THE OPPORTUNITY GIVEN.
[Illustration] THE next morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on
the library table, my eyes caught the words "Ellis—Fitzgerald."
I found that it was an announcement of Claude's and Alice's marriage.
It was wonderful to me how calmly and composedly I could read it.
That trouble was, in deed and in truth, a thing of the past. I could
"rejoice to-day; the pain was over long ago." I could thank God, with
all my heart, that He had not let me yield to the temptation which at
that time was so strong to me, and that He had saved me from the lot
which, a year ago, I had thought would be so bright.
I took the newspaper with me when I went to Evelyn's room, and pointed
to the marriage. I thought it might help to turn her thoughts a little
from her trouble.
"So Alice is married, poor girl!" she said. "I had forgotten that it
was to be so soon."
"Why do you call her poor, Evelyn?" I asked. "Most people would say
happy girl."
"Oh, I don't know," said Evelyn, "perhaps I ought not to have said so.
Mr. Ellis is a great friend of yours, I know; but, somehow, I do not
think I should like to marry him myself; now would you, May?"
"No," I said, very decidedly, "not at all."
We went on with our work without speaking for some time, and then
Evelyn asked:
"May, do you remember what Alice Fitzgerald said about laughing trouble
away?"
"Yes," I said, "quite well."
"I don't at all agree with her," said Evelyn; "I can't laugh when I am
in trouble, it would be of no use trying. I could not laugh to-day—if I
tried to laugh, I should begin to cry directly."
"And even if you could laugh, Evelyn dear," I said, "the trouble would
come back again the next moment heavier than ever."
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, suddenly, "I wish I could do the other thing."
"What other thing?" I asked.
"Why, pray," she said. "Don't you remember you said that you always
prayed when you were in trouble. I wish I could do that."
I did not answer her until I had sent up an earnest prayer that I might
use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and that I might step
inside the door, which at last seemed to be opened to me.
"But why can't you pray, Evelyn dear?" I asked.
"Well, May, I will tell you why," she said; "I have wanted to talk to
you about it so very much, only I didn't like to begin. You see I have
been thinking a great deal lately, and wishing that I was happy like
you; and, one day when you were out of the room, you left on the table
a bundle of those little books that you take with you when you go to
see your poor people; so what do you think I did? I thought I should
like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it; and then I
put it back so carefully afterwards, just in the same place, that you
might not find out what I had been doing. You did not find out?"
"Oh no," I said, "indeed I did not; but which one was it that you read?"
"It was about the prodigal son; don't you remember that one?"
"No," I said, "I have not read them all; was it a nice one?"
"Yes, very nice, and it made it very clear about prayer. I have been
thinking of it often since."
"Will you tell me what you read?" I asked.
"It pictured the prodigal son," said Evelyn, "going home, after he had
treated his poor old father so badly, and beginning: 'Please, father,
I want a new coat,' or, 'Please, father, give me some new shoes,' or,
'Please, father, I want some food very much.' It pictured him asking
his father to supply his wants before ever he had asked him to forgive
him for his bad behaviour to him. That wouldn't have been the right
way, would it, May?"
"No," I said, "it would not have done for that to come before the
'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more
worthy to be called thy son.'"
"Yes," said Evelyn, "and your little book said it was just the same
now, and yet so many people wanted to go to God, and to ask Him for
all sorts of things when they got into trouble, and yet they had never
thought of asking Him to forgive them."
"I see what you mean," I said; "we must speak to God about our sins,
before we can speak to Him about our troubles."
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, "I wish I could do that. I wish I could talk
to God about my sins. I never know till now how bad I had been to Him;
but last night I seemed to see myself in quite a different way. I used
to think, May, that I was not so very bad. I didn't think that I was
at all good like you, still I thought that there was not so very much
wrong with me. But now I see that I'm bad altogether; I don't think I
have ever done anything good at all."
"Why don't you go and tell God that, Evelyn darling, just as you have
been telling me? That would be a prayer, just like the prayer of the
prodigal son, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.'"
"Yes, May," she said; "but suppose I tell Him that with all my heart,
is that enough?"
"Yes, quite enough, if you ask God to forgive you because Jesus has
died, and if you trust in Jesus as your own Saviour," I said.
"Oh, May," said Evelyn, with a sigh, "come and sit beside me, and make
it very plain and simple for me—as you would for a little child. I am
so much afraid of making a mistake."
Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I might also make no mistake, but might
be helped to lead her to Jesus!
"Evelyn," I said, "I want to tell you something that I was reading in
one of my favourite books the other day, because I think it makes it so
very plain. You remember the three crosses on Calvary?"
"Yes," she said, "there was the middle cross, with Jesus on it, and on
each side of Him there was a thief."
