Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
AT THE MANOR HOUSE.
WAS I RIGHT?
BY
MRS. O. F. WALTON
AUTHOR OF
"Christie's Old Organ," "Peep Behind the Scenes," "Saved at Sea,"
ETC.
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
[IX. WAS THE PROMISE BINDING?]
WAS I RIGHT?
[CHAPTER I.]
THE TWO LETTERS.
IT has often seemed very strange to me, that in moments of great anxiety or trouble, when our minds and our hearts are stretched to the uttermost, we notice with the keenest perception every little object around us. Each moving leaf, each nodding flower, catches our attention, and, years afterwards, we can remember, as distinctly as if it were yesterday, how everything looked in those sorrowful moments, when our minds were filled with thoughts of things and people far away.
There is one day in my life, which stands out from amongst the past as a day above all others to be remembered by me. And, as I look back to it, I see myself a girl of nineteen, sitting at my bedroom window, lost in thought and perplexity! I can see the garden just as it looked as I gazed out into it that afternoon—our quaint, old-fashioned garden, with its hedge of laurel bushes, and the large elm trees at the end of it, with the flickering light and shade underneath. I can see the rabbits from the plantations round, nibbling the grass on the lawn; and I can hear the trickling of the stream, which ran by the side of the house, in which Claude, and Maggie, and I used to float our boats, in the happy days when we were children. And now the old home must be left for ever, for Maggie and I had not a penny in the world!
Our father had been the doctor in the village. It was a very poor place, and the people had never any money to spare. My father was too kind-hearted to press for payment, when he saw how hard it was for them to live; and so the years went by, and although his practice was large, he saved very little money. But even this small amount never came to us, for just before his death, the bank in which it was placed suddenly failed, and so, when he was gone, Maggie and I were penniless!
Maggie was much younger than I was; she was my half-sister, and her mother died three weeks after she was born. She committed her little baby to me, when she knew that she must leave it; and from that day I became, as far as I was able, a mother to Maggie. I was a very little mother, for I was only seven years old; but a feeling of great responsibility and trust came over me, as I left the room where my stepmother was dying. I crept up to the nursery, and stroked the baby's face very gently, and felt as if she belonged to me from that moment.
And now, Maggie and I were left without a penny in the world. For Maggie it was not of so much consequence. A letter had come from her old maiden aunts, her mother's sisters, to insist upon her going at once to live with them in the old Manor House at Brandon. Maggie would be happy, and cared for there; that was a great relief to my mind. Poverty and hardship would not cross the path of my little sister, and I was more than content that it should be so. But there was no such home in prospect for me. Maggie's aunts were, of course, not related to me, and my mother had been a friendless orphan, so I had no one to take compassion on me. Separated from the old home, separated from Maggie, life looked very cheerless to me in prospect.
My mind was full of trouble and of perplexity, for on the table before me lay two letters, which must be answered before evening, and upon the answer to these letters would hang all my future life.
I sat at my bedroom window, not knowing what to do. The clock ticked on, the hands were moving round, and my letters were still unanswered.
It was then, that, as I gazed into the garden, every tiny object was imprinted on my mind. And I can remember that, as I was sitting there, the sun went behind a bank of heavy clouds, and all was gloomy and dismal in a moment. The rabbits ran back to their holes, the sunbeams fled from the lawn, the wind whistled drearily in the chimneys of the old house, and flapped the branches of the climbing rose-tree against my bedroom window. It seemed to me then very like the cloud which had come across my hitherto happy life. And now, what was before me? Joy or sorrow?
It appeared to be left with me to decide. The two letters must be answered. The first of these was from an old governess of ours, a kind, good woman. I had written to tell her of my difficulties, and she wrote to advise me to apply for a situation as companion to a young lady of fortune, in answer to an advertisement which had just appeared in the "Times" newspaper. A fair salary was promised, and all expenses of travelling would be defrayed.
That was one of the letters which I had to answer. That was one path of life which lay before me. It did not seem very bright in prospect. The position of a poor companion in a large household was certainly not one which I should have chosen for myself.
I had said "Oh no!" instinctively, when I had first read the advertisement which Miss Morley enclosed. And yet, the more I thought of it, the more I felt that perhaps I ought to apply for the situation. It was clear that I must work for my living, in some way; I disliked teaching, so I felt that I was not fit to be a governess; perhaps, after all, this would be the very place for me.
And yet, and yet, my heart shrank back from what might be the path of duty.
For there was another letter on the table; another, and a very different letter. And this letter must be answered before I could at all decide about Miss Morley's proposal. I had read it so often during the day, that I knew every word of it. And now I must take up my pen and answer it. It opened out to me another path of life, a very different path from the former—a path which seemed as bright as the other was shady.
And yet, ought I to take it? Was it right for me to choose this path? Should I indeed be happy if I decided upon it? Would it be really bright, really peaceful? What course should I take? What answer should I give?
The letter was from Claude Ellis, my old playfellow and friend. He was the son of the clergyman of the village, his only child. Claude had no companions at home, and therefore when we were children we went, day by day, to the Parsonage, or Claude came to us, and we played together between the hours for lessons. Maggie was too small to join in our games, but she would sit on the grass near us, gathering daisies, and watching us as we floated our boats in the little stream, or ran races on the lawn. And then we grew older, and Claude was sent to school, but always in the holidays our old friendship was renewed, and we walked together, read together, and played together as before.
But soon school days passed by, and Claude went to Oxford. I remember so well the day on which he came to say "Good-bye" to us before leaving home. He looked very handsome, and was full of spirits, and was so much looking forward to his college life.
Maggie and I walked to the garden gate with him when he went away. And we talked of the time when he would come home again, and we should spend our days together as we had always done in the holidays. Then he went out, and the gate closed after him, and Maggie and I watched him down the road, and she waved her handkerchief to him till he was out of sight. And then we went back to the house, and I counted how many weeks must pass before the term would be ended, and Claude would be with us again.
But a very short time after, Mr. Ellis, Claude's father, was taken ill, and the doctor ordered him to go abroad for the winter. So Claude spent his Christmas vacation at Mentone instead of at home. And then we looked forward to Midsummer.
