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 today; 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 today—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 afterward, 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 behavior 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 knew 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 it 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 favorite 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 us
From 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 now 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. Everyone 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 offense.
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 traveling 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 dreamed 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 goodbye 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 travelers 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 traveling 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 hear 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 them 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 very much looking forward 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 packed, 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 the 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 every 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 love,
Far 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 hearts,
Yearning their souls to feed.
Coming in to the Father’s home,
Welcomed with joy at last;
Coming in to go out no more,
Partings forever past;
Coming in, and yet, not alone—
Standing beside the door:
Meet me, Lord, in my coming in,
Now, and for evermore.