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SUNDAY ON MOUNT ZION.
image055THE next day was Sunday, and I think we were all glad of this. Sir William felt unable to make any plans without Mr. Stanley's advice, but as we had already been several times to the pretty little English church, we had no difficulty in knowing how to spend our time on Sunday.
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THE next day was Sunday, and I think we were all glad of this. Sir William felt unable to make any plans without Mr. Stanley's advice, but as we had already been several times to the pretty little English church, we had no difficulty in knowing how to spend our time on Sunday.
The service began at ten o'clock, so we were up early and started for church directly after breakfast. I felt comforted and rested during the service, and hoped to got just the message I needed from the sermon. I must confess I was somewhat disappointed when the text was given out, for it seemed to me that no comfort or help could be found in it. It was a singular text, and one I had never noticed before. The preacher was a German by birth, but he spoke English as if it had been his native language. We were told afterwards that he was a converted Jew, and the missionary to the Jews in Jerusalem.
The text was from Leviticus xxiii.40:
"Ye shall take you the boughs of goodly trees, branches of palm trees, and the boughs of thick trees, and willows of the brook; and ye shall rejoice before the Lord your God seven days."
The clergyman first answered the thought which I had had in my heart, that there was no lesson for me in the text, by showing that all God's word was written for our learning, and that these Jewish feasts and ceremonies were wonderfully suggestive and helpful, if we looked into their real meaning and significance.
The text contained directions for the Feast of Tabernacles, the feast of joy. It came after the Day of Atonement, after pardon had been obtained, after sin had been put away. First must coma forgiveness, then follows joy; pardon first, rejoicing afterwards.
"And in the text," he said, "we are given four conditions under which alone the joy of the Lord can be ours; four characteristics of the true Christian, who can alone rejoice before his God."
I felt in my own heart, as he was speaking, how little I knew of the true joy of the Lord. I was so easily cast down by little earthly troubles and worries, and I so soon lost the happiness and peace of feeling the Lord's presence with me, and the Lord's smile upon me. The last two days, for instance; oh, how depressed and miserable I had felt! Could it be that I was overlooking and neglecting one of the four things pictured in the text?
Then the sermon went on to show that although these four kinds of trees meant nothing to our English ears, they meant a very great deal to the men to whom the direction was given, for, to them, each kind of tree was a word-picture of some particular grace. Just as we speak of the innocent daisy, the humble lily of the valley, the modest violet; and just as we take these flowers as emblems to us of innocence, humility, and modesty; and just as we talk of "a butterfly life," and every one knows at once what we mean,—so in the same way, the Jews had emblematic meanings for different trees, and flowers, and other things in nature, and they understood perfectly well what was symbolized when these trees or flowers were mentioned.
The four kinds of trees in the text had a very deep and beautiful meaning for them. The goodly trees, or citron trees, were their emblem for a pure and true heart; the palm trees were a picture to them of uprightness and bold straightforwardness. The thick trees, or myrtle trees, were their symbol of contentment. The myrtle leaf was supposed to be in the shape of an eye, and was always used by them as the emblem of a modest and contented eye. The willows of the brook were to them a picture of a mouth filled with words of kindness and truth. The leaves of the willow were thought to be in the shape of a mouth, and they were most particular that only those willow trees should be used in the Feast of Tabernacles as had smooth, soft leaves. Those of a sharp and prickly nature, and the edge of the leaves of which is rough like a saw, were never allowed to be gathered or used in this ceremony, that they might understand thereby, that in order to have true joy they must set a watch before their mouth, and only suffer words of truth and kindness to come out of it.
Four characteristics then were at once brought to their minds, when the direction in the text was given. The Israelites understood at once, that to be able really to rejoice in the Lord they must have a heart pure towards God, they must be upright as the palm-tree, they must be contented as the myrtle, and they must have mouths ever speaking words of kindness and truth.
And then he asked us to examine ourselves by these four tests. Were we keeping the door of our hearts, guarding it against all evil thoughts, evil motives, evil desires? Were we also upright before God and man, growing ever heavenward, Godward?
Were we contented and happy to be just where God placed us, and to do just the work that God had chosen for us to do? And how about our words; were we careful to be strictly truthful in every little matter? And did we guard against ever letting unkind or hasty words come out of our mouth? "If not," he said, "how could we expect to be able to rejoice before the Lord?"
