, and then sat down on a low seat by the fire, and took her work out of a pretty, embroidered pocket which hung by her side.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," she said, laughing, "for I have been hearing your praises sounded morning, noon, and night, ever since I came."
"Well, isn't she very nice, Alice?" said Evelyn, raising herself on the sofa. "Didn't I give you a good description of her?"
"I expect Miss Fitzgerald is not so hasty in forming her opinion as you are, Evelyn," I said.
"By the by, Alice," Evelyn went on, "May thinks she knows a friend of yours; at least, if you are the same Alice Fitzgerald. What is her name, May?"
"It is a gentleman," I said, turning very red, in spite of all my efforts to the contrary—"Mr. Claude Ellis."
"Claude!" repeated Miss Fitzgerald, in astonishment. "Do you know Claude? I never heard him speak of you."
"No, perhaps not," I said; "but I do know him very well indeed; we were playfellows when we were children, and have lived next door to each other all our lives."
"How very strange that I never heard your name!" said Miss Fitzgerald. "And I was staying at the Parsonage last spring; would you be at Acton then?"
"No," I said, "we had left a little time before you went there. Do you remember noticing a house, standing in a large garden, close to the Parsonage?"
"Oh yes," said Miss Fitzgerald; "it was shut up when I was there, and Claude said the doctor used to live there."
"Yes, the doctor was my father," I said, checking the tears, which would come in spite of myself, and which nearly choked me.
"Well, that's very funny!" said Evelyn. "That you should know this dearly beloved Claude, about whom I have heard so much lately! Do you know he is coming here to-morrow, to make my acquaintance? Papa has invited him to come for a day or two whilst Alice is here."
Claude coming to Alliston Hall Claude coming to-morrow! How I wished that my stay at the old Manor House had been a little longer. I made some excuse to leave the room soon afterwards, and went to my own bedroom, and locked the door.
"Claude coming to-morrow!" I repeated over and over to myself.
All the old trouble seemed to have come back again. I had hoped that I should never see him again, that our paths in life would never cross each other. And now Claude was coming to-morrow. How astonished he would be to see me here! I wondered how we should meet, and whether he would feel it as much as I did.
As I sat alone in my room I prayed for grace and help, and I felt that the strength came as I prayed. Still I felt that I could not go downstairs, until Evelyn's maid came to tell me that Miss Trafford wanted me.
"You naughty girl!" said Evelyn when I entered. "What have you been doing? Why, you are as cold as ice; come to the fire and warm your hands. I really could not let you stop up there any longer. Do you know I thought you were, at last, turning into the brown alpaca! She always shut herself up in her bedroom half the day."
"And, who in the world is the brown alpaca?" said Alice Fitzgerald. "Do tell me about her, Evelyn."
Evelyn was only too pleased to do so. And then we went on from one laughable subject to another, and Alice Fitzgerald told us a number of amusing stories, in such an absurd way that we laughed until we were quite tired.
"There," she said, at last, as Evelyn declared that she had not laughed so much the whole time she had been ill, and that she felt all the better for it, "that's just what I was saying before Miss Lindsay came into the room; if only people, when they are in low spirits would laugh more, they would be all the happier."
"But when you are in trouble you can't laugh, Miss Fitzgerald," I said.
"Oh, then, you should try," she said; "try to forget the trouble, and laugh it off. That's always my way when anything bothers me or vexes me. I try to think of something amusing, and forget it."
"And do you always succeed?" I ventured to ask.
"Well, no, not quite always," she said, rather gravely.
It was the first time that I had seen her look grave; her merry, laughing face was clouded for a moment. But it was only for a moment.
"Anyhow," she said, "if you don't quite succeed in forgetting your trouble, it does not make it so hard to bear; it is better to go laughing through a trouble than crying through it. But laugh it off if you can, that's much the best way."
"But, suppose you can't laugh it off," I said; "you owned that there were some troubles which were too deep to be got rid of in this way—suppose you can't laugh it off, and the trouble comes back after every laugh as heavy as ever—what then?"
"Oh, then," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, "we must bear it, I suppose—bear it as best we can. Don't you think so?"
"I never try to laugh trouble away," I said; "I try to pray it away."
"Oh," she said, scornfully, "you believe in prayer, do you?"
"Yes; don't you, Miss Fitzgerald?"
"No, not now," she said; "I did once. That is to say, I never prayed much myself, but I used to believe that it did some people good; but Claude says that is all nonsense. My brother Arthur and he are always having long discussions about these things. Arthur believes in the Bible with all his heart and soul, and Claude does nothing but laugh at him."
"And you agree with Claude, of course," said Evelyn, laughing.
"Yes," said Alice, "I agree with him; and yet, do you know, I sometimes wish I didn't."
"May I ask, why not?" I said.
"Well," she said, "you mustn't tell Claude, he would be so angry; but I can't help thinking if Arthur should be right after all—what then?"
"Yes, what then?" I said. "If the Bible is true—what then?"
