"How is Evelyn this morning?" asked Sir William, anxiously, as I entered the room.
I told him that she had a bad night, and was still in bed.
"Oh dear, oh dear," he said. "I will not tell her today. I think it might upset her still more. I will wait until she is somewhat better."
"Don't you think, Sir William," I ventured to say, "that the suspense of not knowing what is the matter is worse for Evelyn than knowing the truth?"
"Well, perhaps you are right, Miss Lindsay," he said. "I will tell her after breakfast."
"I hope it is no great trouble, Sir William?"
"Well, it is a most unpleasant business," he said. "The fact is, that nephew Donald of mine is a thief. What Evelyn ever saw to admire in him I never could tell. I always knew he was good for nothing but mischief, and he has proved I was right. I will tell you about it, Miss Lindsay, and then you can advise me as to the best way of telling Evelyn."
I listened in silence as he poured out his heart.
"You know my brother was here yesterday," he said. "Poor fellow, he is dreadfully crushed by it. I am sorry for him, although, as I could not help telling him, he has himself to blame for it. He was so weak with that boy. He gave him everything he wanted as a child, and spoiled him, and pampered him, and petted him, and let him order everyone in the house about, and then was foolish enough to expect him, after this, to turn out well and earn his own living.
"But to make a long story short, my brother received a telegram the night before last, telling him that his son had run off from the bank, taking a large sum of money with him. No one knows where he is gone, and of course detectives have been sent off in all directions to catch him. His poor father is completely weighed down with shame and sorrow. If Donald is found, of course he will get a long term of imprisonment. And if he escapes, it is not likely that his friends will ever hear of him again, for he will never dare to return to England."
"Where do they think he has gone?" I asked.
"Probably to Spain," Sir William said, "but we cannot tell. And now, what do you think about my telling Evelyn? I am afraid it will upset her very much."
"Yes," I said, "I am afraid it will. She will feel it dreadfully. But I think it would be better to tell her, for she must know some time, and she will be less able to bear it if she is kept longer in suspense."
"Well," said Sir William, "I believe you are right, Miss Lindsay. I will go upstairs now. It will be better to get it over."
I sat in the library waiting his return, but more than an hour passed before he reappeared. Then he said, "I have told her, Miss Lindsay, and she bore it better than I expected, poor child. Will you go upstairs and try to comfort her a little?"
I went upstairs and found Evelyn still in bed, her face buried in the pillow, crying bitterly. I sat down beside her without speaking for some time, just holding her hand in mine, to show her how much I was feeling for her. What could I say to comfort her? I hardly knew what to say, and perhaps, after all, silent sympathy was the best.
At length she grew calmer, and said, without uncovering her face, "Oh, May, isn't it dreadful?"
"Yes, May," I said, "I am very, very sorry. I had no idea it was anything so dreadful as that."
"No," she said, "and I am sure I had not. The worst that I could think of was that Donald had got badly into debt, and had wasted all his money. I certainly never dreamed that he--"
But here she burst into tears, and could not go on with what she was saying.
"Evelyn," I said, "for your father's sake try not to make yourself ill. He is so fond of you, and so distressed at the thought of what this trouble must be to you."
"Yes," she said through her tears, "papa has been so kind, so very, very kind. He told me that it was because he loved me so much that he could not bear to think of me caring for Donald. Papa says he always thought that Donald was good for nothing. But he seemed so nice, May, so very nice he was to me. I knew he was foolish and careless, but I never thought he could do a wicked thing like that."
Evelyn had stopped crying now, and could talk quite calmly.
"Do you remember, May," she said, "when Donald was here last, something that he said to you and to me about running away?"
"Yes," I said, "I remember it well. He mentioned it twice when I was in the room."
"Yes," she said, "so he did. Oh, May, could he have been thinking of taking the money then?"
"I don't know," I said. "We must hope not. We must hope that he yielded to a sudden temptation, and that he has been sorry for it ever since."
"No, May, I am afraid not," said Evelyn. "I seem to see Donald in quite a different light from what I did before -- more as papa has been seeing him all the time. I'm afraid papa was right about him, May, and I was wrong. Ah, poor, poor Donald."
I held Evelyn's hand tightly as she spoke.
"Will you ring for Clemence, May?" she said, a few minutes after this. "I wish to get up. I shall feel better if I'm dressed and in the other room."
But the other room made little difference to poor Evelyn's spirits. She tried to work, she tried to read, she tried to write, but all were alike impossible. Her thoughts were ever busy with her trouble, and every attempt to divert them was in vain.
As the day went on Evelyn talked much more, and it seemed a relief to her to tell me everything that her father had told her that morning.
"May," she said, "did papa tell you about the ring?"
"No," I said, "he only told me in a few words what was the matter, so that I would be able to tell him whether I thought it was better to tell you at once, or to wait until tomorrow."