But Claude did not return home until the greater part of the long vacation was over. He was in Cornwall with a reading party, and did not come to the Parsonage until about three weeks before his return to Oxford. And so it came to pass, that Claude Ellis and I had not met for nearly a year.
"Claude is at home," said my father, one morning at breakfast.
"Oh, is he?" said little Maggie. "How nice!"
And I was very pleased also. I expected to see exactly the same Claude as I had parted from at the garden gate, a year ago; and I thought that all would go on just as it had done when he was a boy at school, and came home for the holidays.
So when I saw him coming up the road, I ran into the garden to meet him.
"Oh, Claude, I am glad to see you!" I cried, as soon as he opened the gate. And then, in a moment, I stopped short, and went up to him quite quietly, and giving him my hand, said in a very different voice: "How do you do, Claude; when did you come home?"
For in a moment it flashed across me that Claude Ellis and I were not the same as we were when we had parted at that very gate a year ago. We were both older than we were then; our childhood was a thing of the past. Claude and I had grown out of the boy and girl into the young man and woman since we had last met. All this flashed across me in a moment, as I noticed the difference in Claude's dress, manners, and appearance, as he came in at the gate. And a chill came over me as I noticed it, and I wished that I had not run to meet him quite so eagerly.
And yet, when he began to talk, I felt that he was in many ways the same Claude still, the same, but changed.
Was he changed for the better? In many ways he was. He was more manly, and more gentleman-like, and had much to tell us of his college friends, and college life, which made him a more amusing and pleasant companion than before.
And yet, there was another change in Claude, which I could not help noticing, in spite of my efforts not to do so. Claude Ellis was more of a man, more of a gentleman; but he was, yes, he certainly was, though I tried to persuade myself to the contrary, less of a Christian.
Before Claude went to college, we had often talked together of the Bible, and he had explained to me many things which I did not understand. We used sometimes to sit on the garden seat on Sunday afternoons, and read a chapter together; and Claude used to talk so nicely about it, and I thought he loved the Lord Jesus, and wished to serve Him. He often spoke of the time when he would be old enough to be ordained, and when I should come to his church and hear him preach; and he told me what his first text would be, and how he had already written some pages of his first sermon.
But after Claude's return I noticed a change in him. At first, he always avoided any mention of religious subjects, and when, either in his own home or ours, any allusion was made to them, he quickly turned the conversation to some other topic.
I tried, for some days, to fancy that it was not because Claude had ceased to care for what he had loved before, but rather that his feelings had grown so much deeper and truer, that he felt things divine too sacred to be talked about. But before the vacation was over, I was obliged to admit to myself, however unwilling I was to believe it, that Claude's views and opinions were quite changed about religious matters; that he had begun to doubt what he had before received with childlike faith; that he had begun to despise and hold in contempt that which from his mother's knee he had learnt to love and reverence.
"Oh, you have never been to Oxford, May," he said, rather contemptuously one day, when I was trying to prove something to him from the Bible. "You should read some books, which were lent to me by a man on my staircase. We are behind the times in this little, out-of-the-way place; the world is growing very clever and learned, and there are many things which we have always taken for granted about which there is really great doubt and uncertainty."
"What things, Claude?" I said. "You do not surely mean—"
"I mean parts of the Bible, May, and doctrines which are supposed to be proved from the Bible. But what is the use of talking about it to you? I don't want to unsettle your mind. If you like to believe it, and if it makes you happy, go on believing it, and be glad that you haven't read the books I have read."
"But you, Claude?" I said, sorrowfully.
"Oh, never mind about me, May, I am all right; I am a little wiser than you, that is all!"
"Are you happier, Claude?" I ventured to ask.
"Oh, I don't know, May; I don't think happiness, which is based on a delusion, is much worth having."
"Oh, Claude," I said, "it makes me wretched to hear you talk like that."
"Then talk about something else, May," he said gaily; "you began the subject, not I."
"But, Claude—"
"Now, that will do, May!" he said impatiently. "We don't think alike about these subjects, simply because I know a great deal more about them than I did before I went away, or than you do now; so let the matter drop."
I was very unhappy after this conversation with Claude. He gave me no opportunity of renewing it; but though he had not explained to me any of his doubts, he had left an uneasy, troubled feeling on my mind, a feeling which I could not shake off.
When I went upstairs to bed that night, I sat down to think over what Claude had said. What if, after all, I was resting upon a delusion, building my happiness upon an unreality? What if, after all, my faith was in vain, my hope unfounded?
Horrible doubts, such as I had never known before, came crowding into my mind. "Are these things so?" was the oft-repeated question of my heart. It was a sad awakening from the trust and implicit confidence of childhood; an awakening which, perhaps, comes to every thoughtful mind, when its faith is brought into contact, for the first time, with the intellect of this world; an awakening which leads us either into the terrible region of doubt and uncertainty, or into faith, far firmer than ever before, because based, not on mere childish impressions, but on the words and the being of the eternal God.
In this state of perplexity I went to my bedroom window and looked out. It was a bright, starlight night, so I put out my candle, and sat by the window, gazing into the sky at the countless multitude of stars.
Who had made all these mighty worlds? Who was keeping them all in their places, and making them fulfil the object for which they were created?
I knew who it was; my faith in the existence of an Almighty God remained unshaken. I could never look around me on God's universe and doubt that God was.
And then, as I looked at the stars, other thoughts came—thoughts of the majesty and wisdom and power of the God who had made all these; thoughts, too, of the smallness and insignificance of our own little world—in comparison with the rest of God's great universe a mere speck in space.
And I—what was I?
Only one of the beings which inhabited this tiny world; one of the smallest and least wise of all in God's universe! Who was I, that I should say to God, "Why doest Thou this?" Who was I, that I should presume to sit in judgment on anything in God's revelation?
"His wisdom is unsearchable, His ways past finding out," was the language of my heart. I am but a little child,—how can I understand God's plans? I know so little, I understand so little, I see such a little way, either before me or behind me. How can I, then, expect to understand that which is understood fully only by God Himself?
A feeling of my utter nothingness and insignificance in God's sight came over me so powerfully that I was almost crushed by it. Who was I—what was I, that I should dare to doubt what God had in wonderful condescension revealed to me, because of the vast amount of knowledge which was too wonderful for me; so high that I could not attain unto it?