I have not time to write down more of the sermon now, but I felt it very much; it went straight to my heart, and made me feel that it was my own fault that I was so seldom in a rejoicing frame of mind. Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I might be more careful over my heart, that I might be upright as the palm, contented as the myrtle, and that my words might ever be acceptable in the sight of my Lord.
A few days afterwards, as we were sitting at breakfast, the waiter came into the room with a letter. Sir William looked at the postmark.
"Alexandria!" he said. "Well, I am glad he has written at last!"
"Is it from Mr. Stanley, papa?" asked Evelyn.
"Yes," he said, "I should think so; I do not know any one else who is likely to be in Alexandria!"
He opened the letter, and glanced hastily at its contents. Then he took up the envelope, and looked at it again; then he turned once more to the first page of the letter and began to read it through.
Evelyn and I sat watching him. I tried to go on with my breakfast, but I felt as if the food would choke me, for Sir William looked more and more impatient and annoyed as he went on reading.
When he had finished, he tossed the letter on the table, saying angrily, "He is a good-for-nothing rascal!"
I looked up quickly, and Evelyn asked in a trembling voice:
"Who is, papa—not Mr. Stanley?"
"No, not Mr. Stanley," he said; "at least he may be; I do not know that he is; but that cousin of yours, Donald Trafford—the letter is from him. An idle good-for-nothing rascal, that is what he is! And I shall tell his father so when I see him!"
"Let me have the letter, papa," said Evelyn. She was as white as a sheet, and trembling with agitation.
"Well, don't trouble about it, darling," said Sir William, in quite a different tone from that in which he had spoken before; "he is not worth troubling about; he really is not. If I could only get you to see that. Here, take the letter, I suppose I shall have to let you see it; but don't make yourself ill again, for my sake!"
Evelyn took the letter and read it slowly through. As she read it a deep crimson flush came into her pale face; but this faded away and left her as white as death when she had finished reading. Then she rose from the table, without speaking a word, left the letter lying beside her plate, and went out of the room.
I was rising to follow her when Sir William said:
"Wait a little, Miss Lindsay, perhaps she will get over it better alone; if she has a good cry, it will do her good. Poor child, what a pity she ever took a fancy to that worthless fellow! Read his letter, Miss Lindsay, and tell me what you think of it."
I took it up, and read as follows:
"My DEAR UNCLE,"I have no doubt you think that I am in Port Said, though I did contrive to keep out of your way during your short stay in that delightful place."But I am not there now, but have removed to a town many miles distant, which I will not name, lest you should feel it your duty to report me in England."I should not have troubled you with a letter, but that I wanted to ask you to lend me a trifling sum to start me in business in the town in which I am now living. I have had the offer of a first-rate partnership, which will enable me soon to become a rich man, but it is necessary that I should advance something in the shape of capital. My partner asks for £100, but I think he will be content with £50, if you are not inclined to forward me the larger sum."I am sure, dear uncle, you will not refuse to grant this trifling request, when I tell you that I have a wife depending on me, and that unless I can avail myself of this opening (which is really a splendid one), there is nothing but starvation before us both."As I am now a married man, there is no chance of my again being an annoyance to you, so I feel sure you will not deny me this small and last favour."Please address to 'Monsieur Junôt, Post Office, Alexandria.' M. Junôt is my wife's brother; she is a French girl, and he will call for the letter, and forward the remittance to me."With love to Evelyn and yourself,"Believe me, dear uncle,"Your affectionate nephew,"DONALD TRAFFORD.""P.S.—You will wonder how I knew you were in Jerusalem. I met a dragoman the other day who was on board the same steamer with you, and he heard that you were to spend a long time in Jerusalem."
"Did you ever hear anything like that?" said Sir William, as I folded up the letter. "Is not that a piece of cool impertinence?"
"He does not seem much ashamed of himself," I could not help saying.
"Ashamed of himself! No, indeed! There is not a word about his running off with that money. He is an idle, selfish, good-for-nothing fellow! And he was always the same; it was always a mystery to me what Evelyn could see to like in him. Poor child, I hope it will not make her ill again!"
"Oh no, I think not," I said; "I think she sees now what his real character is."
