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THE OPPORTUNITY GIVEN.
image037THE next morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on the library table, my eyes caught the words "Ellis—Fitzgerald."
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THE next morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on the library table, my eyes caught the words "Ellis—Fitzgerald."
I found that it was an announcement of Claude's and Alice's marriage. It was wonderful to me how calmly and composedly I could read it. That trouble was, in deed and in truth, a thing of the past. I could "rejoice to-day; the pain was over long ago." I could thank God, with all my heart, that He had not let me yield to the temptation which at that time was so strong to me, and that He had saved me from the lot which, a year ago, I had thought would be so bright.
I took the newspaper with me when I went to Evelyn's room, and pointed to the marriage. I thought it might help to turn her thoughts a little from her trouble.
"So Alice is married, poor girl!" she said. "I had forgotten that it was to be so soon."
"Why do you call her poor, Evelyn?" I asked. "Most people would say happy girl."
"Oh, I don't know," said Evelyn, "perhaps I ought not to have said so. Mr. Ellis is a great friend of yours, I know; but, somehow, I do not think I should like to marry him myself; now would you, May?"
"No," I said, very decidedly, "not at all."
We went on with our work without speaking for some time, and then Evelyn asked:
"May, do you remember what Alice Fitzgerald said about laughing trouble away?"
"Yes," I said, "quite well."
"I don't at all agree with her," said Evelyn; "I can't laugh when I am in trouble, it would be of no use trying. I could not laugh to-day—if I tried to laugh, I should begin to cry directly."
"And even if you could laugh, Evelyn dear," I said, "the trouble would come back again the next moment heavier than ever."
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, suddenly, "I wish I could do the other thing."
"What other thing?" I asked.
"Why, pray," she said. "Don't you remember you said that you always prayed when you were in trouble. I wish I could do that."
I did not answer her until I had sent up an earnest prayer that I might use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and that I might step inside the door, which at last seemed to be opened to me.
"But why can't you pray, Evelyn dear?" I asked.
"Well, May, I will tell you why," she said; "I have wanted to talk to you about it so very much, only I didn't like to begin. You see I have been thinking a great deal lately, and wishing that I was happy like you; and, one day when you were out of the room, you left on the table a bundle of those little books that you take with you when you go to see your poor people; so what do you think I did? I thought I should like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it; and then I put it back so carefully afterwards, just in the same place, that you might not find out what I had been doing. You did not find out?"
"Oh no," I said, "indeed I did not; but which one was it that you read?"
"It was about the prodigal son; don't you remember that one?"
"No," I said, "I have not read them all; was it a nice one?"
"Yes, very nice, and it made it very clear about prayer. I have been thinking of it often since."
"Will you tell me what you read?" I asked.
"It pictured the prodigal son," said Evelyn, "going home, after he had treated his poor old father so badly, and beginning: 'Please, father, I want a new coat,' or, 'Please, father, give me some new shoes,' or, 'Please, father, I want some food very much.' It pictured him asking his father to supply his wants before ever he had asked him to forgive him for his bad behaviour to him. That wouldn't have been the right way, would it, May?"
"No," I said, "it would not have done for that to come before the 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.'"
"Yes," said Evelyn, "and your little book said it was just the same now, and yet so many people wanted to go to God, and to ask Him for all sorts of things when they got into trouble, and yet they had never thought of asking Him to forgive them."
"I see what you mean," I said; "we must speak to God about our sins, before we can speak to Him about our troubles."
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, "I wish I could do that. I wish I could talk to God about my sins. I never know till now how bad I had been to Him; but last night I seemed to see myself in quite a different way. I used to think, May, that I was not so very bad. I didn't think that I was at all good like you, still I thought that there was not so very much wrong with me. But now I see that I'm bad altogether; I don't think I have ever done anything good at all."
"Why don't you go and tell God that, Evelyn darling, just as you have been telling me? That would be a prayer, just like the prayer of the prodigal son, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.'"
"Yes, May," she said; "but suppose I tell Him that with all my heart, is that enough?"
"Yes, quite enough, if you ask God to forgive you because Jesus has died, and if you trust in Jesus as your own Saviour," I said.
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, with a sigh, "come and sit beside me, and make it very plain and simple for me—as you would for a little child. I am so much afraid of making a mistake."
Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I might also make no mistake, but might be helped to lead her to Jesus!
"Evelyn," I said, "I want to tell you something that I was reading in one of my favourite books the other day, because I think it makes it so very plain. You remember the three crosses on Calvary?"
"Yes," she said, "there was the middle cross, with Jesus on it, and on each side of Him there was a thief."
"Yes," I said, "and both the thieves had been great sinners, both had led bad lives, and yet, oh, how differently they died! One thief went straight to Paradise, to be welcomed there by Jesus, the other went down to hell. Now, why was there this difference? Did you ever think why it was that one thief was saved, and the other thief was lost?"
"I suppose," she said, "it was because one thief looked to Jesus, and the other did not."
"Yes," I said, "quite so; but that is not all. What did looking to Jesus do for the thief?"
"I don't know," she said.
"Well," I answered, "my book puts it in this way. Both thieves deserved to go to hell because of their sins; both of them before they were nailed to the cross had sin in them, for they both had sinful hearts, they were born in sin, and they were both sinners. And they had also both of them sin on them, the burden and guilt and punishment of their sins resting on them; they both must suffer the consequences of their sin—both must go to hell."
"Yes," she said, "I see that."
"But now let us look at them again some hours later. They have been nailed to the cross, and one thief has looked to Jesus, but the other thief has not. Just look at the three crosses now. First, here is the thief who would have nothing to do with Jesus. Has he still sin in him?"