"O Lord," I said, as I looked up into the sky, "I will be content to be a little child, receiving Thy Word with childlike faith, and what my mind is too weak and small to understand fully, I will yet believe, because Thou hast told me, and because Thy Word must be true."
And even as I said the words, this verse came into my mind:
"Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
Then the day was coming when, in another world, my mind would be strengthened to understand these difficult matters which were now perplexing me—these things which I only knew in part, and which, for this very reason, just because I only knew a part of them, seemed to me so perplexing and mysterious.
And then there was another thought which comforted me perhaps more than anything else, and it was this: I had proved the Bible to be true myself. I knew it was the Word of the God of truth by my own experience. I had prayed, and had received many an answer to my prayers. I had pleaded the promises, and had found them more than fulfilled to me in every hour of need. I had fallen back upon the grand old truths of the Bible in many a time of trouble, and had never found them fail me.
A hundred books, written by the cleverest men on earth, could not convince me that the Bible was a mere human production; for I had found in it what I had found in no other book—peace for a troubled conscience, comfort in sorrow, victory over sin.
I lay down to sleep that night reassured and comforted, and with my doubts entirely removed, and I do not remember that they ever returned to me.
But Claude, what could I do for him? I could do nothing but pray for him, for he never gave me an opportunity of speaking to him again about what had so troubled me.
His college days passed by, and every vacation that he was at home he came frequently to see us, and each time he came I felt more persuaded that his new views had not improved his character. He had occasionally an imperious and dictatorial manner, such as he had never had before, and he looked restless and dissatisfied, as if something was preying on his mind.
And yet Claude was very kind to us, to Maggie and to me. He never came home without bringing us some little present, and he never seemed tired of our company.
[CHAPTER II.]
MY CHOICE.
ONE day, about six weeks before the time at which my little story commences, I had been spending the day at the Parsonage. I did not often go there now, but Claude was away, and his aunt, Miss Richards, who had lived there since Claude's mother died, invited me to spend the afternoon with her. Claude had just left Oxford, and was staying for a few weeks with some friends in Scotland, before settling down at home.
After dinner Miss Richards and I took our work into the little summer-house, and sat there until the evening. We talked on various subjects, the village, the people round, Mr. Ellis's health, and of many other things. And then we talked of Claude.
"It will be very pleasant to have Claude at home," said Miss Richards; "the house is so dull when he is away."
"Yes," I said, "you must miss him very much, Miss Richards, but I suppose he will not be at home very long; when is he to be ordained?"
She did not answer me at once, and when I looked up, I saw that her face was very troubled and sorrowful, as she bent over her work.
"Claude will not be ordained, May," she said at length; "I think that is quite decided now."
"Why not, Miss Richards?" I asked in astonishment. "I thought that had been settled years ago, when Claude was a little boy."
"It was only settled conditionally, May," she said. "Claude was to go into the ministry if it was his own wish to do so; his father would never press him into such work, if he did not feel drawn to it himself."
"And Claude does not feel drawn to it?" I asked.
"Oh no, he has written to his father most decidedly, giving up all idea of becoming a clergyman, and expressing his wish to study for the bar."
"Is Mr. Ellis very disappointed, Miss Richards?" I said.
"Of course he is disappointed in one way, May, for he has made a great effort to give Claude a University education, in order to make him more fit for his work as a minister; but at the same time, he quite sees that with Claude's peculiar ideas (you know what I mean, May, those new views he has taken up at Oxford) his ordination is, at least for the present, out of the question."
I made no answer, but went on diligently with my work.
"Claude has been a great expense to his father," Miss Richards went on; "he has cost him many hundreds at Oxford, and bills are still coming in. He is young yet, you see, and I suppose all young men are extravagant. But it is a great pity that he let the bills run on for so long; some go as far back as his first term."
"What does Claude say about it?" I asked.
"Oh, he is always very much troubled when the bills come, for he sees that his father has not any money to spare, and he talks about the time when he will have money of his own at his uncle Charles's death, and when he will be able to repay all his father has advanced for him. And then he is quite certain that the tradesmen must have added a great deal which he never bought. But it is so long ago, May, nearly four years, so, of course, he cannot be sure of it."
"I am very, very sorry," I said.
"Yes, and so are we," said Miss Richards; "but that anxiety is nothing to the other. Mr. Ellis would not mind how much money he had to pay, if only Claude had not taken up such rationalistic, infidel ideas."
"Does he still hold those views?" I asked. "He spoke to me once about them, a long time ago, but I have heard nothing of it since. I hoped Claude had studied the other side of the question, and had grown wiser."
"Oh, my dear," said Miss Richards, "he seems to me to get worse and worse. At first it was only some small parts of the Bible which he cavilled at, and which he maintained were not inspired; but when he once began to doubt, there was no knowing where he would stop doubting—he carried the same spirit of critical suspicion into everything."
"But surely there are books written which would in a great measure answer Claude's doubts?" I suggested.
"Yes, undoubtedly," said Miss Richards; "but it seems to me Claude prefers doubting, for he does not seem at all anxious to have his doubts cleared away. He does not want to have his mind satisfied, and so he either does not read books on the other side at all; or, if he reads them, he does so fully determined that his scepticism cannot be, and indeed must not be shaken. If Claude would only prayerfully desire, and prayerfully strive to have his doubts removed, I should have no fear about him."
"I am so very sorry, Miss Richards," I said again.
"Yes, May, and so am I," said she. "I assure you that when I went upstairs into Claude's bedroom, when he was last at home, and found at the bottom of his box a number of his favourite books (the very names of some of which made me shudder), I sat down on a chair in his room, and had a good cry. I could not help it, May dear. For I thought of the little, trustful face, which used to be lifted to mine years ago, when I told him, for the first time, the beautiful stories out of the Book he now despises and scoffs at. I thought of the little voice which used to say the evening prayer at my knee, and which used, on Sundays, to repeat hymns and texts to me in this very summer-house. And then I thought of the small, black Bible, which, when he grew older, used always to be laid beside his pillow, that he might be able to read it as soon as it was light in the morning. I could see plenty of other books in Claude's room, May, but no Bible! I could not help going downstairs and bringing a Bible up to lay on the dressing-table, in case he might see and read it. Though, of course, it would do him no good, unless he came to it in a teachable spirit," she added, with a sigh.
