We often speak of “learning by contrast;” and, surely, some of our most forcible lessons, those which we never forget, are learned 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 realized 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 recognize 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 favor 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.”
We do not live very far from London; it is only about an hour’s journey, so I went by the next train. I wondered very much why Alice had sent for me, and what she wanted to ask me.
When I arrived in London I took a cab to the address she had given me on the letter. The cabman drove for about a mile through a dirty and dismal part of the great city, and then he stopped before a high dismal house, in the midst of a row of high dismal houses, which was confronted, on the opposite side of the street, by another row of houses just as high and just as dismal.
I dismissed the cabman and rang the bell. The door was opened by an untidy servant, with no cap or collar on, but wearing a very dirty, ragged apron. She showed me into a room the windows of which looked out into the narrow street, and asked me to sit down whilst she sent to tell “the folks upstairs” that I had come.
The room was shabbily furnished, and smelt strongly of tobacco, and the atmosphere was close and stifling, as if the windows had not been opened for a long time.
Was it possible that Claude and Alice were living here, or had I made a mistake in the address? I referred to the letter in my pocket, and found I was correct as to the name of the street and the number of the house, and, certainly, the girl who had admitted me had said that Mrs. Ellis lived there.
But oh, how forlorn and dreary everything looked! I was quite glad when a slipshod footstep was heard on the stairs, and a sullen-looking girl, of about fourteen years old came in, and asked me to come upstairs to “missus.” She took me into a bedroom at the very top of that high house, and there, lying in bed and looking fearfully ill, I found Claude’s wife, Alice.
She welcomed me very warmly, and thanked me, again and again, for coming so soon; but I could hardly hear what she said, for her baby, who was lying on the bed beside her, was crying so loudly, and her every effort to pacify him was in vain.
“Jane, you can take baby into the next room,” she said to the girl; “he is so fretful! Does not he look ill?” she added, turning to me.
I took the child in my arms; he was dreadfully thin, and had a careworn, wasted face, more like that of an old man than of a baby three months old.
“Poor little fellow!” I said.
“Yes,” she said, with a sigh; “I almost wish sometimes that he would die.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ellis,” I exclaimed; “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” she said, bitterly; “I had rather that he died before I do. Take him into the next room, Jane!”
The girl took the child from me and went away, leaving the door open behind her.
“Would you mind shutting the door?” said Mrs. Ellis; “she always will have it open. And then I can talk to you comfortably; we shall feel quite safe. I have been wishing to see you for more than a week,” she went on; “ever since I knew that I was so ill. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I am so utterly miserable.”
“I am very sorry to find you so ill,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “I am very ill, and I shall never be well again. The doctor says I am in a rapid decline. It is trouble which has brought it on; you will have heard what trouble we have had.”
“Miss Richards told me something about it, when I was with her, a few months before she died,” I said.
“Yes, all my money has gone; every farthing of it. My father made some mistake about it, and the investments failed, and we lost it all. And Claude is so angry about it; he says my father has deceived him, and he is just as vexed as if it were my fault; he has not seemed to care for me a bit since then. But I did not mean to speak of that. I don’t want to complain. It is natural, I suppose, that he should be vexed. He thought we were rich, and we went on spending a quantity of money, and then, when this came out, all the people sent in their bills, and now all Claude’s money has gone too. I don’t know what will become of us.”
“And you look so ill,” I said; “you ought to be taken care of, Mrs. Ellis.”
“Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind so much for myself; it is poor little baby that makes me so unhappy. He cries so much, and that girl is so very careless with him. Old Mr. Ellis is very kind; he wants me to go there, but Claude won’t hear of it: I don’t know why. We could not live at all if it were not for Claude’s father; he is always sending him money.”
“But could you not be moved into a more comfortable lodging than this?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not. It is very dirty and untidy; but you see they are good in one way, they do not hurry us about paying them, so it seems a pity to move. But I did not send for you to tell you all our troubles, Mrs. Stanley,” she said; “I wanted you, if you could, to help me to get a little comfort.”
“In what way?” I asked, for I wanted to hear what she would say.
“Do you remember a conversation we had together when I stayed at Alliston Hall, Mrs. Stanley? I told you then that I always tried to laugh trouble away, and you said—do you remember what you said?”
“What was it?” I asked.
“You said that there were some troubles that could not be laughed away. Those troubles have come to me now; I can’t laugh now, Mrs. Stanley. But I wonder if you remember what else you said that day; you told me that you never tried to laugh troubles away, but you always prayed them away. Oh, if I could only do that!”
