John Randolph came up behind Evadne one morning as she was dressing the
burns of a little lad who had been severely injured at a fire. She did
not hear his step--she was telling a bright story to the little
sufferer, to make him forget his pain, and the boy was laughing loudly.
His face was very grave, but his eyes lightened as they always did when
they rested upon her face.
"Mrs. Reginald Hawthorne is very ill. Can you, will you come?"
And Evadne answered with a simple "Yes." They needed so few words, these
two.
"I tell you I will not die!" The piercing cry rang through the handsome
room and fell like molten lead upon the heart of the man who with
strained, haggard face was sitting by the bedside. "You have not told me
the truth, Reginald! There is a God. I feel it! You have always laughed
and called me young and foolish, but I know better than you do, now.
You said if our lives were governed by reason, we would meet death like
a philosopher, and I do not know how to die! You used to laugh and say
the whole thing was child's play and there was nothing to fear, and I
believed you,--I thought you were so wise, but it was easy to believe
you then with your arms folded close about me and the sunlight streaming
through the windows and the shouts of the children outside, but now you
cannot go with me and I am afraid to go alone." The eyes, wild and
despairing, burned fiercely in the pallid cheeks. "Do you hear,
Reginald? I am afraid, I tell you; horribly afraid! You used to say you
would lay down your life to save me. Why do you not help me now?
"What makes you look so strangely, if it is all nonsense, Reginald? why
do you shut out all the sunshine and why is the house so still? You told
me once you were going to die with a laugh on your lips. I am dying,
Reginald, why don't you help your wife to die as you mean to do?
A----h!"
Her voice died away in a low wail of terror and the delicate blue veins
in her temples throbbed with feverish excitement. Reginald Hawthorne had
crouched down in his chair and buried his face in his hands. The pitiful
cry began again.
"To die, when life is so sweet! To be shut up in a coffin and buried in
a cold, dark grave! You don't love me, Reginald. If you did, you would
die too--with a laugh on your lips you know--then I should have that to
cheer me, and we should be together, and I should not be afraid. But now
you look so strangely, Reginald. Don't you care for me any more? Can you
let them take me away from this beautiful world and stay in it all by
yourself?
"I suppose you will give me a splendid funeral--you are so generous you
know--but I will not care whether the prison is pine or mahogany if I am
to be shut up in it all alone! And you will have a long procession, with
plumes and flowers and show, but you will leave me in the dreary
cemetery and you will come back to our home, where we have been so happy
together--so happy, just you and I--but you see you are a philosopher
and I do not know how to die!
"And some day you will forget me--men do such things they say--and
another woman will be your wife and I will be all alone!"
"Sister!" The abject man in the chair held out his hands in an agony of
entreaty, "Come here and help us--if you can!" and Evadne came swiftly
into the room, and, sitting down on the side of the bed, gathered the
pitiful little figure to her heart.
"It is not death but life," she said gently. "This body is not _you_.
The home of the soul is more beautiful than, any earthly home can ever
be. It is those who are left behind dear, who mourn, not those who go."
Elise Hawthorne laid her head on Evadne's shoulder like a tired child.
"But I am afraid," she whispered. "If this is true, and God is holy, I
am not fit, you know."
"Your Father loves you dear, for he sent his Son to die. The thief on
the cross was a sinner, yet Christ took him to Paradise. The fitness
must come from Jesus. His blood washes whiter than snow."
"But I have done nothing to earn it. I have lived for myself alone."
"We never can earn a gift, dear. God gives in a royal way. He says to
you only 'Believe I have given you life through my Son.'" Evadne had
taken the tiny Bible which she always carried from her pocket and was
turning its pages rapidly. "Here it is. Will you raise the blind, Mr.
Hawthorne, that your wife may see for herself? 'God so loved the world
that he gave his only begotten Son,'--the best he had!--'that whosoever
believeth in him should not perish,' you see there is no death for those
who trust in him. And then 'He that believeth on the Son _hath_
everlasting life.' It does not mean that we may have it after years of
toil. The Israelites, stung by the serpents, had no time to reason or
plan to live better, for they were dying, but they could turn their eyes
to the brazen serpent which God had ordered to be lifted up in the midst
of tho camp for an antidote to the poison. So Christ has been 'lifted
up' upon the cross for us. He died instead of you. Why should you die
forever when he has paid your ransom and set you free?"
