THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
[Illustration] 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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