"I hope so," he said, anxiously; "perhaps if you went upstairs you could say a word or two to comfort her. You know best—do you think we should leave her alone or not?"
"I think I will just go upstairs and see," I said.
To my astonishment I found Evelyn sitting in her room busily at work, and looking quite calm and cheerful. I fancied she had been crying a little, but she welcomed me with a smile, and asked me if I had read Donald's letter. I told her that Sir William had wished me to do so, and then she asked me what I thought of it. I did not answer her directly, for I did not like to say what I really thought.
"I will tell you what I think of it," she said, "and I shall tell papa when I go downstairs. I think it is a shocking letter. I cannot think how Donald could ever write it! But May," she said, "please don't think I am troubling about it. I had given up loving Donald some time ago, ever since I found out that he was so very different to what I always thought he was; but I pitied him dreadfully. I thought he would be so miserable and wretched, and feel so guilty and ashamed when he thought about his having taken that money. I always pictured him wishing, oh, so much, that he had never done it, and trying very hard to save his money so that he might be able to pay it back again. But now, May, I can do neither; I can neither love him nor pity him; he does not deserve either love or pity, does he?"
"No, he does not," I said; "the only thing for which we can pity him is for his wickedness."
"Just think of his marrying a French girl," she said. "I wonder if it is the one who waited on us in the shop in Port Said. Well, I am glad he wrote that letter; it is far better to know what he really is. I can't think how I could be so much deceived in him. I am afraid I cannot read people's characters very well. But do not let us talk about him any more to-day, May; the trouble has quite gone, it has indeed, but I do not like to talk about it; let us speak of something else."
Sir William was very much relieved to find that Evelyn was in good spirits, and that she took his view of Donald Trafford's conduct. He was still very much ruffled and annoyed by the letter, and was, in consequence, fidgety and impatient with the world in general all day. Not liking to speak about his nephew for fear of distressing Evelyn, he gave vent, instead, to his feelings about Mr. Stanley's disappearance.
"Mr. Stanley evidently did not intend to write now," he said; "it was one of the strangest things he knew, his going off in that way. It just proved what he had always heard, that it does not do to make friends with people whom you meet whilst travelling. It is impossible to tell what they are, and you may be imposed upon to any extent."
"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, "what do you mean? Surely you do not mean that Air. Stanley imposed upon us?"
"Well, I don't say that he did," said Six William; "but I say that we don't know that he did not. You must confess that it was a very suspicious thing his disappearing so suddenly, and never giving us a hint as to where he was going. I don't like it at all."
I longed to speak, but I felt as if I could hardly trust myself to do so, for I might have said more than I intended, if I had opened my lips. So I left the defence to Evelyn, and she took it up indignantly.
"It is really too bad, papa," she said, "to speak of Mr. Stanley in that way! I think he is one of the nicest and best men I have ever seen."
"So he seemed to be, I grant," said Sir William; "but how do we know who he is, or what he is? We only know it from what he told us himself; and that may be true—I hope it is—or it may be false. That is why it is very foolish ever to be too friendly with people you meet when travelling; they may be all they profess to be, or they may not."
"But Mr. Stanley is a great friend of Lord Moreton, papa," said Evelyn; "I know he is. He told me he was the day Claude and Alice were here."
"Yes, I know he told you so," said Sir William; "I never heard Lord Moreton mention him."
"Will you not write and ask Lord Moreton, papa? It is quite worth while, and then we shall know one way or the other."
"Yes, perhaps I will," said Sir William; "that will settle the matter anyhow; perhaps Lord Moreton may be able to clear up the mystery."
The next day was the mail day, and Sir William gave me his letters to take to the man who was going to post them. I looked through the addresses as I went downstairs, but there was none to Lord Moreton: he had forgotten it.
We did not much enjoy our visit to Jerusalem after Mr. Stanley left us. We had very cold and cheerless weather, and the bare stone floors and covered stones were poor substitutes for the richly-carpeted rooms and bright blazing fires in Alliston Hall. Then during the cold weather it rained incessantly the whole day, and the rain was far heavier than we ever see it in England. We were obliged to keep indoors in the hotel, listening to the sound of the water which was rushing down the spouts of the house into the cisterns, in which it was carefully preserved for use during the following summer, and trying to amuse ourselves as best we could with our work, and the few books to be found in the hotel. Sir William became very impatient, and a great longing came suddenly over him to go homewards. He was tired of foreign travelling, and foreign places, and foreign hotels, he said, and Evelyn seemed so well and strong, that he thought there could be no risk in her returning to England.