“Do you believe in prayer, Mrs. Ellis?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said, earnestly; “I do now. I used to laugh at it when Claude laughed at it, and I used to try to think it was all nonsense. But the other day the doctor was here, and I said, ‘Doctor, please tell me the truth; shall I ever get well again?’ And the doctor said, ‘I am afraid not, Mrs. Ellis.’ Then I asked him how long he thought I should live, and he said ‘perhaps a month or two.’ And then he went away. I told Claude what the doctor had said, but he answered: ‘Oh, nonsense, that doctor is a fool, don’t believe him; you have nothing the matter with you; you will be all right when the warm weather comes.’ And then Claude went out, and he did not come home till past midnight; he is always out till quite late every night. I do not know where he goes; he never will tell me, and he is always so tired and cross when he comes in. Well, that night I lay awake thinking the whole time, and oh, Mrs. Stanley, I was so frightened. I knew the doctor was right, I felt that I had not long to live, and then I asked myself, ‘where am I going?’ I must be going somewhere. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I felt that night, and I feel now, that the Bible is true; my own heart tells me so. I cannot doubt, now that I am dying. I made up my mind that night that I would send for you, but since then I have been putting it off. I was afraid you would not like to come, we have seen so little of each other; but then, yesterday, I thought I would just write and tell you, for there is no one else I can think of who would be able to help me.”
“I am very glad you have sent for me,” I said, taking her thin hand in mine; “and now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“I want you to tell me very simply,” she said, “how to be saved; tell me what I must do to get rid of my sin—oh, Mrs. Stanley, I have been so very wicked, what must I do? I will do anything I can, if I only know what it is.”
“There is nothing to do,” I said, “nothing at all; if you feel your sin, and long to get rid of it, there is nothing to do.”
“Nothing to do!” she said, incredulously; “oh yes, Mrs. Stanley, there must be something to do!”
“No,” I said, decidedly, “there is nothing to do; but there is something to take!”
“Something to take!” she repeated in somewhat of her old manner. “I suppose you mean that I am to take salvation; but that is so very indefinite, Mrs. Stanley. I know all those set phrases so well; but they mean nothing to me. What is salvation, and how am I to take it?”
“You are quite right,” I said, “have nothing to do with set phrases; they are hollow and worthless. You have to deal, not with dead words but with a living Saviour, Mrs. Ellis. It is the Lord Jesus whom I want you to take—as your own Saviour. I want you to take Him as the One who can alone save you from the guilt and power of your sin, and who can alone give you the right to enter heaven. He comes to you, and He says: ‘Take Me, take My love as your own; look upon Me as the One who has died to save you, and then you need not fear.’ You understand how it is that He is able to save you, Mrs. Ellis, that He has been punished instead of you; that your sins have been laid on Him, and that He has suffered the penalty that your sins deserved!”
“Oh yes,” she said, “I know all that with my head; I know it theoretically, but I want to be able to put it into practice. How am I to be quite sure that Jesus has done that for me; how am I to know that He has taken my sin away?”
“Because God’s Word tells you so,” I said; and I took my Bible from my pocket and read, “He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.”
“Then what is there left for me to do?” she asked.
“Only to accept the Lord Jesus as your Saviour,” I said. “Go to Him and say to Him, ‘Lord Jesus, I do thank Thee for bearing my sins; I trust myself to Thee to be saved. I want to be forgiven through Thy death, and because Thou hast been punished in my place.’”
“Is that all?” she said.
“That is all!” I answered; “you cannot do more. One of my husband’s tenants was in great trouble a few months ago; he was not at all a rich man, and he had got into some rather serious difficulties with a neighbor of his. My husband heard of it, and when he had been told the whole story, he felt that the man was to be pitied. The poor wife came and pleaded with tears in her eyes that he would help them, so my husband went to the trial to see what could be done. The sentence was pronounced—the man was to pay £20, or failing that, he was to go to prison. The poor man could not have paid even £5, for he was very badly off, so he was quite prepared to be led off to prison. But at that moment my husband stepped forward, and laid down the £20. What was left for the man to do? Nothing, but to come forward and to say with tears in his eyes, Mr. Stanley, I thank you kindly, sir; I shall never forget it as long as I live!”
“I see,” she said; “I see it all now; and is that just what I have to do?”
“Exactly,” I said; “you must go to the Lord Jesus and say, ‘Lord, I have nothing with which to pay. I am a great sinner, and owe a great debt, but Thou hast paid it all; I look upon Thee as my Saviour, and I shall never forget it as long as I live.’ It is quite touching to see that poor man’s love for my husband now; he tries in every way he can to show his gratitude.”