"Yes," she said.
"Has he still the guilt of sin resting on him?"
"Yes, he is just as he was before."
"Now, then, look at the middle cross; look at Jesus, has He sin in Him?"
"Oh no," she said, "He never sinned; He was quite holy."
"But was there no sin on Him?" I said.
"Was there, May?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, "don't you remember it says, 'The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' It was not His own sin that was resting on Him, but ours."
"Oh yes," she said, "I see what you mean."
"And now look at the third cross. There hangs the thief who has looked to Jesus. He still has sin in him; till he gets to heaven, his heart will be sinful still. But has he sin on him? That is to say, do the guilt and consequences of his sin still rest on him?"
"No, I don't think they do," she said.
"Oh no," I said, "for he has laid his sin on Jesus; it is no longer resting on him: it is taken off him, and put on to Jesus, and therefore this thief is saved. Now, do you see what looking to Jesus means? It means that the thief looked to Jesus as the One who was being punished for his sin, and who was suffering in his place. Do you see?"
"I think I do," said Evelyn.
"Well, my book goes on to say, that all the people in the world die as one or other of those thieves died. All without exception die with sin in them, for the Bible tells us that 'if we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves.' But those who look to Jesus as the One who has been punished in their place, though they have sin in them till they die, yet they have no sin on them, for the guilt and responsibility of their sins no longer rests on them, but on Jesus. You remember that hymn:
"'I lay my sins on Jesus,The spotless Lamb of God;He bears them all, and frees usFrom the accursed load.'"
"Yes," she said, "I like that hymn very much. I do wish I could do it, May."
"You are going to do it this morning, Evelyn dear," I said.
"Oh, May, do you think I can?" she asked.
"I am sure of it, darling; Jesus is willing, Jesus is longing for you to cast your sin upon Him. He says to you: 'Look unto Me, as the One who died instead of you; look unto Me, as the One who was punished in your place; look unto Me, and be ye saved.'"
"Oh, May, I should like to do it at once," she said.
So I went downstairs and left her alone, and yet not alone.
I did not see Evelyn again till I went upstairs to her room for luncheon. She was lying quietly on the sofa where I had left her, but she called me to her side and whispered:
"Oh, May, I am so happy now. Sin is still in me, but no longer on me, for I have laid it on Jesus."
I need hardly say how very thankful I felt to God for answering my prayer. It seemed almost too good to be true. A blessing that we have been waiting for, anxiously longing and waiting for, is always of double value when it comes.
From that day I began, as it were, a new life in Alliston Hall. Before this, Evelyn used to dislike and avoid any approach to what she considered "religious talk;" but now her great delight was to read a chapter with me in the Bible, and to ask me questions about anything which she did not quite understand.
I shall never forget that summer; it was a very peaceful and a very happy one. I had every reason to believe that Evelyn's heart was indeed changed. Every one noticed the difference in her, and many, who did not understand what is the power of the Holy Spirit in the heart, wondered what was the cause of it.
There was one who rejoiced in this change in Evelyn quite as much as I did, and that one was Miss Irvine. She spent nearly the whole summer at Alliston Hall, and Evelyn, instead of avoiding her company as she had so often done before, delighted to have her with her, that they might talk together about heavenly things.
Day by day Evelyn grew in grace, and seemed more anxious about the welfare of her own soul, and of the souls of those around her. She was much braver than I was, in speaking to others about their eternal welfare. I often felt ashamed of myself when she told me how she had spoken to Clemence, or to one of the other servants; and she did it in such a simple, natural way, that it was always well received, and never gave offence.
But, though Evelyn was growing in grace day by day, she was not growing in bodily strength. Indeed, as the summer went on she seemed to get weaker instead of stronger. The trouble she had had about her cousin Donald had been so sudden and unexpected, that she had not recovered from the effects of it.
Evelyn never, so far as I knew, mentioned her cousin's name in Sir William's presence, and only once did she name him to me, when she asked me if I knew whether anything had been heard of him; but I noticed how anxiously she asked for the newspapers every day, and with what trembling fingers she turned over the pages. There had been an account of the affair in the "Times" the same week that it happened, and Evelyn was continually expecting to find that Mr. Trafford had been apprehended. But there was no further notice of it in the newspapers, and, one day, Sir William told me that his nephew had evidently made his escape to some foreign land, and he did not think that he would ever be heard of again.
As the summer passed away, and the days became shorter and the nights cooler, Evelyn became no stronger; she had a very troublesome cough, which kept her awake at night, and she looked pale and fragile.
Sir William was very anxious about her, and had many consultations with the doctors, and at last it was agreed that the best thing possible for her would be to leave England for a time and to spend the winter abroad.
The doctors said that the warmer climate would be good for her health, and Sir William felt that the excitement and pleasure of travelling would turn her thoughts, more than anything else, from her trouble and disappointment.
"And where do you think we are going, May?" said Evelyn, when she had told me with great joy what her father had decided.
"I do not know at all, Evelyn," I said; "I thought perhaps it would be to Mentone, or perhaps somewhere in Italy."
"Oh no," said Evelyn; "nowhere so commonplace as that! Guess again!"
But I could not guess, so she told me, with great delight, that Sir William's plan was to go down the Mediterranean to Egypt, and then, if Evelyn was well enough, to go on in the early spring to Jerusalem.
"To Jerusalem! Oh, Evelyn," I said, "you will enjoy that."
"Yes, and so will you, May," she said. "I know how you long to go there; I was quite as glad for you as for myself, when papa told me."