Evelyn and I assented cordially to the proposal, so it was decided to leave Jaffa by the very next steamer.
We visited many places in Italy and Germany, and spent a long time on the return journey; for Sir William was afraid, for Evelyn's sake, of arriving, in England till the spring had fairly begun.
I was very much interested in a great deal that we saw, and yet I did not enjoy it nearly so much as I had always imagined I should enjoy a tour on the Continent. I felt unsettled and restless, and longed to be back in England.
We stayed for some weeks in London before going to Alliston, for Sir William had some business that he was anxious to transact, before returning home. London was bright and gay just then, and we enjoyed our visit to it very much. But what gave me more pleasure than anything else was meeting Miss Irvine again. Her home in London was in the next street to the one in which we were staying, and we saw her every day.
We were much interested in hearing of the work for God that Miss Irvine was doing in one of the very poorest and lowest of the London parishes. She spoke very little of it herself, but we found out by degrees that, during the last few months, a most wonderful work, of which she was the centre, had been going on amongst the poor lost people who are crowded together in the alleys and courts of that part of London.
Whilst we were there, a tea was to be given to the women who attended her mothers' meeting. Their husbands were also invited, for she hoped by this means to be able to reach many whom it was impossible to see or to speak with in any other way.
Miss Irvine asked us, the day before the tea took place, whether we should like to be present. Evelyn accepted her invitation joyfully, but Sir William demurred a little when he heard of it.
"I don't like your going into those low parts of the city, my dear," he said to Evelyn; "in your state of health you ought to be careful. There are sure to be people there just recovering from fever or small-pox, and it can't be good for you to go through those dirty, filthy, close streets."
Evelyn looked very much disappointed.
"I want so very much to see Lilla's poor people, papa," she said.
He was going to answer her, when Miss Irvine said, "Perhaps if Evelyn does not come, you will look in for a few minutes, Sir William? Lord Moreton is going to give them a little address after tea, and he would like to meet you."
Sir William fell into the snare she had laid for him.
"Lord Moreton!" he exclaimed. "How did you get him to come? Why, he is not in town now."
"No, but he is coming up for my tea-party," said Miss Irvine, laughing; "he takes a great interest in my little mission work; indeed, if it had not been for Lord Moreton I could not have carried it on. He supplies the means, whilst I try to find the workers. He hires the room for me in which I have all my meetings, and in which the tea will be given to-morrow night."
"Indeed!" said Sir William. "I had no idea of that. And you say he is going to give you an address?"
"Yes, he has promised to say a few words to the mothers; he has spoken to them before, and they felt it very much. He puts the way of salvation so simply before them that it seems to go straight to their hearts."
"Well, I really think we must go and hear him. Evelyn, my dear, I don't think it will hurt you if you do not dress too warmly; those places are always so close. We will drive there and keep the windows closed, so that the foul air of the streets will not come in. What time shall we be ready, Lilla?"
All arrangements were made, and Evelyn and I both looked forward with much pleasure to the following evening.
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THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
image058MISS IRVINE'S mission-room was a bright, cheerful place, and was very prettily decorated for the festive occasion. Texts cut out in red and in white paper, and wreaths of holly and ivy ornamented the walls; and the long tables, covered with white cloths, were spread with a most beautiful repast, which was arranged as prettily and tastefully as if it had been set out for a wedding breakfast.
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MISS IRVINE'S mission-room was a bright, cheerful place, and was very prettily decorated for the festive occasion. Texts cut out in red and in white paper, and wreaths of holly and ivy ornamented the walls; and the long tables, covered with white cloths, were spread with a most beautiful repast, which was arranged as prettily and tastefully as if it had been set out for a wedding breakfast.
The guests had all arrived when we went in, and were sitting at the tables, quietly admiring all around them. Poor tired mothers, many of them with babies in their arms; husbands, whose faces bore marks of care and toil, and many of whom showed plainly that drink and sin were bearing them down, and ruining their health and their homes; children, with pinched and unchildlike faces, were all gathered round the pretty tea-tables, looking forward to a happy evening in their unhappy lives. Most of the men were in working clothes, for they possessed no other's in which to come; but they had all made themselves as clean and tidy as they could, and seemed shyly and quietly happy.