"But I have not lost hope for Claude yet," said Miss Richards, after a pause. "I believe that when he is older he will be wiser in many ways. And May," she said, "my great hope for Claude lies in you; you have more influence with him than any one has."
"I? Oh no, Miss Richards; you are quite wrong there," I said. "He will never even speak to me on the subject."
"No, perhaps not," said Miss Richards; "but your quiet, gentle, loving influence must have its effect in time."
"But, Miss Richards, you are quite mistaken in supposing that I have any influence with Claude. I know when we were children together, and were like brother and sister to each other, I may have had some power over him, but it is quite different now."
"You have tenfold more influence with Claude now than you had then, May," she said quietly; "to give you pleasure is the greatest joy of his life, to grieve you is his greatest pain."
I felt my face growing very crimson as Miss Richards said this. She had put into words a fear which had been hidden away in my heart for some months—a fear that I had never dared, even in my own heart, to put into words—a fear that I was becoming more to Claude than a mere sister, and that he had plans and views for our future, his future and mine, which I could not, which I ought not, to entertain for a moment. And, because of this undefined fear, I had kept away from the Parsonage as much as possible during the vacations, and I had avoided Claude as much as our old friendship would allow me, until sometimes my conscience had accused me of rudeness and unkindness.
But, after all, I had hoped it was but a fear. Claude loved me, it was true, I argued to myself, and liked to bring me presents, and to give me pleasure; but then it was only natural that he should do so, when we had been brought up together, and learnt together, and played together, and had had every thought and scheme in common. It was nothing more than that. So I had argued with myself. But Miss Richards's words had revived my old fear, and increased it a hundredfold.
I was very glad when, a minute or two afterwards, the village clock struck five, and I could make an excuse to leave.
Miss Richards had evidently noticed my embarrassment, for she said kindly, as she wished me good-bye:
"I hope I have not troubled you, May dear, but my heart is so full of anxiety about Claude just now, that I have spoken perhaps more strongly than I ought to have done."
I went home very perplexed and troubled, but the next day my thoughts were turned into an entirely fresh channel by the sudden illness of my dear father. I will not dwell upon the sad time which followed those days and nights of alternate hope and fear, and then the close to our watching, and the terrible realisation that Maggie and I were amongst the number of the fatherless children, prayed for, Sunday after Sunday, in the Litany.
Miss Richards was very kind to me during that time of trouble, giving me advice and help as I needed them, and relieving me greatly from the sense of heavy responsibility which rested on me.
Claude was still from home, but he wrote a kind little note of sympathy to me, when he heard of my father's death. He said he was very sorry that he was away at the time; had he been at home he would have done all in his power to save me any unnecessary care and anxiety in my time of sorrow.
I tried to hope that this was only brotherly sympathy and kindness, such as Claude had always shown me from childhood. I answered the letter by a short note, thanking him for his kind expression of sympathy, and telling him a little of our future plans—how Maggie was going to live with her aunts in the old Manor House at Branston, and how I hoped very soon to obtain a situation as governess or companion, where I could earn enough money to keep me in comfort and independence. By return of post came a second letter from Claude. I almost trembled when I saw his handwriting on the envelope; I had not intended to open a correspondence with him. And when I took the letter from the envelope, and saw its length, I was still more troubled and afraid. Then I read the letter, and when I had read it once, I read it again, and yet again. And now this letter lay on the table before me, still unanswered, and post-time was drawing nearer and nearer. I looked at it once more, although I knew almost every word of it already.
Claude began by stating his utter disapproval of my scheme of obtaining a situation as companion or governess. I was not fitted for it, and he would never allow it to be carried out. And then he went on to tell me that he had far different plans for my future—plans which had mingled with his boyish dreams, and which had been for years the one idea of his life.
And then he told me how he loved me, how there was no one on earth that he had ever cared for except myself, and how he felt that the time had now come to make me his wife, and to take me to a home of my own, where I should be taken care of, and cherished, and loved, more than any wife had ever been before. He said it was hard for him to put into a letter all the feelings of his heart. He had never planned to tell me all this by writing, but he felt compelled to write off at once, as soon as he received my letter, and the more so as, by a curious coincidence, by the very same post he had heard of the sudden death of his uncle Charles, who had left him a large sum of money, quite sufficient, Claude said, to enable him to marry, and to take me to a comfortable home.
At the end of the week, he said, he hoped to be with me, but he could not wait till then to tell me all this, for he feared that I should in the meantime be answering some dreadful advertisement, and be making another and a very different engagement. He concluded by urging me to write by return of post, as he longed to know that the whole matter was finally settled and arranged.
The more I read this letter, the more persuaded I felt that Claude never, for a single moment, entertained the possibility of my refusing him; he seemed to look upon it as a matter of certainty that I should be only too glad to do as he asked me. He was evidently utterly unprepared for anything but an immediate and hearty acceptance of his offer.
And now what answer should I give? I pressed my throbbing temples, and tried to think the matter over calmly and deliberately.
Did I love Claude Ellis? Yes, undoubtedly I loved him very much indeed; not in the same way, it is true, as I had imagined that I should love the one who was to become my husband, but still I loved him very warmly, us a sister loves a dear brother who has been everything to her since she was a little child. And surely a different kind of love for Claude might, and probably would, come in my heart after we were engaged.
And although Claude was certainly not at all like the husband that I had pictured to myself in the days long ago, when I was foolish enough to indulge in day-dreams, and although even now, at times, I longed, oh, how much! for some one to lean on—some one very wise, very good, very true, and infinitely better in every way than I was; and I had never pictured Claude to myself as the one who was to be all this to me; yet still he would be a kind, loving husband, and I might be very happy if I were his wife.
And I was so fond of Claude that I felt it would make me very miserable to feel that there was any estrangement or coldness between us, as there undoubtedly would be if I refused to be his wife. Our old friendship, which had lasted so long, would practically end, and when we met we should feel restrained and uncomfortable in each other's presence. I could not bear to think that such would be the case.