"Oh, Evelyn," I said; "do you mean to say that I am going too? I never dreamt of that."
"Of course you are going," she said, indignantly. "Do you think I could do without you? Oh, May, isn't it delightful!"
It seemed to me far too good and too wonderful to be true. To go to Jerusalem, the city which our Lord loved, and over which He wept; to see the hillsides where He so often sat, and to tread the mountain paths on which His feet had so often walked,—this seemed far too great a joy ever to be mine.
But there was very little time to sit and dream over it, for we were plunged, at once, into all the bustle and confusion which a departure from home for a long time causes in large households as well as in small ones.
We were to start in three weeks' time, for Sir William was anxious that we should get the sea-voyage over before the weather became colder and more unsettled. He very kindly gave me leave to go to the Manor House at Branston for a few days, that I might say good-bye to my little sister before being parted from her for so long. I should never have thought of asking for a holiday at this busy time, but Sir William proposed it himself, and was good enough to say, when I began to suggest difficulties, that he should insist upon my going whether I liked it or not.
It was indeed a pleasure for me to see my dear little Maggie again, and the three sisters were kindness itself to me. But they did not at all like the idea of my going to Jerusalem; indeed, at first, they even wanted me to throw up my situation because of having to go abroad.
However, when they saw that it was of no use trying to persuade me to do this, and that I was looking forward to the proposed journey as to a most delightful and pleasant thing, they all united in trying to warn me of the consequences. Miss Jane had a very ancient book, describing the adventures and narrow escapes of some travellers in Palestine many years ago, and she brought this book out from her bookcase, and read all the most alarming passages for my edification, till poor Maggie was quite frightened, and clung to me, and said she would never let me go.
I assured them that travelling in Palestine twenty years ago was a very different thing, and that now the dangers were much less, and the difficulties not nearly so numerous. But Miss Jane did nothing but shake her head mournfully, and said she should indeed be thankful if I came back alive; whilst Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa actually shed tears at the bare thought of the perils I was about to undergo. However, I comforted them by promising to write often, and I told them that I would give them an account of all my adventures, though I did not think they would be so exciting or remarkable as those of the gentlemen in Miss Jane's book.
When I returned to Alliston Hall, I found that all necessary preparations were made for the journey. Sir William was anticipating it quite as much as we were. He had travelled a great deal when he was a young man, and he was looking forward with pleasure to taking Evelyn to some of the places which he had visited so many years before.
At length the last night came, when everything was peeked, and we had nothing to do but to sit at the window and to talk of the journey before us.
I was feeling the reaction, which so often comes after the excitement of preparations for a journey, and was almost wishing that, after all, we were not going so far away. Who could tell whether we should all return again? Who could tell whether I should ever see my little sister again?
At this moment the door was opened, and a letter was brought in which had come by the evening post. The letter was from dear Miss Irvine, to say how much she should think of us whilst we Were travelling, and how often she should turn the text, which she enclosed, into prayer on our behalf.
"What is the text, I wonder?" said Evelyn, as she put down the letter. "Oh, I see; here are two cards in the envelope; one for you, and one for me."
She handed me mine, and the text seemed an answer to my fears:
"The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore."
And underneath the text there was this hymn:
Going out from the ones I loveFar over land and sea;Going out into dreary ways,Working, my Lord, for Thee;Going out with an anxious heart,Serving in earth's rough soil;Going out to the daily fight—Worry, and care, and toil.Going out when the work is done,Leaving the earthly strife;Going out to the unknown world,Passing through death to life;Going out, and yet, not alone,Lord, Thou wilt go before:Keep me, Lord, in my going out,Now, and for evermore.Coming in from the distant land,Thankful no more to roam;Coming in from the outer work,Meeting the cares at home;Coming in from the larger field,Sowing the Master's seed;Dropping some in the children's heartsYearning their souls to feed.Coming in to the Father's home,Welcomed with joy at last;Coming in, to go out no more,Partings for ever past;Coming in, and yet, not alone—Standing beside the door:Meet me, Lord, in my coming in,Now, and for evermore.
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BRINDISI.
image040We left England, and began our delightful journey at the end of October. Evelyn improved in health and spirits from the moment that we started, and Sir William was thoroughly happy in witnessing the enjoyment of his child. I need hardly say what a treat this journey was to me. I had never been out of England before, and, therefore, everything abroad was quite new and strange to me, and I felt as if I was having a very pleasant and delightful dream.
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We left England, and began our delightful journey at the end of October. Evelyn improved in health and spirits from the moment that we started, and Sir William was thoroughly happy in witnessing the enjoyment of his child. I need hardly say what a treat this journey was to me. I had never been out of England before, and, therefore, everything abroad was quite new and strange to me, and I felt as if I was having a very pleasant and delightful dream.
We spent some time in Paris, and went about to all the places of interest both in and near the city. From Paris we went to Turin, where we rested for more than a week, before undertaking the long and tedious journey from Turin to Brindisi. We arrived at Brindisi late on Saturday night; we were all very tired and worn out, and exceedingly glad to get to our journey's end. We stayed at an hotel near the sea, such a curious Eastern-looking place, with bare stone floors and whitewashed walls, and only just as much furniture in the large rooms as was absolutely necessary.
The next morning I awoke early, and went to my window and looked out. It seemed a perfect fairy-land to me. The harbour was as still as a lake, and covered with the reflection of the ships and boats, with their pretty lateen sails. And beyond the harbour there was the blue Mediterranean sparkling in the morning sunshine.
It looked very unlike Sunday, for work was going on just as on any other day; and the people of Brindisi were buying, and selling, and hurrying along, as though it were the busiest day in the week.