They began to feel more at their ease when a blessing was asked, the tea was poured out, and we all sat down together. Then the tongues began to be busy and their poor, careworn faces looked glad and happy.
Lord Moreton was there, working busily, looking after the wants of every one of the poor people, and talking pleasantly to them all the time. He was a tall man, with dark hair; and I thought him very handsome indeed, in spite of the slight cast in his eye of which Evelyn had complained so much. But it was so very slight that it was not at all unpleasant, and I wondered that she had considered it such a drawback to his face.
He came up to us as soon as we entered the room, and seemed very pleased to meet Sir William and Evelyn. But we had little time for conversation till the work of the evening was over.
After tea came Lord Moreton's address. It was very simple, and very much to the point, and I could see that the poor people felt it. He spoke to them of the love of Jesus, and how He was longing and yearning to save them; how He was following them like the shepherd after the lost sheep, seeking them by night, seeking them by day, seeking them in sickness, seeking them in health, seeking them in their sin and trouble and misery, ever seeking them, ever longing for them to turn round and let Him find them.
And then Lord Moreton begged them to turn round to Him that very night, to leave drink behind, to leave sin behind, to leave shame behind, to turn their back on Satan and all his ways, to turn round to the Good Shepherd, and to say to Him, "Lord Jesus, save me."
There were very few dry eyes when Lord Moreton had finished. He did not show his nervousness at all when he was speaking. I fancied that his hand trembled a little, but his voice was clear and steady, and he spoke so naturally and unaffectedly that you forgot the man altogether, and became engrossed only with what he was saying. There was something in his quiet, persuasive, pleading manner which it would require a hard heart to withstand. I could see that Evelyn felt it very much, though she made no remark upon it afterwards.
When the poor people had left, and only the helpers remained in the room, we had more time for conversation. Then, for the first time, I saw that Lord Moreton was indeed a very nervous man. He was so shy and reserved when he first came up to us, that I could hardly believe he was the man who had spoken so easily and naturally to the poor people.
But Sir William soon set him at ease, by telling him of our journey to the East, and of some of our adventures whilst we were there.
"You met a friend of mine in Jerusalem, I think," Lord Moreton said.
"Oh yes, you mean Mr. Stanley," said Sir William, as if he had never doubted, for a moment, Mr. Stanley's friendship with Lord Moreton. "He proved a capital guide to us; we were sorry he had to leave so abruptly."
"Yes, poor fellow," said Lord Moreton; "it was a very great shock to him."
"What was a great shock to him?" asked Sir William. "We never heard why he left Jerusalem so suddenly."
"Oh, did you not?" said Lord Moreton. "He told me that he had written to you, and I think he was a little disappointed that he did not get an answer. It was on account of his father's illness. I sent him a telegram to tell him how dangerously ill his father was, and he left Jerusalem immediately he received it. But he was too late; his father had been dead some days when he arrived. Poor fellow, it was a terrible time for him!"
"I am really very sorry," said Sir William; "I had no idea that he was in such trouble; it seemed strange to us, as you may imagine, his disappearing so suddenly, and without any reason, so far as we knew."
"Yes, of course it would," said Lord Moreton; "he will be very vexed when he finds his letter did not reach you. He is such a nice fellow; he is just like a brother to me. The Stanley's place is close to ours, so we see a great deal of each other, and of course we shall be more than ever together now that Howard has come into the property; for he will be still more at home now."
"I am very sorry to hear of his father's death," said Sir William again.
"Yes," answered Lord Moreton; "and you would have felt it very much if you had seen his grief when he arrived, and I had to tell him that his father was gone; it was very sad. His mother died a few years ago, and there were no other children, so he and his father had been all in all to each other. Howard was very unwilling to go abroad this year, for he fancied his father was failing a little; but the old man insisted on his going, for Howard had a severe illness just this time last year, and the doctors said he would not be strong again until he had had a complete change. It was very sad, was it not, that it ended as it did?"
"Poor fellow!" said Sir William. "Can you give me his address? I should like to write to him, and express my sympathy, and explain why I did not write before."