"Oh, I'm so glad you asked him to tell me today," said Evelyn. "It would have been dreadful to have waited all that time, and not to have known what the matter was. But I want to tell you about the ring. As soon as he received the telegram, Uncle Edward went to London to hear all he could about Donald's disappearance. He went, among other places, to Donald's lodgings and looked about the room and turned over all his papers to see if he had left any note behind him.
"Uncle Edward found a quantity of demands for payment, most of them unopened, and all of them unpaid. Among them was one from a London jeweller for a diamond ring. When he saw the price, Uncle Edward couldn't imagine why Donald had bought such an expensive item, and said it would be a heavy sum to pay, for he means to pay as many of the tradesmen as he can.
"So then papa told him the story of the ring, and gave it back to him to return it to the jeweller instead of paying the bill. Uncle Edward was annoyed that Donald should have treated papa so badly, after papa's kindness to him, for he would never have got that good place in the bank if it had not been for papa."
Oh, how I wondered if this was the opportunity for which I had been praying so long, the opportunity of speaking to my Evelyn about eternal things, and leading her to the Saviour. I hoped it was, and I turned the hope into an earnest prayer that I would have the wisdom to follow as God should lead, to step into the door as soon as ever His hand opened it.
Once or twice I thought of speaking, but then again I felt perhaps that until the first burst of her sorrow was over it was wiser to be silent. I would, however, continue to pray for the Lord's leading.
Chapter Eleven
THE NEXT morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on the library table, my eyes caught the words:
ELLIS -- FITZGERALD
It was an announcement of Claude and Alice's marriage. It was wonderful to me how calmly and composedly I could read it. That trouble was a thing of the past. I had to admit to myself that there had been times, soon after writing my letter to him, when I had wondered whether I had been right in rejecting Claude.
I could rejoice now that 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 circumstances which, a year ago, I had thought would be so bright. I took the newspaper with me when I went to Evelyn's roo
m and pointed to the marriage notice. 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?" 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 don't think I would like to marry him myself. Now, would you, May?"
"No," I said, 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, "very well."
"I don't at all agree with her," said Evelyn. "I can't laugh when I'm in trouble. It would be of no use trying. I couldn't laugh today. If I tried to laugh I would begin to cry."
"And even if you could laugh, Evelyn," 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 would be able to use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and step inside the door which at last seemed to be opened.
"But why can't you pray?" I asked.
"Well, May, I will tell you why," she said. "I've wanted to talk to you about it so very much, only I didn't like to begin. You see, I've 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 people who are so poor. So what do you think I did? I thought I'd like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it."
"Which one was it that you read?" I asked.
"It was about the prodigal son. Don't you remember that one?"
"No," I said, "I've not read them all, but I know the story well. Jesus told it as a parable. Was it an interesting one?"
"This was a very different story," Evelyn said. "It made it clear about prayer, and I've been thinking about it often since."
"Will you tell me what you read?" I asked.
"This story pictured the prodigal son," said Evelyn, "going home after he had treated his poor father so badly, and saying, 'Please, father, I want a new coat!' and 'Please, father, give me some new shoes!' and, '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 wouldn't have done for the son to come before his father without first saying, '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 is just the same now, because so many people go to God and ask Him for all sorts of things when they get into trouble, and yet they never think 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 knew until now how bad I have 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, but I thought that there was not so much wrong with me. But now I see that I'm bad altogether. I don't think that I have ever done anything good at all."
"Why don't you go and tell God about it, Evelyn, just as you've been telling me? You can use the words 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 plain and simple for me -- as you would for a small child. I'm so afraid of making a mistake."
Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I would also make no mistake, but would 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 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 was lost to God. Now, why was there this difference? Did you ever think why 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, "the book I was reading puts it in this way. Both thieves deserved to be lost for eternity 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."
"Yes," she said, "I see that."
"But now let's 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, there 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, "Jesus never sinned. He was absolutely holy."
"But was there sin on Him?" I said.
"Was there, May?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "Don't you remember the Bible says? 'The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' It wasn't His own sin that was resting on Jesus, 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. Until 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.
"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 onto 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 until 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. They are free, no longer under the condemnation of God. 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," Evelyn said, "I know that hymn. I
do wish I could do it, May."
"You are going to do it this morning, Evelyn," I said.
"Oh, May, do you think I can?" she asked anxiously.
"I'm sure of it. Jesus is longing for you to cast your sin upon Him. He asks you to look at Him as the One who died instead of you, to look at Him as the One who was punished in your place. Evelyn, He wants you to come to Him now and receive forgiveness."
"Oh, May, I would 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 until 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 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 ask me questions about anything which she did not understand.
I shall never forget that summer. It was a peaceful and happy one. I had every reason to believe that Evelyn's heart was indeed changed. Everyone noticed the difference in her, and many who did not understand 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 was Miss Lilla 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 talk with her about heavenly things.
Day by day Evelyn grew in grace. 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 her maid, 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.