"Why then," she said, laughing again, "we are all lost, I suppose; so the best we can do is to enjoy ourselves as much now as we can. A short life and a merry one, that's my motto! Well, I suppose it is getting near dinner time," she said, as she hastily rose, gathering up her work, and left the room.
"She is a queer girl," said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut.
"She is not really happy, Evelyn," I said. "She tries to laugh it off, as she says; but there is a great deal of miserable uncertainty in her heart, I feel sure of that."
"Well," said Evelyn, turning the subject, "won't you dress for dinner? Ambrose will be here in a moment."
So I left the room and went upstairs, and prayed very, very earnestly for them both, and especially for Alice Fitzgerald. Oh, if she only knew where true joy was to be found!
The next day Claude arrived. I was in Evelyn's sitting-room when Alice Fitzgerald brought him in to introduce him to her. And then she turned to me.
"An old friend of yours, Claude, I believe," she said.
Claude started; he had not noticed me before. "May—Miss Lindsay," he said, colouring painfully, "I did not expect to see you here."
And then he turned the subject quickly, and began to give us an account of his journey, his Oxford adventures, and all sorts of other things, till dinner was announced.
I could see that he was not at his ease, and I was almost afraid that Alice Fitzgerald noticed it also.
I saw very little more of Claude that evening, for I always dined upstairs with Evelyn, and he spent the evening in talking politics with Sir William over the library fire.
But the next morning when I came downstairs, Claude was alone in the breakfast-room. I shook hands with him, and said "Good morning;" and then was about to leave the room again, when he called me back, and said hurriedly:
"May, what did you tell them?"
"Tell whom?" I asked.
"Tell her," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "What did you tell her about me?"
"Only that we played together when we were children, and lived next door to each other."
"Was that all?" he said.
"Yes, every word," I answered. "You surely did not think, Claude—"
"Oh no," he said, "of course not, only it's more comfortable to know. All right, May," he added, carelessly, "we will let bygones be bygones now."
And then he sat down to the piano and played a merry air.
I stood and looked out of the window, and wondered at the shallowness of his heart. And I felt, as I had never felt before, that I had not made a bad choice when I chose Christ's love and gave up Claude's.
In a few minutes the others came down, and we had breakfast; and whilst we were at breakfast, Ambrose came in with the letter-bag, which he solemnly laid before Sir William, as was his daily custom. Sir William took a key from his watch-chain and unlocked the bag, and then proceeded to distribute the letters.
"None for you this morning, Miss Alice," he said, laughing. "Which would you choose: to have your young man here to talk to you, or to get a letter from him? None for you, Miss Lindsay, not a single one; six for me, and one for Mr. Ellis—that's all!"
Claude took his letter, opened it, and glanced hastily through it. The contents did not seem to be of the most agreeable nature, for he looked very annoyed as he read it, and then crushed it up impatiently, and thrust it into his pocket.
Alice glanced inquiringly at him, but Claude appeared to be engrossed in the carving of a chicken, and took no notice of her inquiring looks.
When breakfast was over, Sir William went into the library, where he generally spent the morning looking over the newspapers and writing his letters.
We went up to Evelyn's room. I thought Alice wanted to linger behind, that she might speak to Claude; but he did not seem disposed to take the hint, and followed me closely upstairs.
We found Evelyn lying on the sofa, and waiting for me to show her how to do a new pattern in crochet work, which I had learnt from Aunt Jane, who was very clever with her fingers. I sat down on a low stool close to Evelyn, directing her as she worked; and Alice and Claude went to the other end of the room, into the large bow window.
Claude had brought a newspaper upstairs with him, and, throwing himself into an arm-chair, he began to read it, with an air which plainly intimated that he did not wish to be disturbed.
Alice Fitzgerald came behind him, and leaning over his shoulder, with her arm on the back of the chair, she seemed to be reading the newspaper with him. But after a minute or two I heard her say:
"Let me see that letter, Claude; what was it about?"
"Oh, it was nothing particular," said Claude, turning to another part of the newspaper; "it was only a business letter."
"That's always the way with men," said Evelyn, laughing; "whenever they don't want you to see a letter they always say, 'It's only a business letter.' Papa always does so, and it's of no use my telling him that I like business letters; he only laughs and says, 'Women don't understand business, or, if they do, they ought not.'"
But Alice Fitzgerald did not let the matter drop. In a few minutes I heard her ask again from whom the letter had come, and Claude answered in a vexed tone:
"It is only from my father, Alice. There, take it and read it if you make such a fuss about it!" And he tossed the letter out of his pocket.
Alice sat down and read it, and when she had gone through it once, she turned it over and read it again, and then, folding it up very gravely and slowly, she handed it back to Claude. He put it into his pocket, and went on reading.
Alice leant over his shoulder, and her face, which was generally so bright and merry, was very grave and thoughtful.
Evelyn and I were busy with our pattern, and for some minutes no one spoke.
Then I heard Alice say, in a low voice, "What enclosures were there, Claude? What is it that has vexed your father so much?"