"Yes, I will give it to you at once," said Lord Moreton, as he took a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote the address, and handed it to Sir William. "Stanley is very busy now, of course, settling his affairs, but in a month's time I have persuaded him to go with me for a run in the Highlands; I am sure it will do him good."
"In the Highlands!" said Sir William. "Then you will, of course, come to us on the way, both of you. And remember, we shall not be content with a three day's visit; you must spare us a week or ten days at least."
"Oh, thank you," said Lord Moreton; "that will be very nice!"
"I will write to Mr. Stanley about it to-morrow. Just name your own day when your plans are formed; we are expecting no visitors at present."
So it was all settled, and Lord Moreton said good-bye to us, for he was to leave town by the early train the next day.
"Well, papa," said Evelyn, as we drove home, "Mr. Stanley was not an escaped convict after all."
"I never said he was, my dear; I always thought him a remarkably nice fellow; only, of course, his sudden disappearance was a little puzzling and somewhat mysterious. If we had only got his letter it would have been all right!"
Then Sir William changed the subject, by complimenting Miss Irvine on the success of her entertainment, and speaking very highly of Lord Moreton's forcible address.
We went back to Alliston the following week, and, to my great joy, Sir William proposed that I should go at once to the old Manor House at Branston to see Maggie. The aunts were delighted to have me, so I went there the day after I had received their letter. I found everything in the house and around it just the same as when I had left it. The same neatness and order and punctuality and regularity reigned everywhere, and the same kindly feeling pervaded the whole place.
My dear little Maggie was on the platform to welcome me, and John and the comfortable horses were waiting for me at the entrance to the station. The sisters received me with open arms, and with tears in their eyes, and Miss Jane returned thanks at family prayers that night, "for the marvellous escapes, and wonderful preservation in the midst of many and great dangers, which had been vouchsafed to one of their number, during her residence in the land of the infidel and the heretic."
I had much to tell, and they had much to hear, and the fortnight passed away all too quickly.
During the second week Maggie and I went for a two days' visit to the Parsonage at Acton. Miss Richards was very anxious to see us again, and wrote me a very touching letter, saying, that if we would not mind spending a quiet day or two with her she would feel it a real kindness, and it would be a great cheer and comfort to her. She did not think her time on earth would be very long, she said; the doctor had told her that she might linger for a few months, but that she was suffering from a complaint which must end in death.
"So he says, my dear," wrote the good old lady; "but I would rather say, it must end in life—life in His presence, where alone is fulness of joy."
We found Miss Richards very much altered, weak and ill, and fearfully thin; yet still able to go about a little, to look after her housekeeping, and to sit in her easy chair in the garden, with her work or her book.
We had many quiet, happy talks together, and I felt it a great privilege to be speaking to one who was, as it were, close on the threshold of heaven itself.
Mr. Ellis was very much aged, and looked careworn and depressed. He was exceedingly kind to us; but he seemed as if a heavy weight were resting on him, which he could not shake off.
Whilst we were at Acton, Maggie and I went and peeped through the gate of our old home. It looked just the same; it was not altered at all. The rabbits were nibbling the grass on the lawn, the stream was trickling peacefully along, and every bush, and tree, and flower-bed looked just as they had done on that memorable day when I had sat by my bedroom window with Claude's unanswered letter in my hand.
But the home was no longer ours, and even as we looked at it little children's faces appeared at the window of my old room and reminded me of this.
I thought of Miss Irvine's words as I turned away: "What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting, and no going away."
That evening, after Maggie was in bed, Miss Richards called me into her room, and spoke to me about Claude.
"May, dear, you remember our last talk together before you went away," she said; "you were indeed right, and I was wrong. I would not have you Claude's wife now for the world. You had, indeed, a very happy escape."
"I think I told you we met them in Jerusalem, Miss Richards."
"Yes, and they are still abroad, spending what money they have. It will all be gone soon, and then they will be obliged to return home, and the crash will come."
"What do you mean, Miss Richards?" I asked. "I thought they were very rich."
"So we thought, my dear, and so they thought; but Alice's money has proved a mere bubble. Her father has speculated a great deal, and the whole of her money has gone now, every penny of it. They did not know that when you saw them in Jerusalem; it has come out since. And Claude, you know, has not very much money of his own. It would have been a nice little sum yearly if he had been careful. But oh, the bills, any dear! Scores of them are waiting for him; they send a great many here to be forwarded. I believe that is why he does not come home. But he must come, some time or other; and then his father thinks that more than the whole of Claude's capital will be swallowed up in order to pay his debts. And what will they do then, my dear?"
