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WAS I WRONG?
image014IT 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.
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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.
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MAGGIE'S AUNTS.
image017THOSE 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.
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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.
This was my first visit to the old Manor House, but Maggie had spent a very pleasant month there two years before, and was much looking forward to seeing her aunts again.
We had a long journey, and it was late in the evening when we arrived at Branston.
"I should think John will be here," said Maggie, as we got out at the very quiet country station.
John was there, awaiting our arrival. John was a fat, comfortable-looking old coachman, who had been in the family for more than fifty years, and looked as if, in the whole course of them, he had never had one single day's hard work.
John was driving two horses equally fat, equally comfortable-looking, and equally, by their appearance, denying the bare idea of their ever having had any hard work to do.
John touched his hat, and bade the ladies welcome, and hoped "Missy" was quite well. He was evidently quite at his ease, and accustomed to be regarded as a family friend.
We thanked John, and answered his inquiries, and then took our seats in the carriage. It was very old, like John, and quite out of date, of unwieldy proportions, and made a great noise in the world.
We drove for about a mile and a half, through rather an uninteresting country; at least, so it seemed to me, after the wooded hills and pretty valleys which had surrounded our dear old home. He went very slowly indeed, and when there was the slightest rising in the ground, the horses walked solemnly and cautiously up it, and I was more than ever convinced that the opinion I had formed about the easy life that those two comfortable-looking horses had always led was perfectly correct.
At last we went through a large iron gate, and entered a pretty old-fashioned garden, surrounded by a high wall. At one end of this garden stood the Manor House, a quaint old place, built of red brick, and partly covered with ivy.
As we drove past the window, Maggie's three aunts looked out, and nodded and smiled at us; they did not come out to meet us, for, as I afterwards discovered, they were very much afraid of taking cold, and never ventured into the hall when the front door was open.
We were met on the steps by an elderly, old-fashioned servant, in a clean white apron and a large cap, plaited round her face. She took us into the drawing-room, which was full of quaint and antiquated furniture, and abounded in sofas and arm-chairs, covered with very old-fashioned chintz.
In this room the three aunts were anxiously awaiting our arrival. They almost overwhelmed us with kindness, and insisted on our lying down to rest for half an hour on the comfortable sofas till tea was quite ready.
The room was very hot, there was a large fire, and huge screens stood before the doors, and sandbags and curtains excluded every possible draught from the windows. I felt very tired and worn out in mind and body, so I was not sorry to obey my kind hostesses and remain quiet for half an hour. It gave me time to think over the events of the past day, and also to look at Maggie's three aunts, who did not leave the room but went on with their work and their talk whilst we were resting.
The eldest sister, Miss Jane, was evidently the ruling spirit in the house. Her word was law, and her quiet firm decision settled every disputed question. There was plenty of firmness, plenty of good sense, plenty of real kindliness in her face, as she bent over the stocking which she was knitting in the most energetic manner, sitting in one of the large arm-chairs near the fire.
The second sister seemed to me to be a weak reflection of the eldest one, and, I soon found out, was quite ruled by her in everything, for she had not strength of character to settle anything on her own responsibility. If Miss Jane's word was law to her household, it was more especially law to Miss Hannah.
"What do you think, sister?" was the question repeated by her many times in the day, in answer to which Miss Jane would give her opinion calmly and decidedly, and that opinion was always conclusive.
The youngest sister, Miss Louisa, was considered an invalid. The best of everything was always given to her—the most comfortable chair and the warmest corner, the best seat in the carriage, and at all hours of the day little tempting dishes were brought up to induce Miss Louisa to eat. Miss Jane and Miss Hannah were never tired of waiting on her, and treated her almost like a spoiled child.
They were very kind to me, these three sisters, during my stay in the old Manor House. They even said how much they wished I would make my home with them; but, of course, I could never dream of being a burden to them; it was very kind of them to take Maggie, I must make my own way in the world.
Everything in the Manor House was in the most beautiful order. The carpets looked as if in the whole course of their existence they had never known what it was to have a speck of dust or piece of cotton left on them; the furniture was so bright that you could see yourself reflected in every part of it; the drugget on the stairs was spotlessly white, as clean as if it was washed every morning regularly; in fact, the most perfect neatness, and order, and cleanliness reigned everywhere throughout the old Manor House. There were no little children to make dirty foot-marks on the clean floors, or to soil the clean coverings of the chairs and sofas. And the regularity and punctuality in the house quite equalled its neatness and order. At exactly the same moment every morning Miss Jane came downstairs to make the tea. At exactly the same instant, day by day, the old servants came into the room for prayers. Meals were never a moment late—as the clock struck we all took our seats, and grace was immediately said. At exactly the same hour, every day, the sisters took their morning drive or their afternoon nap.
The whole place seemed like some huge clock which had been wound up years ago, long before any one could remember, and which had been going on and on and on ever since, without once needing to be wound up, or set going, or looked after again.
This regular, unbroken, undisturbed life in the old Manor House was very pleasant for a little time. It was just what I needed, after all I had gone through lately. But I fancied that I should soon grow rather tired of it. I fancied that I should long for the doorbell to ring, and an interruption to come in my clockwork existence. I should long for a little of the stir and bustle and motion of the world outside, to creep into the monotony and unchangeableness of the life within.