And then Miss Richards—how anxious she evidently was that I should use my influence with Claude! What would she say if I were to refuse him? How strange she would think it! How grieved and disappointed she would be!
And yet, with the thought of Miss Richards came the recollection of what she had told me of Claude, as we sat together in the arbour. Should I be happy with one as my husband who scorned the Book I loved best on earth, who slighted and neglected the Friend who was to me the chiefest among ten thousand?
Should I be happy with no family prayer in my household, with no reading of the Word of God, and with religious topics for ever banished, because husband and wife thought so differently about them? Would the love between us be perfect, the confidence unsullied, when there was one subject—and that one the subject nearest to my heart—on which we had no communion; one Name, and that one the Name above every name, which neither of us ever mentioned to each other? Should I be really happy, really contented with such a state of things?
And then came another question. Even supposing I should be happy, was it right for me to accept Claude's offer? Was it right in God's sight for me to marry one who was not a Christian? I knew there was a text somewhere in the Epistle to the Corinthians which spoke on this point. I opened my Bible and looked for it, and I found it in 2 Corinthians vi. 14:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?"
It was a very clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. For in the first place, I reasoned, Claude was not a heathen as these Corinthians were. He did not worship gods of wood and stone. He was looked upon as a Christian, and lived and had been brought up in a Christian family. But the word unbeliever, conscience answered, surely includes every one that is not a believer.
Was Claude a believer? Could I honestly say that he was a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would Claude himself like to be thought a believer? Could I from my heart say that I thought Claude was safe in Christ, resting his soul on Christ for salvation? No, I was obliged sorrowfully to admit to myself that such was not the case. But then, I argued, I am not perfect. Oh, how cold and indifferent I am at times! How full of carelessness, and pride, and every kind of sin! Who am I, that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who am I, that I should say Claude is not good enough for me?
And yet the line of distinction in the text was evidently drawn, not between perfect people and imperfect people, but between believers and unbelievers. Was I then a believer? That was the question: was I in deed and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?
I dared not say that I was not, for even as I asked myself the question, a day years ago came back to my mind, a day when Mr. Ellis had been giving us a Bible lesson and had spoken to us very solemnly about coming to Christ for ourselves, and that at once.
I remembered how anxious and serious I had felt as I left the Bible class, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where I was now sitting. I remembered how I had closed the door behind me, and had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on Jesus, and had looked to Him by faith as my own Saviour. I remembered how all my sins had risen up before me that day as they had never done before; and how, one by one, I had taken them to Christ to be atoned for and forgiven.
And then I remembered the peace which had followed, and how, for days afterwards, life had been entirely new to me, and my thoughts, and feelings, and wishes had been entirely different from what they were before. And since that time, though I had very often grown careless and indifferent, still I had never been happy when I was not walking closely with God, and I had always longed at such times to be back in the sunshine and light of His presence again. So then it seemed as if the command in the text did apply to me.
But surely if I married Claude, I might use my influence with him for good. He loved me very much, and, as Miss Richards had said, I had more influence with him than any one had.
Was it right for me to throw away this opportunity of doing good? Was there not a text which said that husbands, "who obey not the Word," might yet, without the Word, be "won by the conversation of their wives?" And did not St. Paul say, "What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?" Surely these verses justified me in thinking that if I married Claude, he might, through my influence, become a Christian.
And yet when I turned to these passages, and read the context, I saw that they clearly referred to those wives who were converted after their marriage—that such were told not to leave their unbelieving husbands, but to remain in that state in which they were called, and to such, and to such alone, the promise about being the means of saving their husbands applied. It had evidently nothing whatever to do with those who were converted whilst they were still unmarried, nor did it, in the very slightest degree, overthrow the clear command I had just read:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers—"
A command which applied to the unmarried believers, as plainly as the command in the first Epistle applied to the married ones.
And, when I began to think the matter over, with a more unbiased mind, I was driven to the conclusion that Claude was far more likely to lead me away from Christ than I was to lead him to become a believer. For surely if I had not enough influence now to persuade him to love better things—now, when he was so anxious to win my favour,—surely afterwards, when he felt certain of my love, he would not be more likely to be led in an entirely different direction. Surely I should become worse, and Claude would become no better. I should be less of a believer, and he would remain still an unbeliever.
To do evil, that good may possibly come, is entirely opposed to the whole teaching of the New Testament; nowhere is the faintest hope held out that such a course will result in good. And I could undoubtedly expect no blessing from God on my endeavours to lead Claude aright if I had acted in the face of God's command and had gone in direct opposition to His clear injunction:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."
And so I felt, when I had thought the whole matter carefully over, that it came to this:
Was I willing to shut Christ out from the first place in my heart, and put Claude there instead? Or, on the other hand, was I willing to give up Claude, and hold all the closer and firmer to Him who had for years been my hope and my refuge?
Christ's love or Claude's! Which should I choose? I could not have both, for I felt that to have both was impossible. Choosing Christ, I should offend Claude; choosing Claude, I should forfeit the love and the favour of Christ. Christ or Claude—which?
A verse, which I had learned as a child, came suddenly into my mind, and looking up to the sky above me, in which the sun was once more shining, I repeated it aloud, for it seemed exactly to express the earnest cry of my soul:
"My heart is fixed, O God,
Fixed on Thee;
And my eternal choice is made,
Christ for me."
Christ for me. Christ's smile, Christ's favour, Christ's blessing; these are my choice. Whatever it costs me, I cannot, I will not, give them up.
I knelt down, and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing me the clear, the sure, the right way for me to take. And then I took up my pen to answer Claude's letter.
[CHAPTER III.]
WAS I WRONG?
IT was not an easy task to answer that letter, for I did not wish to wound Claude or to pain him, and I felt sure he would be so utterly unprepared for what I felt obliged to say.
Lest I should in any way raise his hopes, I began at once by telling him how difficult I felt it to write, and how much it cost me to tell him that what he had asked me to do in his letter was quite impossible. I thanked him for all his love for me, and for the kind way in which he had spoken of me; but I made it as clear as possible that, though I hoped always to remain his friend and sister, yet I could not be his wife.