"But I cannot touch him,--I cannot be sure it is true."
"The Israelites could not touch the brazen serpent. They simply looked,
and lived. There is just one condition for us to-day and it is
'Believe.' Cannot you take your Heavenly Father at his word as you would
your husband? Cannot you treat God the same?"
Mrs. Hawthorne looked wonderingly at her nurse. "Treat him the same as I
do my husband!" she exclaimed. "Why, with Reginald, I believe every word
he says."
"And I with God," said Evadne reverently.
"What charm have you wrought?" asked John Randolph in a whisper, as they
stood together that evening beside a quiet sleeper. "This is the first
natural sleep she has had. I believe it will prove her salvation."
Evadne looked up at him, and over her face a light was breaking, "I have
led her to Jesus, the Mighty to save."
* * * * *
The Hawthornes were going to Europe. The young wife's convalescence had
been tedious and it was a very frail little figure which clung to Evadne
the evening before they started. They had pleaded with her to go with
them. "Give up this toilsome work which is overtaxing your strength,"
Reginald had said, as they sat together one evening in the twilight,
"and make your home with us. You have grown to be our sister in the
truest sense of the word and we have learned to lean upon you, Elise and
I. We can never hope to repay you," he continued huskily, "but it would
be such a pleasure to have you with us for good."
Evadne looked at the pleading eyes with which Elise Hawthorne seconded
her husband's wish and her lips trembled. "How rich God is making me in
friends!" she said. "I shall never forget that this thing has been in
your hearts, but I must be about my Father's business."
And then John Randolph had come to make one of his pleasant, informal
visits and they had sat together in a beautiful fellowship, talking of
the things pertaining to the Kingdom.
"Doctor Randolph," Elise asked suddenly, "what is your conception of
prayer? Evadne says it means to her communion and companionship with
Jesus. She says it is 'the practice of the presence of God.'"
John Randolph's face grew luminous. "To me it means a great stillness,"
he said. "Did you ever think of the silences of God? 'Be still, and know
that I am God,' 'Stand still, and see his salvation.'"
"But are we not to ask for what we want?" asked Mrs. Hawthorne
wonderingly.
"Oh, yes, but we learn to ask so little for ourselves when we love our
Father's will. The trouble is, we, want to do the talking. God would
have us listen while he speaks."
"Then what does it mean to worship God?" she asked. "We cannot always be
in church."
John Randolph smiled. "We do not need to be. If our hearts are all on
fire with the love of God, we worship him continually."
When he rose to go he turned towards Evadne. "How goes life with you
now, dear friend?"
The grey eyes, full of a clear shining, were lifted to his, "I am
absolutely satisfied with Jesus Christ."
Marion was married and living in New York. Louis had taken a small
house, where he lived with his mother and Isabelle. He spent his days in
the monotonous routine of a hank, and to his pleasure-loving nature the
drudgery seemed intolerable, but he said little. Evadne never
complained!
One day he went to see her at the Hospital and she was frightened at the
pallor of his face. She led him to the superintendent's reception
room--there they would be undisturbed. He staggered blindly as he
entered the room and then sank heavily on a sofa near the door. He
looked like an old man.
"Louis!" she cried in alarm, "what is the matter?"
He took a letter from his pocket and held it toward her. It bore her own
name, and the writing was her father's!
"Can you _ever_ forgive?" Then he buried his face in his arms and
groaned aloud. The awful disgrace and shame of it seemed more than he
could bear.
Interminable seemed the hours after Louis had left her, walking slowly,
with that strange, grey shadow upon his face, and stooping as if some
unseen burden were crushing him to the earth. She dared not let herself
think. She must wait until she was alone. At last she was free to go to
her room.
Down on her knees she read the passionate farewell words, which made her
heart thrill, so full of tender advice and loving thought for her
comfort. Through streaming tears she looked at the closely written pages
of instructions, so minute that she could not err--and he had disliked
writing so much! This was the weary task which had tried him so! And all
these years she had never known. She had been robbed of her birthright!
Fierce and long the battle raged. When it was ended God heard his child
cry softly, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass
against us."
She had forgiven!