Was I Right? Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  "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 days' visit. You must spare us a week or ten days at least."

  So it was all settled, and Lord Moreton said goodbye to us, for he was to leave town by the early train the next day.

  "Well, papa," said Evelyn, as we drove home in the carriage, "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 Lilla Irvine on the success of her entertainment, and speaking 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 three aunts wrote that they would be delighted to have me, so I went there the day after I had received their letter.

  Maggie was on the railway 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 marvelous escapes, and wonderful preservation in the midst of many and great dangers, which had been vouchsafed to one of our number, during her residence in the land of the infidel and the heretic."

  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. 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 in my old village. Miss Richards was anxious to see us again, and sent me a 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 wrote that she did not think her time on earth would be long. She said that the doctor had told her that she might linger for a few months, but 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 our Lord's presence, where alone is fullness of joy."

  When we arrived we found Miss Richards much altered, weak and fearfully thin, yet still able to go about a little to look after her housekeeping and 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.

  Claude's father, Mr. Ellis, looked careworn and depressed. He was exceedingly kind to us, but he seemed as if a heavy weight was resting on him which he could not shake off.

  While we were in the village, Maggie and I went and peeped through the gate of our old home. 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 flowerbed 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, 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 to be Claude's wife now for the world. You had, indeed, a fortunate escape."

  "I think I told you we met Claude and Alice 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 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 about it when you saw them in Jerusalem. It has come out since. And Claude, you know, has not much money of his own. It would have been a nice little sum yearly if he had been careful. But oh, the demands for payment, my 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. 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 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 doubtful about it, for Claude has so hardened his heart, and has so shut his eyes and refused to believe the truth that I am 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, when I met them in Jerusalem, " I said.

  "Oh yes, they are even more pronounced now," said Miss Richards. "And he has made his poor 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 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 the Parsonage.

  Maggie's aunts were anxious that I should spend another week with them before going back to Alliston Hall, but Evelyn Trafford had written to me saying that Lord Moreton and Howard Stanley were expected on the day that I had already fixed to return, and she hoped that I would 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 and 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 everyone would have assembled, but I found no one there except Howard Stanley. I did not know why it was, but I suddenly turned shy and nervous. After shaking hands with him I was on the point of making an excuse about wanting to go upstairs to get my work, 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 strange," I said, "and he began to doubt a little if you were what you said you were."

  Howard 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."

  "I was sorry to hear of the death of your father," I said.

  "We must not be sorry," he replied gently. "For my father it is great gain, and for me. . ."

  "Fo
r you?" I asked, for he seemed as if he did not like to go on.

  "I ought not to be sorry, ought I?"

  "We are told in Corinthians to be 'sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,'" I said. "Don't you think it is a comfort that the two are put together?"

  "Yes," he said slowly, "I see. Our Heavenly Father does not blame us for being sorry, so long as we do not sorrow as those who 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, because a minute afterwards Sir William entered the room and seemed as cheerful and full of spirits as he had always been while we were travelling together.

  "So you never got my letter," Howard said to Sir William. "I am sorry, but I gave it to a guide whom I knew pretty well, at the Jaffa Gate. He was not a Jerusalem guide, but one who had come with some people from Cairo, and he promised to deliver it at once. He must either have forgotten it, or conveniently lost it, but I'm sure he took care not to lose the baksheesh I gave him at the same time. Well, it does not matter now."

  "Oh, no," said Sir William, "of course not. But that fellow deserves to hear of it again. Tell me, 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 immediately. But I was too distressed to go 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 purchased 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, while Mr. Stanley sat by me and pointed out the different places which we had visited together.

  There was a beautiful view taken from the Mount of Olives, just at the turn of the hill where we had stood to look down on Jerusalem.

  We studied 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 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 Howard Stanley, "without thinking of those words: 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which I had lost.' Do you remember when you said them to me there?"

  "Yes," I said, "that was a very pleasant ride."

  "Are the olive leaves still safe?" he asked.

  "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 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 talk it over together.

  I think this will be one of the pleasures of heaven when we shall often, 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 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 Howard 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 anyone else arrange the flowers there.

  Lord Moreton was anxious to see a new and rare shrub that Sir William had planted at the other side of the gardens, and Evelyn took him to see it.

  Howard 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 tomorrow," 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 annoyed 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 glad you trusted me through it all," he said.

  I was gathering some more lilies, so I did not look up until 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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MONDAY morning's post brought me a letter, written in pencil and almost illegible. I did not recognize the writing, and therefore glanced to the end and was surprised to see the signature -- Alice Ellis.

  Yes, the letter was from Claude's wife. It was a short one. I turned to the beginning, and read as follows:

  My Dear Mrs. Stanley,

  I want to ask a great favour of you. Will you come and see me as soon as you can after you get this letter? I want 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 far from London. It is only about an hour's journey, so I went by the next train. I wondered why Alice Ellis 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 gloomy part of the great city and stopped before a high dismal house, in the midst of a row of high, dismal houses. These houses were 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 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 while she went to tell "the folks upstairs" that I had come.

  The room was shabbily furnished, 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 implied that Mrs. Ellis lived here.

  But how forlorn and dreary everything looked. I was glad when I heard a slipshod footstep 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 top of this high house, and there, lying in bed and looking fearfully ill, I found Claude's wife, Alice.

  She welcomed me 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 he not 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 fello
w," 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 Alice. "She always will have it open. Then I can talk to you comfortably and 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. Claude is so angry about it. He says my father has deceived him, and he is just as vexed as if it was 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 would 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 accounts, and now all Claude's money has gone too. I don't know what will become of us."

  "You cannot stay here," 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 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 was 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 dirty and untidy, but the people 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."