"Yes," I said, "and both the thieves had been great sinners, both had
led bad lives, and yet, oh, how differently they died! One thief went
straight to Paradise, to be welcomed there by Jesus, the other went
down to hell. Now, why was there this difference? Did you ever think
why it was that one thief was saved, and the other thief was lost?"
"I suppose," she said, "it was because one thief looked to Jesus, and
the other did not."
"Yes," I said, "quite so; but that is not all. What did looking to
Jesus do for the thief?"
"I don't know," she said.
"Well," I answered, "my book puts it in this way. Both thieves deserved
to go to hell because of their sins; both of them before they were
nailed to the cross had sin in them, for they both had sinful hearts,
they were born in sin, and they were both sinners. And they had also
both of them sin on them, the burden and guilt and punishment of their
sins resting on them; they both must suffer the consequences of their
sin—both must go to hell."
"Yes," she said, "I see that."
"But now let us look at them again some hours later. They have been
nailed to the cross, and one thief has looked to Jesus, but the other
thief has not. Just look at the three crosses now. First, here is the
thief who would have nothing to do with Jesus. Has he still sin in him?"
"Yes," she said.
"Has he still the guilt of sin resting on him?"
"Yes, he is just as he was before."
"Now, then, look at the middle cross; look at Jesus, has He sin in Him?"
"Oh no," she said, "He never sinned; He was quite holy."
"But was there no sin on Him?" I said.
"Was there, May?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, "don't you remember it says, 'The Lord hath laid on
Him the iniquity of us all.' It was not His own sin that was resting on
Him, but ours."
"Oh yes," she said, "I see what you mean."
"And now look at the third cross. There hangs the thief who has looked
to Jesus. He still has sin in him; till he gets to heaven, his heart
will be sinful still. But has he sin on him? That is to say, do the
guilt and consequences of his sin still rest on him?"
"No, I don't think they do," she said.
"Oh no," I said, "for he has laid his sin on Jesus; it is no longer
resting on him: it is taken off him, and put on to Jesus, and therefore
this thief is saved. Now, do you see what looking to Jesus means? It
means that the thief looked to Jesus as the One who was being punished
for his sin, and who was suffering in his place. Do you see?"
"I think I do," said Evelyn.
"Well, my book goes on to say, that all the people in the world die as
one or other of those thieves died. All without exception die with sin
in them, for the Bible tells us that 'if we say that we have no sin we
deceive ourselves.' But those who look to Jesus as the One who has been
punished in their place, though they have sin in them till they die,
yet they have no sin on them, for the guilt and responsibility of their
sins no longer rests on them, but on Jesus. You remember that hymn:
"'I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees 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 new life in Alliston Hall. Before
this, Evelyn used to dislike and avoid any approach to what she
considered "religious talk;" but now her great delight was to read a
chapter with me in the Bible, and to ask me questions about anything
which she did not quite understand.
I shall never forget that summer; it was a very peaceful and a very
happy one. I had every reason to believe that Evelyn's heart was indeed
changed. Every one noticed the difference in her, and many, who did not
understand what is the power of the Holy Spirit in the heart, wondered
what was the cause of it.
There was one who rejoiced in this change in Evelyn quite as much as I
did, and that one was Miss Irvine. She spent nearly the whole summer at
Alliston Hall, and Evelyn, instead of avoiding her company as she had
so often done before, delighted to have her with her, that they might
talk together about heavenly things.
Day by day Evelyn grew in grace, and seemed more anxious about the
welfare of her own soul, and of the souls of those around her. She
was much braver than I was, in speaking to others about their eternal
welfare. I often felt ashamed of myself when she told me how she had
spoken to Clemence, or to one of the other servants; and she did it in
such a simple, natural way, that it was always well received, and never
gave offence.
But, though Evelyn was growing in grace day by day, she was not growing
in bodily strength. Indeed, as the summer went on she seemed to get
weaker instead of stronger. The trouble she had had about her cousin
Donald had been so sudden and unexpected, that she had not recovered
from the effects of it.
Evelyn never, so far as I knew, mentioned her cousin's name in Sir
William's presence, and only once did she name him to me, when she
asked me if I knew whether anything had been heard of him; but I
noticed how anxiously she asked for the newspapers every day, and with
what trembling fingers she turned over the pages. There had been an
account of the affair in the "Times" the same week that it happened,
and Evelyn was continually expecting to find that Mr. Trafford had been
apprehended. But there was no further notice of it in the newspapers,
and, one day, Sir William told me that his nephew had evidently made
his escape to some foreign land, and he did not think that he would
ever be heard of again.