"I am very sorry to hear it," I said.
"Yes," said Miss Richards, "and this trouble is just crushing the life out of his poor father. I try to comfort him; and I tell him that I hope this trial will be the means, by God's blessing, of bringing Claude to the Saviour. But, though I tell Mr. Ellis so, my dear, I feel very doubtful about it, for Claude has so hardened his heart against all religion, and has so shut his eyes and refused to believe the truth, that I am very much afraid there is not much hope for him. I don't tell his father so; but I have great fears myself that even this trouble will not bring him any nearer to God."
"I was afraid his views were the same," I said, "when I met them in Jerusalem."
"Oh yes, they are even more pronounced," said Miss Richards; "and he has made his poor little wife almost as great a doubter as himself. She is a nice little thing, very affectionate and good to me; and I feel for her terribly in this trouble. I am afraid it will make great unhappiness between them. I quite dread their coming home."
That was the last time I ever saw Miss Richards. She took a loving farewell of me the next morning, and we both of us knew that, when next we met, it would be in the land where partings are unknown.
I heard of her death, or rather of her entrance into life, only a few weeks after our visit to Acton.
Maggie's aunts were very anxious that I should spend another week with them, before going back to Alliston Hall; but Evelyn had written to me, saying that Lord Moreton and Mr. Stanley were expected on the very day that I had already fixed to return, and she hoped that I should not fail to appear, as she wanted us all to have a good talk together about Jerusalem and our adventures there. I told Maggie and the aunts that I did not like to disappoint Evelyn, but felt that as she wished it, I ought to go back at once. I did not say anything of my own feelings in the matter.
I arrived at Alliston Hall just as Evelyn was dressing for dinner. She welcomed me with great joy, and told me that the visitors had arrived, and that I must get ready with all haste, as the gong would soon sound for dinner.
When I was dressed I went into the library, thinking that I was late, and that every one would have assembled, but I found no one there except Mr. Stanley.
I do not know how it was, but I suddenly turned very shy and nervous, and, after shaking hands with him, I was on the point of making an excuse about wanting to get my work, and by this means leaving the room, when he began to ask me many questions about Jerusalem, and I was obliged to stay.
"So I was put down as a suspicious character," he said, smiling, "when I disappeared so suddenly."
"Sir William thought it very strange," I said; "and he began to doubt a little if you were what you said you were."
Mr. Stanley laughed.
"And you?" he asked.
"Oh, I knew it would be all right."
"You did not doubt me then?"
"No, not at all," I said.
"Thank you."
There was a pause after this, and then he said gravely, "The chisel has been very busy since I saw you last."
"Yes," I said, "I was very sorry to hear of it."
"We must not be sorry," he said, gently; "for him it is great gain, and for me—"
"For you?" I asked, for he seemed as if he did not like to go on.
"For me, it is a hard bit of discipline; the Master Builder's tools have cut very deep, but it is all right. I ought not to be sorry, ought I?"
"I see what you mean," I said; "but are we not told to be 'sorrowful, yet always rejoicing?' Don't you think it is a comfort that the two are put together?"
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, "I see; He does not blame us for being sorry, so long as we sorrow not as others which have no hope. 'Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing;' thank you so much for the thought."
I fancied that he had a tear in his eye as he spoke, but I could not be sure, for a minute afterwards Sir William entered the room, and then he seemed as cheerful and full of spirits as he had always been whilst we were travelling together.
"So you never got my letter!" he said, to Sir William. "I am very sorry; but I gave it to a dragoman whom I knew pretty well, and whom I met at the Jaffa Gate. He was not a Jerusalem dragoman, but one who had come with some people from Cairo, and he promised me to deliver it at once. He must either have forgotten it, or, Arab-like, he conveniently lost it, but took care not to lose the 'baksheesh' I gave him at the same time. Well, it does not signify now!"
"Oh no," said Sir William, "of course not; only that fellow deserves to hear of it again! But how was it they knew nothing of your telegram at the Convent?"