I did not tell him my exact reason for refusing him, for I felt that Claude would not in the least degree understand it; but I told him that my mind was fully made up, and I begged him at once to dismiss the idea of it from his own mind. I tried to write very decidedly and yet very kindly, and with the remembrance of our old friendship and love vividly impressed on my mind.
I ended by expressing my sorrow for giving him pain, and my earnest hope for his future happiness. I begged him to let no coldness and estrangement come between us on account of this, but to let our old friendship be strengthened and increased rather than weakened and lessened.
I was not at all satisfied with this letter when it was finished, but there was no time to rewrite it, for post-time was close at hand, and the advertisement in the "Times" newspaper must be answered at once, or I should lose the situation.
When both the letters were gone, I tried to dismiss the subject from my mind, and when it came back to me, I endeavoured to turn my tired thoughts into prayer, and in this way found comfort and relief.
The following afternoon, as I was writing letters in the little schoolroom, which was the next room to my bedroom, and the window of which also looked out over the garden to the hills beyond, I heard a hasty step on the stairs.
Maggie was spending the day with a playfellow of hers in the village, and it was not Maggie's step. No, I knew the step well, and my heart beat fast, and I felt myself growing paler and paler every moment.
The door opened, and Claude entered without any ceremony. He looked tired and troubled, and his clothes were covered with dust from his long journey.
"May," he said, "I got your letter this morning, and I have come off at once. The Fitzgeralds thought I was mad, I believe; I started up from the breakfast-table and said I must catch the nine o'clock train. But I could not have waited another day; it would have been utterly impossible, May."
I tried to speak, but my heart was beating so quickly now that my words seemed as if they would choke me.
"And now, May," Claude said, hurriedly, sitting down by my side and taking my hand, "I want you to tell me what you meant by that cruel letter you sent me; or, rather, I want you to tell me that it was all a mistake, all a delusion, that you have thought better of it since, and that you wish you had never written it. I want you to tell me, May, darling," he said in a lower voice, "that the dream of my life is to be changed into a reality this very week. I want you to tell me that the bright days which I have always said were in store for us both are now close at hand."
"Claude, dear Claude," I said, as soon as I was able to speak, "you have my answer; as a sister, as a friend, I will always love you, but I cannot, cannot be your wife."
"And pray why not, May?" he said, impatiently rising, and walking towards the window. "What absurd idea have you got in your head now? Who, or what is to hinder you from becoming my wife, I should like to know?"
"Claude, I cannot," I said; and the tears would come, in spite of all my efforts to keep them back.
"But what is your reason, May?" he said, pacing up and down the room. "You must have some reason for what you say, and I cannot rest till you tell me what it is. What is it, May?"
"I had rather not tell you all my thoughts about it, Claude," I said; "it would be very difficult, and would cost us both much pain. And Claude," I said, earnestly, "it would do no good; my mind is quite made up: I cannot do as you ask me, so please do not press me for the reason, Claude."
"But I will know it, May," he said, almost angrily. "I am not going home till you have told me; so you had better let me hear it at once."
And then I felt that, perhaps, it was sinful cowardice which made me afraid to tell Claude my reason; perhaps I was grieving my dear Lord and Master by being ashamed of Him, by being ashamed to tell Claude what it was that I held far more dear than his love for me, even the priceless, the everlasting love of my Lord. And yet how could I do it? Claude unexpectedly came to my help.
"May," he said, quickly, "do you love any one better than me—is that it?"
"Yes, Claude," I said, in a low voice; "there is one love which I hold more dear than yours—that is it."
"Who is it, May?" he said, impatiently. "I didn't know you knew any one else well enough; who can it be?"
"It is no one on earth, Claude," I said; "I mean the Lord Jesus Christ."
"What nonsense, May!" he exclaimed. "Whatever in the world has that to do with it? I am not going to interfere with your religion; you may be as religious as ever you please—a perfect saint if you like; I won't hinder you. So now put all those absurd notions out of your head, and let us talk about the future. That matter is settled; you shall be twice as religious after you are married as you were before."
"But, Claude, it is not settled," I said; "you know I could not expect to be happy, or to enjoy God's presence, if I was disobeying His clear command."
"And pray what command do you mean?" said Claude. "Really, May, this is too absurd!"
I opened the Bible and handed it to him; there was a mark against the verse in the Epistle to the Corinthians, and his face clouded over as he read the words.
"I wish that verse was cut out of every Bible in the world," he said, angrily; "I wonder how many people's happiness has been ruined by it; and it is perfectly ridiculous! Why, May, you don't even understand the wording of the text; you can't even read it in Greek, and yet you are going to overthrow all my plans and schemes for the future, and spoil all my happiness in the world, just for the sake of that one obscure verse."
I could not help noticing how much Claude dwelt on his own plans, and schemes, and happiness in the world, and how he looked at the matter quite from his own point of view, and not at all from my side of the question.
"No, Claude," I said, calmly, "I cannot read it in Greek, but I understand quite enough of it to make me quite sure that if I were to consent to marry you, I should be grieving my best Friend, by disobeying His clear command."
"Why, May, that just shows you know nothing at all about it," he said. "That verse has no more to do with you than it has with that table; it was spoken to the Corinthians, who, before Paul preached to them, were an ignorant lot of heathens, and all it means is, that Christians are not to go and marry heathens. I'm not a heathen, bad as you seem to think me."
"But," I answered, "it says unbelievers, and surely that means those who are not believers. Claude, are you a real believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Can you honestly say that you are? Would you like to be called a believer by the world?"
Claude could not answer this question, so he quickly turned the conversation into quite a different channel.
"And so you set up yourself as too good for me, May, that's what it is! You think yourself far too saintly to be joined to a poor heathen like me!"
"No, Claude, indeed it is not that," I said; "indeed it is not. I am not good at all; very, very far from it; but I do trust that I have come to the Lord Jesus, and that I believe in Him. Yes, though I am very imperfect and sinful, oh, Claude, I do hope that I am a believer," I said, with tears in my eyes.
"Yes, darling," said Claude, in quite a different tone, "I know you are everything good; I sometimes wish I were more like you. Won't you help me to become better, May? Won't you save me from myself, and teach me to love what you love? Come, May, it is my last chance; surely you will not refuse me?"
And Claude took hold of my hand, and looked up pleadingly into my face.