I took my Testament, and sat at a little distance from the window, and had a quiet time alone before Clemence came to say that Evelyn was dressed, and was going downstairs for breakfast.
We were to go on board the steamer that night, as it was to leave early the next morning; but Sir William arranged that during the day we should stay quietly at the hotel.
The weather had been very cold when we were at Turin, and we found a great change of climate at Brindisi. The sky was a deep, unclouded blue, and the sunshine was so hot that we found it difficult to keep cool. Evelyn and I discovered a seat on the flat roof of the hotel, where we were shaded from the hot sun and could read together quietly. We read aloud the Psalms for the day, verse by verse. One of these was Psalm cxxii., and it was with a wonderfully strange feeling that we read those words:
"Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem."
"May," said Evelyn, "can you believe that verse is really true of us?"
When we had finished our reading, Sir William came out to us, and persuaded us to venture out of the shady corner in which we had been sitting, and to walk to the other end of the roof, that we might look at the view to be seen from thence.
To our surprise we found that we were not alone on the roof. An English gentleman was leaning over the parapet with a book in his hand, looking towards the sea. He turned round as we came up, and slipped his book into his pocket. I fancied that it was a Bible.
Sir William and the strange gentleman soon got into conversation about Brindisi and its surroundings, and he pointed out to us several objects of interest in the neighbourhood. He was not a very young man, though I fancied that he looked older than he really was. There was something in his face, when it was at rest, which made me think that he had been through a great deal of trouble, and yet, when he smiled, his whole face was lighted up in a moment, and he looked perfectly different. He was not exactly a handsome man, and yet his was a face which, having once seen, you could never forgot, and which you could not help liking. That was my first impression of Mr. Stanley, so far as I can now remember.
Sir William was very charmed with him, and said afterwards that he had seldom met such a well-read, sensible man. We sat together on the roof, and Evelyn and I acted the part of listeners, whilst the two gentlemen talked.
"You are going to Jerusalem, I think," said Mr. Stanley, as Sir William was unfolding his plans to him; "I have been there several times."
This led to many inquiries on Sir William's part about the accommodation to be found in Jerusalem, etc. etc. But Evelyn and I wondered very much how Mr. Stanley knew that we were going to Jerusalem. Could he have heard us reading that Psalm, and saying that it was soon to be true of us?
"I am afraid you will be disappointed in Jerusalem," said Mr. Stanley, turning to us; "you must remember that though it is still 'beautiful for situation,' yet Jerusalem is no longer 'the joy of the whole earth.' It is, indeed, beautiful at a distance, and every one is charmed who sees it for the first time; but when you go inside the walls, and know it well, you cannot help feeling depressed and saddened."
"But there are brighter days coming for Jerusalem," I ventured to say.
"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Stanley, "Jerusalem will be a hundredfold more than she ever was before—the City of the Great King."
But Sir William always regarded the study of prophecy as a mixture of presumption and romance, and he quickly led the conversation into a different channel; but I longed to hear what Mr. Stanley's views were about the return of the Jews and the restoration of Jerusalem.
That evening we went on board the steamer which was to take us to Alexandria. There were a great many first-class passengers, and we had some difficulty in obtaining a cabin to ourselves. At length Sir William managed to secure a small one for Evelyn and me, in which there were only two berths, and as soon as table d'hôte was over, we went to our cabin.
There were very few passengers present at dinner; Mr. Stanley was there, and a few others whom we had seen in the hotel at Brindisi; but most of the people came on board as we were going to bed. They had just arrived by the late train from Turin, and had secured their cabins beforehand by telegraphing to the captain.
Evelyn and I were undressing when we heard a voice in the saloon, which we were almost sure we knew. It was a lady's voice, and she was giving orders to the stewardess in an imperious tone, with regard to the arrangement of her cabin.
"That must be Lady Eldridge," said Evelyn to me; "it is exactly like her voice."
Clemence went, at this moment, to get some hot water, and returned with the information that it was Lady Eldridge, and that she had taken the next cabin to ours.
"Oh dear!" said Evelyn. "I wonder where she is going. I hope not to Cairo; I remember she often spends the winter there. Well, we shall hear in the morning!"
As Lady Eldridge's voice had been the last thing we heard at night, so it was the first thing that we heard in the morning. She had brought no maid with her; and, as she was utterly unable to do anything for herself, she was constantly calling the poor stewardess, who had already more work than she could get through, to help her in the various stages of her toilet.
"Oh dear!" said Evelyn, as Lady Eldridge's voice was heard again and again, "I do hope she is not going to Cairo; we must find out at once."
We met Lady Eldridge at breakfast; she professed herself delighted beyond measure at meeting Sir William and Evelyn, and wished to know where they were going, and how long she would have the wonderful pleasure of travelling in their company.
"It is such trying work travelling alone, my dear," she said to Evelyn, "and I am naturally very nervous; it is really quite miraculous my meeting you. Sir William, I feel sure, will not refuse to take me under his care."
Sir William bowed, and said he would be very glad to help Lady Eldridge in any way he could; but I did not think he seemed particularly glad of the addition to our party, for such Lady Eldridge, from that moment, considered herself to be. She turned over all responsibility about her baggage to Sir William, and she used Clemence as freely as if she had been her own maid.
"But," said Lady Eldridge, as we were finishing breakfast, "you have never yet told me where you are going, Evelyn, my dear."
Evelyn was about to answer her, when, to my surprise, Sir William prevented her.
"Our plans are not yet formed, Lady Eldridge," he said; "I am going to consider this morning what our tour will be, and then I shall be able to let you know."