"I met the man in the street bringing it, just after I left you, Miss Lindsay. He knew me by sight, and handed it to me at once, and then I just hurried back to the Convent and told them I must leave that morning; but I had neither time nor inclination to enter into particulars with them."
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Stanley brought out a number of splendid photographs of Jerusalem and its neighbourhood which he had bought in London, and had brought with him to show us.
Sir William was engrossed for some time in an interesting debate which he had just found in the "Times" newspaper; but Evelyn explained the Jerusalem photographs to Lord Moreton, and Mr. Stanley sat by me and pointed out the different places that we had visited together.
There was one beautiful view taken from the Mount of Olives, just at the turn of the hill where we had stood to look down upon Jerusalem.
We looked at this photograph a long time; I thought it more beautiful than any of the others. Jerusalem stood out clear and bright in the sunshine, each house, each mosque, each dome was standing out before us almost as distinctly as we had seen it on that lovely evening when, like our Lord and Master, we had beheld the city and wept over it.
"I shall never look at that photograph," said Mr. Stanley, "without thinking of those words: 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which I had lost.' Do you remember who said them to me there?"
"Yes," I said; "that was a very pleasant ride."
"Are the olive-leaves safe yet?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Oh yes," I said; "did you think I would lose them?"
"No, I did not think so; but I wanted you to tell me, that was all."
How much there was to talk of during those few days, and how many times we said the words, "Do you remember?" I have heard it said that when we use those three words it is a proof that we are talking to friends and not to strangers. To strangers we can never say, "Do you remember?" But to friends, to those who have gone side by side with us along any part of the pathway of life, how often we say to them, "Do you remember this?" "Do you remember that?" And how pleasant it is to recall first one thing and then another in the past, and to talk it over together!
I think this will be one of the pleasures of heaven. We shall often there, I think, use those three words, "Do you remember?" as we go over together in memory all the way that the Lord our God has led us, and as we recall the many proofs of His love, His goodness, and His wisdom, that we enjoyed together on earth.
It was the last evening of Lord Moreton's and Mr. Stanley's visit; the next day they were to leave us for the North.
We were wandering about the lovely gardens of Alliston Hall, gathering fresh flowers for Evelyn's sitting-room, for I would never let any one else arrange the flowers there.
Lord Moreton was very anxious to see a new and very rare shrub that Sir William had had planted at the other side of the gardens, and Evelyn went to show it to him.
Mr. Stanley and I stopped behind, for he complained of feeling tired, and I had not finished gathering my flowers.
"I am so sorry we are going to-morrow," he said.
I did not answer him, but bent over the bed to gather a beautiful white lily of the valley.
"But I shall not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously this time," he said.
"No, that is a comfort," I said, involuntarily, and then felt very angry with myself for having said it.
"Why is it a comfort?" he asked. "Was my leaving Jerusalem any trouble to you?"
"Yes," I said; "of course I was sorry. I did not like Sir William to doubt you."
"I am very glad you trusted me through it all," he said.
I was gathering some more lilies, so I did not look up till he spoke again, and then he only asked me a question, and I do not remember that I ever answered it:
"Will you trust me through life, May?" he said.
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WAS I RIGHT?
image061WE often speak of "learning by contrast;" and, surely, some of our most forcible lessons, those which we never forget, are learnt in this way.
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WE often speak of "learning by contrast;" and, surely, some of our most forcible lessons, those which we never forget, are learnt in this way.
I had been about three months in my new home, and I had always felt that it was the happiest place on earth, and yet, although I thanked God for giving it to me, every morning and evening, when I said my prayers, still I do not think I ever realised how happy, how peaceful, how blessed it was, until that Monday night.
For Monday morning's post had brought me a letter, written in pencil and almost illegible. I did not recognise the writing, and therefore glanced to the end, and I was very much surprised to see the signature—Alice Ellis.
Yes, the letter was from Claude's wife. It was a very short one. I turned to the beginning, and read as follows:
"MY DEAR MRS. STANLEY,"I want to ask a great favour of you. Will you come and see me, as soon as you can after you get this letter? I want very much to speak to you; there is something that I want to ask you."I am very ill, so please forgive this untidy note, for I am writing it in bed. Do come at once, if you can."Please forgive me for asking you."Believe me, dear Mrs. Stanley,"Very sincerely yours,"ALICE ELLIS."