It was a dreadful temptation, and a fierce struggle was going on in my mind. Whilst Claude had been angry and impatient it had been comparatively easy to be firm, but now, now that his voice was so pleading and so tender, now that his hand was laid so lovingly upon mine, now that his eyes were actually full of tears, I felt my resolution giving way, my faith failing.
What if, after all, Claude was right? What if I might be indeed the means of leading him to better things? Miss Richards seemed to think so, and Miss Richards was a good woman.
And yet, my conscience told me plainly enough, that the opinion of a good woman could not make a wrong action right. Was it right or wrong in the sight of God? That was the question, and every time I put it to my heart, the same answer came, in clear, unmistakable terms:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."
I saw the path of duty clearly before me, a hard and difficult path, so hard and so difficult that I nearly despaired of ever being able to tread it.
The temptation was indeed fierce and strong, and I was on the point of yielding. Claude saw this and spoke still more tenderly, and pressed the advantage he had gained as far as possible.
I darted up one earnest, imploring cry to my Lord for help. My prayer did not, even in thought, resolve itself into words, but it was the language of my innermost soul. And it was not left unanswered. Four words came into my mind at that moment, which enabled me to gain the victory.
As clearly as if the sunbeams which were streaming in at the window had written them on the wall of the room, these four words flashed across me:
"FOR MY NAME'S SAKE."
Ah! Here was a motive, strong enough to enable me to overcome the greatest temptation; here was a motive, strong enough to enable me to conquer all those desires and wishes of my heart, which were urging me into disobedience to my Lord's command.
"For My Name's sake; is it too much to bear for Me?"
I heard Him ask me; and, in a moment, all His infinite love for me, all His self-denial for my sake, all His travail of soul, all that He underwent to save me, and bless me, crowded upon my mind, and was followed by the question—
"All this I bore for thee,
What canst thou bear for Me?"
My mind was made up; I would parley with the temptation no longer.
I drew my hand away from Claude's, gently, but firmly. "Claude," I said, "do not let us make each other more miserable, by going over and over the same ground. You will never be able to move me. I can only repeat what I have told you before. As a sister, as a friend, I will always love you, but I cannot be your wife. Claude," I went on, as he was beginning to speak, "that is my final answer, so please say no more about it."
I suppose I spoke very decidedly, though I had tried to speak calmly, for Claude was very angry. A change passed over his face in an instant; I do not think he had dreamt for a single moment that I should be able to withstand his arguments and his persuasions.
He walked to the window and looked out on the garden below.
"Then I am to look upon this as final, May?" he said, bitterly.
"Yes, Claude, as quite final," I replied; "you will never be able to move me from my resolution, dear Claude. But you will not let our old friendship end, will you? Why should we not be brother and sister to each other still?"
"Oh! There are two sides to that question," said Claude, proudly. "I keep out of the way of those who think themselves too good to associate with me. There are plenty of other people who will be glad of my friendship."
And so Claude left me without another word. He went out of the room, slamming the door after him, and a moment afterwards I saw him hastily cross the lawn, and go out at the garden gate. And I knew, as well as if I could read the future, that that was the last time I should see him pass through that gate.
For Claude's was a proud, imperious nature, and the more I thought the matter over, the more I felt sure that his pride was wounded, quite as much, if not more, than his affection. He had thought it next to impossible that any one, and above all a poor, friendless girl like myself, should refuse to be his wife. He had found he was mistaken, and he was mortified and vexed at the discovery.
When I was left alone, I felt as if I had gone through a great storm, and had come out of it wearied and exhausted. My mind was too tired even to pray. I pushed aside the letters I was writing, and looked out over the distant hills. But after a time, when I was calmer and in a more restful state of mind, I opened my Bible at the place where it had been so often opened the last two days, and read again my Master's word of command.
And then I was enabled, though with tears in my eyes, to thank Him that through His grace I had been strengthened to keep it.
This time I read the whole passage through to the end of the chapter.
The last two verses were the very words I needed just then:
"Come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you, and will be a Father unto you, and ye shall be My sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty."
The Master's call—"Come out from among them." The Master's promise—"I will receive you."
If He said, "Go out from among them," it would have been so much harder to obey. But He does not say "Go," but "Come"—Come out; come to Me—"I will receive you."
Come out to Me, and I will be a Father unto you, and you shall be My children, My sons and My daughters. Come out to Me; come out, not unto loneliness, and orphanhood, and desolation, but come out to Me, to a Father's love, to a Father's sympathy, to a Father's home. Come and be My sons and daughters, the sons and daughters of a King—the King of kings. Come then out from among them. Leave that transient, earthly affection, which is, as it were, but for a moment. Come to Me, and I will receive you, and will give you far more than what you will have to leave behind, far more than you have ever even hoped for from the purest of earthly loves. I will give you Myself—My love, My everlasting love, My soul-satisfying love.
Is not the exchange worth making? Is not the coming out fully recompensed by the loving reception?
I looked up into the sky, in which the sun was fast setting, and said with a thankful heart,—
"Lord, by Thy grace I have come out; I have given up the affection which would have drawn me away; I have separated myself from the love which, however sweet, would have cut me off from Thy presence and from Thy love."
And, even as I said this, the Master's answer came with tenderest comfort to my heart:
"I will receive you, nay, I have already received you, and I will be a Father unto you, and you shall be My child, My daughter, saith the Lord Almighty."
I heard Maggie's voice at this moment, so I hastily rose, wiped away the tears which were now only tears of joy and thankfulness, and went to meet her.
"How happy you seem to-night, May," she said, as we sat together at supper; "you have not looked so happy since—since—" Her lip quivered, and tears came into her eyes.
I held out my arms to her, and she came and sat on my knee, as she used to do when she was a little child, laid her head on my shoulder, and sobbed.
"What is it, Maggie darling?" I asked, stroking her long, fair hair with my hand.
"Oh, May," she sobbed, "if only we could be together; if only I had not to go away and leave you. I counted the days this morning on the almanack, and there are only nineteen more."
"Poor little Maggie!" I said. "What shall I do without you?"
"And what shall I do without you, May?" she said. "My aunts are very kind, but they are not like you; you are just like a mother to me. I shall never be a good girl, May, when I haven't you to talk to me, and when I can't tell you all my troubles."