"Oh, you must come to Cairo," said Lady Eldridge, decidedly; "there is no place like Cairo in the winter. The climate is simply perfect, my dear," she said, turning to Evelyn. "Now, Sir William, you must decide to stay at least three months at Cairo, and then we can all spend the winter together. Now come, I think that is a capital plan!"
Sir William smiled, and said he would consider the matter; but there were many other places that he wished to visit, and he could not make up his mind hastily. We did not see much of Lady Eldridge after breakfast, for she remained in the saloon the whole day reading a French novel, and seemed to think us very extraordinary girls because we chose to go on deck.
Evelyn and I found a sheltered seat, where the cold wind did not reach us; and here we sat with our books and our work until the evening. The steamer had started early in the morning, and though a fresh breeze was blowing, still the sea was not uncomfortably rough, and we were beginning to think that sea voyages were not half so disagreeable and uncomfortable as people made them out to be.
Sir William paced up and down the deck with Mr. Stanley nearly all the morning, discussing his future plans. Every now and then they stopped to examine a map or a guidebook; and at length they sat down on a seat, and Sir William took a pencil from his pocket, and wrote at Mr. Stanley's dictation.
"I wonder what papa has settled!" said Evelyn. "I wish he would come and tell us. I am sure he does not want to go to Cairo, now that Lady Eldridge is going there. Did not you notice that he would not let me say where we were going?"
When Sir William had finished writing, he and Mr. Stanley came towards us, and Sir William told us, to our great joy, that we were going at once to Jerusalem. Mr. Stanley had told him that there was a clean, comfortable hotel there, and that the climate in December and January was generally beautiful.
"So I think we will stop in Jerusalem a month or two," said Sir William, "and then decide where we go next. What do you say to that, Evelyn?"
"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, "it is just what I wanted. I am longing to get to Jerusalem!"
"'Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem,'" said Mr. Stanley, with a smile. And then we were sure that he had heard us reading the Psalm.
At sunset the wind became very strong; the ship rolled heavily, and the passengers were glad to go to their cabins. It was a dreadful night. I shall never forget it. Every hour the storm became more terrible. I had never thought that a storm at sea could be so dreadful. The waves were beating over our heads, and, every now and then, the cabin was lighted up by a vivid flash of lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a terrible clap of thunder. Every two or three minutes we heard the crash of breaking crockery, and the broken cups, and jugs, and glasses were thrown backwards and forwards on the floor, as the ship pitched and tossed.
I wonder that so many people have such peaceful ideas of the Mediterranean Sea, after reading the Bible accounts of it. Oh, how often during that dreadful night we thought of St. Paul in the storm, probably just in this very part of the Mediterranean; and we could so well picture that scene in Jonah's life when the sailors, unwilling to cast him overboard, made a last mighty effort to bring the ship to land, but the sea wrought and was tempestuous, and they were not able to manage it.
And then David's description of the storm, in Psalm cvii., must refer to this very sea. How often we repeated those verses to each other that night:
"'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, May," said Evelyn, as I crept to her side when the storm was at its height, "what a comfort it is to know we are safe, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said, "I cannot think how any one dare travel, and go through all the perils by land and water, without knowing that."
"I should not have known it if we had come a year ago," said Evelyn. "Oh, May, I should have been terribly frightened then!"
We did not sleep once the whole night, and very long the hours seemed to us.
At about three o'clock in the morning we heard Lady Eldridge's voice loudly crying for help. She was calling, first for Clemence and then for the stewardess, but their cabins were at the other end of the saloon, and neither of them heard her.
"What can she want?" said Evelyn.
I put on my dressing-gown, and managed to go as far as the door of Lady Eldridge's cabin, that I might see what was the matter.
"Just look here, Miss Lindsay!" she said. "The porthole has burst open, and the water has come over my bed. Do go and call the stewardess, and tell her to bring me clean linen and blankets."
"I don't know whether I can walk as far as the stewardess's cabin, Lady Eldridge," I said, "but I will try; it is terribly rough!"
"Oh, nonsense!" she said. "Hold on by the wall, and you will be all right. You don't mean to say you are sea-sick, Miss Lindsay; you should get over it. I never believe in sea-sickness; if people only try they can keep it off. I feel as well at sea as on land!"
I could not help thinking that, this being the case she might have gone for the stewardess herself, instead of insisting that I should go for her. However, I did my best, and managed to stagger down the saloon, though I fell several times, and cut my hand very much with a broken plate, which was being swept across the floor, backwards and forwards, as the vessel rolled from side to side.
I found the stewardess lying on the bed in her cabin, crying. She told me that she was a widow with three little children, whom she had left in England. She had been persuaded to try this way of earning her living, and this was her first voyage; but she did not think she could ever go again, she had no idea that it would be so dreadful. She told me this as she was getting out the sheets for Lady Eldridge's bed, and she said that, just as I came in, she was crying because she thought she would never see her little children again.
I tried to say a word to comfort her, but the noise of the storm was so great that we could hardly hear each other speak. It was some time before she had collected everything that was necessary, and Lady Eldridge was very impatient and cross when we arrived at her cabin. I helped the stewardess to arrange the bed, and then went back to my own berth, very thankful to be able to lie still again.
Morning came, but the storm still continued. It raged all Tuesday, all Tuesday night, and all Wednesday, and we were not able to leave our cabin the whole time. Only on Wednesday did the storm begin to abate, and we were able at last to have a quiet sleep. We awoke on Thursday, to find the wind gone and the sea much calmer. We were to arrive at Alexandria in the afternoon, and every one seemed glad that the stormy voyage was drawing to a close.