“I see,” she said; “and we love Him because He first loved us. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, thank you so much!”
I did not leave the house until I had reason to believe that Alice had indeed taken the Lord Jesus as her own Saviour, nor until she could tell me with a smile on her thin, wasted face, “I am not utterly miserable now, for I have a sure hope for the future; He has forgiven me.”
I did not see Claude once, though I was with Alice for several hours. Perhaps he purposely kept out of sight, and, I must confess, I was glad, under the circumstances, not to meet him, for I felt very angry with him for his heartless neglect of his poor little wife.
I returned home by the evening train, and then came the contrast. My husband was at the station to meet me, and we drove back together to our happy home. On the way I told Howard of my visit to Alice, and of the conversation I had had with her. He was very much interested in all I told him, and when we had talked it over for a little time he said: “I have a letter for you in my pocket, May, which came by the evening post, and I think I have been very good not to open it, for I am most anxious to hear the news contained in it.”
The letter was from Evelyn Trafford. I took it from him and opened it.
“Oh, Howard,” I exclaimed as I glanced at the contents, “I am so very glad!”
“Yes, and so am I,” he said; “I know what it is about. There was a letter for me from Charlie by the same post. He has been staying at Alliston Hall for a week, and it seems to be quite settled now. How nice it will be for you to have your friend Evelyn so near. Carrington Hall is only five miles from us; you will be able to meet as often as you like.”
“Evelyn is so very happy,” I said, as I handed him the letter, “and she seems to have quite forgotten that she said she would never marry anyone who squinted; I have no doubt now that she would agree with me, that in spite of it, Lord Moreton is a very handsome man.”
“I am very glad it is so nicely arranged,” said my husband. “More than one good thing came out of our journey to Palestine, little wife! Do you remember that it was my conversation with Miss Trafford near the Damascus Gate which first made her look more favorably upon poor Charlie ‘the stupid, uninteresting man!’ she called him then.”
As he said this we turned in at the gate, and drove through the shrubbery to the house.
How beautiful everything looked that evening! The rhododendrons, the lilacs, and the laburnums were in bloom, and the evening sunshine was streaming across the distant hills, and casting a golden light over everything.
“Oh what a contrast, Howard!” I said, as we stood together at the window that evening.
“A contrast to what?” he asked.
“A contrast to the wretched lodging I have been in today. I always felt that mine was the happiest home in the world, but I feel it more than ever tonight.”
“Are you really happy, little wife?” he asked.
“Happy! oh, Howard,” I answered, “what a question! You know, surely, you know how very happy I am!”
“You are not more happy than I am, May,” he said; “I little thought when I met you first on the roof, at Brindisi, what bright days were in store for me!”
“Oh, Howard,” I said, after a pause, “just think if that wretched lodging that I saw today had been my home! And it might have been.”
He knew what I meant, for I had told him of Claude’s letter.
“Yes,” he said, “it might have been, if you had not resisted the temptation put before you that day, and gained a victory over yourself. But you are not sorry now, May, that you decided as you did; you think you were right, do you?”
“Right! oh, Howard,” I said, “I feel as if I could never be thankful enough that I chose as I did; God has been very good to me!”
“Yes, little wife,” he said, “the Lord never overlooks or forgets any self-denial for His name’s sake. You chose His love, His favor, His smile, in preference to an earthly affection; you chose to forsake an earthly love for His sake, and He did not forget it. I am sure those words of our Lord’s are true, May: ‘There is no man that hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother or wife, or children, or lands (in short, anything dear to his heart), for My sake, but he shall receive an hundredfold in this present time;’ or, as another Gospel has it, manifold more in this present time.’”
“I have indeed received the hundredfold, Howard,” I said.
“And then that is not the end,” he said, “for, after all, the second part of the promise makes the first part sink into insignificance. ‘And, in the world to come, life everlasting.’ Yes, May, there is a brighter home in prospect. Earth’s homes, the dearest and best, are only for a time—Heaven’s homes are for an eternity. I came across a verse today, which I thought very beautiful:
“What joys are lost, what promises are given,
As through this death-struck world we roam,
Awhile we think that Home is Heaven,
At last we find that Heaven is Home.”
“And we shall be together there, Howard,” I said, “with no fear of separation.”
“Yes, thank God!” he answered; “this bright, little earthly home is to us a faint foreshadowing of our heavenly home, where we shall be together with the Lord.”
“Yes,” I said, “a happy, earthly home now, in this present time, and a brighter, more glorious home awaiting me above, to be mine throughout eternity; was I not indeed right in my choice?”