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 get 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 afterward that he was a converted Jew, and the missionary to the Jews in Jerusalem.
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 come forgiveness, then follows joy; pardon first, rejoicing afterward.
“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 everyone 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, Ind they were most particular that only those willow sees 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 rue 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 afterward, 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 anyone 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 favor.
“Please address to ‘Monsieur Junot, Post Office, Alexandria.’ M. Junot 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 today, 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 traveling. 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 Mr. Stanley imposed upon us?”
“Well, I don’t say that he did,” said Sir 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 defense 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 traveling; 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 worthwhile, 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 traveling, 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 center, 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 smallpox, 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 tomorrow 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.