Lady Eldridge was very much annoyed when she found that we were not going with her to Cairo. She told Sir William that it was simple madness, on his part, to take a delicate girl like Evelyn to Jerusalem; but Sir William only smiled, and said it was Evelyn's wish as well as his own, and he thought that, if Lady Eldridge made further inquiries, she would find that in the winter months the climate of Jerusalem was all that could be desired.
I had a talk with the stewardess that morning, and I was so glad to find that the poor woman knew where to turn for comfort and for help. She was a real Christian, and, in simple faith, she had trusted her children to God's care, and she felt sure that He would watch over them till she was able to be with them again. She had left them with her brother and his wife, and her thoughts seemed to be constantly with her little absent treasures. I was so glad that I had spoken to her, for she thanked me very much, and told me that the few words I had said to her in the storm had been a great comfort to her, and had made her ashamed of herself for being afraid.
At length we arrived at Alexandria, and very much enjoyed the sight which met our eyes—the intensely white city, the blue water in the harbour—the pilot, with a dark hood over his head, arriving in his little boat, and coming on board the steamer; and then the countless other boats, filled with clamorous Arabs, who were contending with one another to secure the largest number of passengers to row to shore. It was very curious to watch them fighting like wild beasts for their prey, and looking so picturesque in their various costumes that it was impossible to feel angry with them.
After much pushing, and quarrelling, and scuffling, and shouting had been gone through, we found ourselves in the same boat with Mr. Stanley, who had taken us all, Lady Eldridge included, under his care, and had bargained on our behalf in Arabic, and made, after much difficulty, a fair agreement with the boatman as to the price he would charge for his boat.
We stayed one night in Alexandria at the hotel, but we did not see much of the city, for we were too tired and worn out with the voyage to go out, and were glad to rest quietly until it was time to go on board the ship which was to take us to Jaffa, and which started early the next day. We left Lady Eldridge in the hotel, and were not sorry to say good-bye to her.
It was a small old-fashioned vessel which was to take us the rest of the way, very dirty and forlorn, and very different from the comfortable steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Company which we had just left; but the sea was calm, so we felt as if we could thankfully bear any amount of discomfort.
We were the only first-class passengers on board, but a large party of travellers were to join us at Port Said, and they had already engaged their cabins.
We stayed on deck until quite late that evening, walking up and down, looking at the sun setting over the sea, and talking of all that was before us. Sir William had numberless questions to ask about Jerusalem, and Mr. Stanley was well able to answer them all, for only two years before he had spent a whole winter in Jerusalem that he might sketch some of the many places of interest in the city and its neighbourhood; and he promised, at Sir William's request, to let us see his sketches some day.
image041
WAS IT HE?
image042EARLY on Saturday morning we arrived at Port Said, and Sir William proposed that we should go on shore and escape from our uncomfortable quarters in the dirty little steamer.
image042
EARLY on Saturday morning we arrived at Port Said, and Sir William proposed that we should go on shore and escape from our uncomfortable quarters in the dirty little steamer.
We had no difficulty in obtaining a boat rowed by Arabs, but immediately we touched land, we were marched off to the Custom House, that our passports might be examined. Sir William had been told in London that passports were now quite unnecessary, so we had not provided ourselves with any, and he was rather at a loss what to do. However, Mr. Stanley came to the rescue, and after he had harangued the Turkish officers in Arabic, and had given them a proper amount of "baksheesh," we were politely bowed out of the office and allowed to enter the town, although we had no passports.
Here Mr. Stanley left us, and we found our way to the one hotel of the place, where we had breakfast amidst a crowd of English and American travellers, who we found were to be our companions into Syria.
The hotel was uncomfortably small and very noisy, so after breakfast we took a walk to see what was to be seen in Port Said.
It was such a curious town; it looked as if it had sprung up in a single night like a mushroom. Nearly all the houses were made of wood, and looked like large booths put up hastily for a pleasure fair, to be taken down again as soon as the fair was over.
The streets, or rather the empty spaces between the rows of houses, for they did not deserve the name of streets, were covered with orange-peel, oyster-shells, dead dogs and cats, decaying vegetables, and all manner of filth; and the whole place looked, Sir William said, like pictures he had seen of the wooden towns set up near the gold-diggings in America.
We met people of almost every nationality in the streets of Port Said. Many of them were very unprepossessing in appearance, and we were told that a number of the worst men of all nations find their way there, for they know that there is very little law or order in the town, and that they will therefore be free from observation, and allowed to do as they like.
The week before we arrived at Port Said there had been a great many murders there, and we saw a notice in the hotel advising Europeans not to go out after dark, as the authorities would not answer for the consequences if they did so.
An open square in front of the hotel had been turned into a garden. There were not many flowers in it, but there were a few trees and shrubs, and a small stone fountain stood in the centre. There was a seat in this garden, and Sir William, Evelyn, and I sat here for some time, watching the tourists coming in and out of the hotel, consulting their guidebooks, asking countless questions of their dragoman, and apparently very impatient to be once more on the move.
There were several French shops, in a block of buildings which formed one side of the square. Evelyn caught sight of these, and asked me if I thought she would be able to buy one or two little things which she was anxious to get before going to Jerusalem, "where," she said, "I suppose we shall find no shops at all."
"Go and see, my dear," said Sir William, "and I will wait here till you come back; I shall be close by if you want me for anything, and I can see which shops you are in as I sit here."
So Evelyn and I opened the gate of the hotel garden, and crossed the road to the shops. They were very curious shops, a great variety of articles seemed to be sold in them; all kinds of French goods, fancy articles of every description, and a few useful things, such as travelling bags, knapsacks, sunshades, and pith helmets.