"But you can tell Jesus, Maggie," I said, "just as you have always told me, and He will help you and comfort you far, far better than I could do."
"Yes, May," she said, putting up her face to be kissed, "I will tell Him every day; I promise you that I will."
"And then you can write to me, Maggie," I said. "Look here what I have bought for you. I had meant to have kept it till the last day, but perhaps I had better give it to you now."
I went to a drawer and brought out a neat little desk filled with paper, envelopes, pens, stamps, and everything necessary for letter-writing.
Maggie was charmed with it, and was quite as merry as she had been sad before, and began to plan at once how many letters she would write me every week, and what she would say in them. She said she should tell me everything, even what time she got up every morning and went to bed every night.
Dear little Maggie! How well I can picture her to myself as she looked on that memorable evening in my life, on which I had refused to be Claude Ellis's wife.
[CHAPTER IV.]
MAGGIE'S AUNTS.
THOSE last days which Maggie and I spent together in the old home were very happy ones. I took every opportunity I had of deepening in my little sister's mind the lessons I had tried to teach her from a child, and which she had always loved so much. I had great reason to hope that they had not been in vain, but that my dear little Maggie was in deed and in truth a child of God.
We were very busy sorting and packing our various possessions, and leaving all in the house in readiness for the sale which was to take place immediately we left.
I had received a satisfactory answer to my application for the post of companion, saying that Sir William Trafford, after due inquiries of my referees, would be glad of my services as companion to his daughter, Miss Evelyn Trafford, and would be glad to know on what day I should be able to commence my duties at Alliston Hall.
I did not see Claude again before I went away. The day after his visit to me I heard that he had again left home, and had returned to his friends in Scotland.
The evening before we left Acton, I went up to the Parsonage to say good-bye. Miss Richards received me very kindly, but we were both constrained in our manner, for we were thinking of the same thing, and neither of us liked to mention it. We spoke of the weather, of my future plans, of the sale of the furniture, of Mr. Ellis's health, and of a variety of other things and people; but Claude's name was carefully avoided, and that which was filling our thoughts was entirely kept out of the conversation. So it was no wonder that our talk flagged at times, and that we were very far from being natural or at our ease.
Just as I was leaving, I remembered how kind Miss Richards had been to me through my motherless life; always ready to help me with her advice whenever I needed help, and very patient in listening to the small home worries which had crowded upon me when I first took upon myself the cares and responsibilities of housekeeping.
"Miss Richards," I said, "you have been like a mother to me; I shall never, never be able to thank you enough for all you have been to me."
"Oh no, May," she said, warmly, "you must not speak of that; you have been quite as much, or more to me, dear. You have been a bright sunbeam here, May. You have often brightened my life since I came here."
"Oh, Miss Richards," I said, "I never dreamt that I could make you any happier."
"You did it without dreaming then, dear," she said, smiling; "and, May," she added, "what has passed between you and Claude will make no difference in your love to me, will it? You will still treat me as a friend, and let me hear from you sometimes, won't you, dear?"
"Oh, Miss Richards," I said; "will you let me write to you? Then you are not very angry with me?"
"Angry with you! Why?" she said. "For refusing Claude?"
"Yes," I said, "for giving Claude the answer I did."
"No, dear," said Miss Richards; "I was very much surprised, I own, and very much disappointed. I had counted so much on your influence with Claude, and was building my hopes on it far more than I ought to have done. But since then, May, I have sometimes thought that, perhaps, I ought not to blame you. I felt that I had been looking at the matter entirely from my point of view—mine and Claude's—and that, perhaps, dear, you had a reason for refusing Claude, a reason of which I should not and could not disapprove. May," she said, taking my hand very kindly, "would you mind telling me your reason?"
"I think you know it already, Miss Richards," I said, as I pressed her hand in mine.
"Is it because Claude is not truly a Christian, dear; is that your reason?"
"Yes, that is it," I said; "I dare not have said 'yes' to Claude, Miss Richards, in the face of God's clear command. I felt I could expect no happiness or blessing if I were so disobedient."
"You were quite right, dear May," said Miss Richards, with tears in her eyes; "I should have done just the same. Indeed once, May (you will not mention it to any one, I know), I did exactly the same myself. It was very hard at the time," said the good little woman, as the recollection of that sorrow, now so far behind her in her past life, came as fresh as if it had only taken place yesterday; "it was very hard at the time, for I loved him very much, but I can see it was all right now. I should have been a miserable, unhappy wife, if I had married him, and I can thank God that I gave him up."
"Then you can understand how I felt, dear Miss Richards," I said.
"Yes, indeed," she said, earnestly; "and as soon as that thought occurred to me, as soon as ever it came into my mind, that that was your reason for refusing Claude, I felt, dear, that you were right, and I was wrong. You were right, perfectly right in obeying God's command; and I was wrong, very wrong, May, in wishing you to marry one who is not, I know, a real Christian."
Miss Richards kissed me very lovingly, as she said this, and I went home with a light and thankful heart.
Poor Miss Richards! I had never dreamt that there was a touching little love story hidden away somewhere in her past history. I had never dreamt that that was the reason why she had never married, but had lived that quiet, unselfish life in her brother's house—living for all around her. And I was very thankful that she thought I had acted rightly, and would no longer blame me, but would be able and ready to sympathise with me in my trial.
The busy time of packing and leave-taking was at length over, and Maggie and I left our first and hitherto our only home.
It is a merciful ordering that at such times we are far too busy, and full of thought and care about the present moment, to realise what would otherwise overwhelm us with sorrowful feeling. As we drove off from our old home, we had to turn back for a forgotten key, and then, almost directly afterwards, we arrived at the station, and I had to take the tickets, look after the luggage, and select a carriage. My mind was consequently so full of business, that not until the train had started did I realise that Maggie and I had left our dear happy home, never to return to it again.
We were going that day to the old Manor House at Branston, where Maggie's aunts lived. They had kindly expressed a wish to see me, and had invited me to spend a week with them before going to Alliston Hall. Maggie was of course delighted at this arrangement, and I was not sorry to have a week's rest, after the whirl of the last month, before entering upon my new duties.