As the summer passed away, and the days became shorter and the nights
cooler, Evelyn became no stronger; she had a very troublesome cough,
which kept her awake at night, and she looked pale and fragile.
Sir William was very anxious about her, and had many consultations with
the doctors, and at last it was agreed that the best thing possible for
her would be to leave England for a time and to spend the winter abroad.
The doctors said that the warmer climate would be good for her health,
and Sir William felt that the excitement and pleasure of travelling
would turn her thoughts, more than anything else, from her trouble and
disappointment.
"And where do you think we are going, May?" said Evelyn, when she had
told me with great joy what her father had decided.
"I do not know at all, Evelyn," I said; "I thought perhaps it would be
to Mentone, or perhaps somewhere in Italy."
"Oh no," said Evelyn; "nowhere so commonplace as that! Guess again!"
But I could not guess, so she told me, with great delight, that Sir
William's plan was to go down the Mediterranean to Egypt, and then, if
Evelyn was well enough, to go on in the early spring to Jerusalem.
"To Jerusalem! Oh, Evelyn," I said, "you will enjoy that."
"Yes, and so will you, May," she said. "I know how you long to go
there; I was quite as glad for you as for myself, when papa told me."
"Oh, Evelyn," I said; "do you mean to say that I am going too? I never
dreamt of that."
"Of course you are going," she said, indignantly. "Do you think I could
do without you? Oh, May, isn't it delightful!"
It seemed to me far too good and too wonderful to be true. To go to
Jerusalem, the city which our Lord loved, and over which He wept; to
see the hillsides where He so often sat, and to tread the mountain
paths on which His feet had so often walked,—this seemed far too great
a joy ever to be mine.
But there was very little time to sit and dream over it, for we were
plunged, at once, into all the bustle and confusion which a departure
from home for a long time causes in large households as well as in
small ones.
We were to start in three weeks' time, for Sir William was anxious
that we should get the sea-voyage over before the weather became
colder and more unsettled. He very kindly gave me leave to go to the
Manor House at Branston for a few days, that I might say good-bye to
my little sister before being parted from her for so long. I should
never have thought of asking for a holiday at this busy time, but Sir
William proposed it himself, and was good enough to say, when I began
to suggest difficulties, that he should insist upon my going whether I
liked it or not.
It was indeed a pleasure for me to see my dear little Maggie again, and
the three sisters were kindness itself to me. But they did not at all
like the idea of my going to Jerusalem; indeed, at first, they even
wanted me to throw up my situation because of having to go abroad.
However, when they saw that it was of no use trying to persuade me to
do this, and that I was looking forward to the proposed journey as to a
most delightful and pleasant thing, they all united in trying to warn
me of the consequences. Miss Jane had a very ancient book, describing
the adventures and narrow escapes of some travellers in Palestine many
years ago, and she brought this book out from her bookcase, and read
all the most alarming passages for my edification, till poor Maggie was
quite frightened, and clung to me, and said she would never let me go.
I assured them that travelling in Palestine twenty years ago was a
very different thing, and that now the dangers were much less, and the
difficulties not nearly so numerous. But Miss Jane did nothing but
shake her head mournfully, and said she should indeed be thankful if I
came back alive; whilst Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa actually shed tears
at the bare thought of the perils I was about to undergo. However, I
comforted them by promising to write often, and I told them that I
would give them an account of all my adventures, though I did not think
they would be so exciting or remarkable as those of the gentlemen in
Miss Jane's book.
When I returned to Alliston Hall, I found that all necessary
preparations were made for the journey. Sir William was anticipating it
quite as much as we were. He had travelled a great deal when he was a
young man, and he was looking forward with pleasure to taking Evelyn to
some of the places which he had visited so many years before.
At length the last night came, when everything was peeked, and we had
nothing to do but to sit at the window and to talk of the journey
before us.
I was feeling the reaction, which so often comes after the excitement
of preparations for a journey, and was almost wishing that, after all,
we were not going so far away. Who could tell whether we should all
return again? Who could tell whether I should ever see my little sister
again?
At this moment the door was opened, and a letter was brought in which
had come by the evening post. The letter was from dear Miss Irvine, to
say how much she should think of us whilst we Were travelling, and how
often she should turn the text, which she enclosed, into prayer on our
behalf.
"What is the text, I wonder?" said Evelyn, as she put down the letter.
"Oh, I see; here are two cards in the envelope; one for you, and one
for me."
She handed me mine, and the text seemed an answer to my fears:
"The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this
time forth, and even for evermore."
And underneath the text there was this hymn:
Going out from the ones I 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 for ever past;
Coming in, and yet, not alone—
Standing beside the door:
Meet me, Lord, in my coming in,
Now, and for evermore.
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