We selected the shop which appeared most likely to contain all we wished to buy. Evelyn went in first, and I followed her. The shopman was at the other end of the shop, attending to some customers, and Evelyn and I examined the articles which were exposed for sale until he was ready to wait upon us. Then he came up to us, and asked in French what we wanted. Evelyn looked up from the box of ornaments over which she was bending, and was about to answer him, when I saw her suddenly start back in astonishment.
I looked up, to see what had taken her so much by surprise, and I saw in a moment what it was.
The young man in the shop was no French tradesman, as we had taken him to be; he was her cousin, Donald Trafford! Evelyn had not looked at him when we first came into the shop, but as soon as their eyes met she recognised him, in spite of his foreign dress and appearance; and he, at the same moment, recognised her.
Before we had time to recover from our surprise he was gone; he had disappeared through a door into an inner room, and had sent a young Frenchwoman to wait upon us.
"Oh, May," whispered Evelyn to me, "never mind about the things; let us go back to papa!"
I made some excuse to the French girl, telling her that we could not wait longer, and we left the shop at once.
But when we were outside, Evelyn turned so white and faint that I did not know how to get her back to the garden. I made signs to Sir William to come; but he was reading the newspaper, and did not look up, and I did not like to leave Evelyn alone whilst I went to call him.
At this moment, to my great joy, Mr. Stanley came up, and seeing how ill Evelyn looked, at once offered her his arm, and walked with her back to her father.
As I followed them into the garden I could not help contrasting Mr. Stanley's open, manly face with that of Mr. Donald Trafford, who had by no means improved in appearance since I saw him last. I wondered whether Evelyn was struck by the difference. I almost thought that she was, for she thanked Mr. Stanley very pleasantly for his kind help, and explained that she had suddenly turned faint when she was in the shop, but said she would be quite better in a few moments.
Sir William was very much frightened when he saw his daughter come up to him, looking as pale as death, and leaning on Mr. Stanley's arm; but she tried to laugh him out of his fears, and told him that she was rather tired, and that it was nothing of consequence. Mr. Stanley, however, hurried up to the hotel to get a glass of water, and, as soon as he was gone, Evelyn burst into tears.
"What is the matter, my darling?" said Sir William, in a very distressed voice. "I am afraid the journey has been too much for you. Perhaps I was foolish not to follow Lady Eldridge's advice, and go on with her to Cairo. You are not strong enough to rough it yet; I almost think we had better turn back."
"Oh no, papa, it is not that," said Evelyn; "it is not that at all. Tell him, May, what it was."
"Evelyn had a great surprise when she went into that shop, Sir William," I said, "for there, dressed like a foreigner, and selling behind the counter, was her cousin, Mr. Trafford!"
"Donald!" said Sir William, starting from his seat. "Donald in that shop! Surely not! Surely you must have been mistaken! I cannot think that he would dare to come to a place like Port Said, where so many English people are continually passing through. Oh no, Evelyn, child, you must be wrong."
"No, Sir William," I said, "we certainly saw Mr. Trafford; I am quite sure we were not mistaken."
At this moment Mr. Stanley returned, and we could not talk any more about it. But Sir William seemed lost in thought, and did not enter into the conversation, which Evelyn and I tried to keep up.
"Miss Lindsay," he said, at last, "would you show me in which of those shops you made your purchases just now? Evelyn dear, you sit still here till we come back. Mr. Stanley, may I leave my daughter in your care for a few minutes?"
I thought Mr. Stanley was not sorry to be left in charge; but Evelyn had turned as pale as she was before, and was trembling from head to foot.
Sir William and I left them on the seat near the fountain, and walked towards the row of shops.
"I really think you must have been mistaken, Miss Lindsay," he repeated; but I told him that I was sure that Mr. Trafford had recognised us, for he had strangely and suddenly disappeared, and had sent a Frenchwoman to wait upon us.
I waited outside, whilst Sir William went into the shop. He came out in a few minutes, looking very much relieved.
"It is quite a mistake, Miss Lindsay," he said; "Donald Trafford is not here; I have made full inquiries."
Then he told me that there was no one but the Frenchwoman in the shop when he went in, but that he had asked to see the young Englishman who was waiting in the shop about a quarter of an hour before. The Frenchwoman, however, had assured him that there was no Englishman there, nor was there any one who could speak English. It must have been her husband whom the ladies had seen; he was in the shop a few minutes ago, but he was an Italian—his name was Signor Rialti. Sir William had asked to speak to her husband, but she told him he had been suddenly called away on business; he was away now, and would not return till Monday.
"Then Signor Rialti is evidently the name Mr. Trafford has taken," I said.
"Oh, I think not, Miss Lindsay," said Sir William, decidedly; "you and Evelyn have been mistaken. I have no doubt that the young Italian bears a strong resemblance to Donald Trafford, and that that circumstance has led you both to imagine that it must be he."
But, though I was silenced by Sir William's very decided manner, still I was far from being convinced; for I was firmly persuaded in my own mind that it was indeed Evelyn's cousin whom we had seen that morning.
Mr. Stanley seemed to notice, with the ready perception which he always showed, that something had happened to disturb us, and that we should like to be left alone, for in a few minutes he made an excuse about having to call on some one at the other end of Port Said, and took leave of us.
"Well, Evelyn," said Sir William, as soon as we were alone, "you were quite wrong. You need not have been so agitated, dear; it was quite a mistake." And he told her what he had heard in the shop.
"It is all a tale, papa," she said, when he had finished; "Donald is afraid of being found out, and he has put her up to telling that story, in case any inquiries should be made about him. He would not be back till Monday, did she say? Of course not; he knows quite well that the steamer will not start until early on Monday morning."
But Sir William would not be convinced. His wish was, I think, father to the thought, for he would have been very much puzzled as to how he ought to act had he indeed found his nephew, and he was therefore only too glad to believe that he was still in ignorance of Mr. Trafford's hiding-place.
I saw Evelyn glancing several times at the French shop as we sat there talking of other things, and I was glad for her sake when Sir William proposed that we should return to the ship.
We spent a very comfortless Sunday on board the wretched little steamer. It was impossible to find any quiet place below, for the saloon was filled by the large party which we had seen at the hotel at Port Said, and most of them spent the day in playing at cards and chess, and in talking over their journey in loud voices; and they made so much noise that we found it was utterly useless to attempt to read or to be quiet there. So we went on deck and found a shady corner, where we were at least in comparative quiet.
But the lower deck was the scene of great confusion and noise, for a number of pilgrims, who were on their way to Jerusalem, were coming on board. There were Greek pilgrims, Latin pilgrims, and Moslem pilgrims, all of them dressed in what seemed to us the most fantastic manner. They were regular Eastern and dreadfully filthy, and they were all jabbering their various languages at the top of their voices. Mr. Stanley told us that as Easter draws near, the steamers are crammed with these pilgrims, on their way to the different shrines and holy places. They come from great distances, and go through wonderful fatigue, and spend large sums of money to obtain, as they vainly hope, forgiveness of sin.
"I often think," Mr. Stanley said, "that their earnestness puts us to shame."
"Yes," said Evelyn, as she watched a fresh detachment come on board, "and do you not long to tell them how sin can really be forgiven?"
"I do indeed," said Mr. Stanley; "but, Miss Trafford, have you any idea what a difficult matter that would be? How many different languages do you think I should have to learn before I could speak to all these pilgrims?"
We thought perhaps five or six would be necessary, but Mr. Stanley told us, to our astonishment, that he had just had a conversation with a gentleman who had taken the trouble to go round the vessel in order to find out what were the different nationalities of the people on board, and he had made the discovery that there were men from no fewer than thirty different nations in that one steamer.
We sailed from Port Said on Sunday evening, and came in sight of Jaffa at six o'clock the next morning. We were up very early, for we were longing to get our first view of Palestine. It was a lovely morning; the sea was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the view was exceedingly beautiful, as the sun rose behind the Judean hills.
Jaffa looked a very pretty place as we saw it from the deck of the steamer, with its white houses overlooking the blue Mediterranean, a green circle of orange trees round it, and the quiet hills beyond.
But we had little time to realise the fact that we were now gazing at the very spot from which Jonah took ship for Tarshish, and where Peter lodged and saw that wondrous vision, and where Dorcas lived and made garments for the poor, in those far-off Bible days. We had very little time for thought of any kind, for, as soon as we came in sight of Joppa, numberless boats came out to meet us, as they had done at Alexandria, and after the usual tumult we secured one, and were rowed to the shore, which was a mile and a half away. This is not at all a safe undertaking in stormy weather, for the only entrance to the harbour is a very narrow opening between most dangerous rocks. The harbour of Joppa is a natural one, and has never been improved since the time of Solomon, when the timber, which Hiram out down in the Lebanon, must have been brought to land through this very passage between the rocks.
When we drew near the shore we saw crowds of Arabs waiting for us, screaming and fighting and wrestling in savage earnestness. They seemed ready to tear us in pieces rather than lose the chance of carrying our luggage to the hotel. It really was a terrible sight to those unaccustomed to Eastern vehemence. Evelyn was very much frightened and clung to her father, and even Sir William seemed agitated and alarmed. But Mr. Stanley's quiet voice reassured us.
"Oh, it is nothing," he said; "you don't know what Arabs are yet; they always make a noise like this. It is nothing unusual, I assure you," he added, laughing, as he fought a passage for us through the howling crowd, and led the way to the little Custom House, which was already crowded with the travellers who had arrived before us. We had, therefore, to wait outside for some time; but Mr. Stanley kept the Arabs who had followed us at bay, and gave Evelyn a camp-stool to sit upon, for she was looking faint and tired, and the heat, even at that early hour, seemed to us to be very great.
At last the Turkish officer was at liberty to receive the "baksheesh," which Mr. Stanley had ready for him. He passed our boxes without opening them, and we were allowed to proceed to the hotel.
It was a tiring walk, for the streets of Jaffa are covered with hot, burning sand, in which your feet sink every step you take. They are very narrow, and every now and then we looked round to find ourselves nearly knocked down by a huge camel, with boxes on its back, which had come noiselessly behind us over the soft sand; or a mule, laden with luggage, and rushing frantically along, was determined to pass us, and pushed its way through our midst in the most resolute manner.
Mr. Stanley had advised us to go as far as Ramleh that day, as it is forty miles' ride from Jaffa to Jerusalem, and he thought we should be too tired if we went so far in one day. Accordingly that afternoon, he hired horses for us, and we mounted for our first ride in Palestine.
It was no easy matter guiding our horses through the crowds of Arabs, the strings of camels and mules, and the heaps of filth, in the streets of Jaffa. We were glad to leave the town and get into the road, which took us through one of the orange groves by which Jaffa is surrounded. Everything looked so strange and Eastern, and the scent of the oranges was delicious. We passed through the Plain of Sharon, and at about five o'clock in the evening we reached Ramleh, after rather more than four hours' ride.