Small matters, even the most insignificant trifles, became great events to the sisters. If one of the cows or horses took cold, or if a tree was blown down in the garden, or if the rooks built a new nest in the plantation, it was the topic of conversation for days.
I was a little troubled as I looked forward and pictured to myself the kind of training which Maggie would have in such a home. I was afraid it would be rather relaxing to her mind and energies, so that if she came out of it into the coldness and roughness of the outside world she would feel the difference very strongly, and would not be hardy enough to stand it.
I was not afraid that Maggie would be dull here, for she was a quiet child, and fond of playing alone, and making her own amusements and pleasures; and there was a small farm close by, kept by old John and his wife, which was Maggie's constant resort, and here, amongst the chickens, and ducks, and lambs, and calves, and pigeons, she found plenty to interest her, and plenty of recreation and amusement. The aunts were exceedingly kind to her, and I felt sure they would train and teach her to the best of their ability.
But what I was afraid of was, that Maggie's mind would got a little cramped by the smallness of the sphere in which she was living, and that she would thus become somewhat selfish and self-indulgent. Yet all these fears I carried one by one to my Lord, as they arose; and I felt unspeakable comfort and relief in placing my little sister under His Almighty care.
Miss Jane was my favourite amongst the sisters. There was something in her face which made me trust her at once, and her good common sense and real heartfelt sympathy could always be relied upon. I found myself, almost before I was aware, giving her a history of our happy home-life, and telling her many of my anxieties and troubles, as I thought of the future. She made me promise that whenever I had a holiday given me I would come to the Manor House, and that I would remember that it would never be anything but a very great pleasure to them all to have me there.
On Sunday we all went to the village church together. A new clergyman had just been appointed, and the sisters were hardly in a frame of mind to enjoy the services, for they had not ceased mourning over the late rector, who had been there for forty years, and who had been obliged to resign on account of ill-health. But as I had no recollections of the previous minister, and, therefore, no painful feelings on seeing the new minister enter Mr. Baker's pulpit, preach from Mr. Baker's Bible, and take possession of Mr. Baker's congregation, the service was a real delight to me.
The young clergyman was plain in appearance, but he had a broad, high, thoughtful forehead, and he was evidently thoroughly in earnest.
The sermon went to my heart; it was on this text:
"To be spiritually minded is life and peace."
I came out of church feeling that the sermon I had just heard was one which I could not discuss or remark upon, but was one which I should never forget. It was a searching, practical sermon, and it had probed my heart to its very depths. What did I know of this spiritual-mindedness, of which Mr. Claremont spoke? What did I know of the life and peace which always spring from it? I felt that my thoughts, my motives, and my desires were far too much of the earth, earthy, far too little raised above the earth to things divine. And hence the want of life in my religion, hence the want of that deep and abiding peace which is the portion of all true believers in Jesus. I determined to pray more than ever before for this heavenly-mindedness, and to let my thoughts dwell less on earth, more on heaven.
The next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House, and was received by the sisters with all respect and dignity. I was practising on the drawing-room piano when he came in, and was alone with him for a few minutes, whilst Miss Jane, Miss Hannah, and Miss Louisa were arraying themselves in their best caps.
He spoke to me very pleasantly, and I took the opportunity of mentioning Maggie to him, and he kindly promised to see her sometimes, and try to influence her aright.
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image019
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
image020IT was the day before I left the old Manor House. I was packing my box in my bedroom, and thinking it would be rather hard to leave the kind sisterhood, and my little Maggie, and turn out into the world alone, when the door opened and Maggie came in with an open letter in her hand.
image020
IT was the day before I left the old Manor House. I was packing my box in my bedroom, and thinking it would be rather hard to leave the kind sisterhood, and my little Maggie, and turn out into the world alone, when the door opened and Maggie came in with an open letter in her hand.
"Oh, May," she said, "what do you think? Claude Ellis is going to be married!"
My heart beat so loudly that I was afraid Maggie would hear it, and I trembled so much that I was obliged to sit down on a chair by the bed.
"May, dear," said Maggie, "what is the matter? You look so pale and ill. Shall I get you anything? I am afraid I startled you, coming in like that."
"Oh no," I said, trying to smile, "I am all right. Read me your letter, Maggie—from whom is it?"
"It is from Fanny, May." (Fanny was Maggie's bosom friend and confidante). "Shall I read it all, or only the part about Claude?"
image021
A DISCOVERY.
"Read the part about Claude first, dear," I said, "and I will lie down on my bed whilst you read; I feel a little tired with packing, and I mean to take half an hour's rest before dinner."
So I lay on my bed and turned my face to the wall whilst Maggie read as follows:
"'And now I must tell you the news. Who do you think is engaged? You will never guess, if you guess all night. It is Claude Ellis! I will tell you how I heard about it. Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk with Dash to the Endle Farm. As we were coming home, down that hilly part of the road where you and I played hide-and-seek amongst the furze bushes, I saw two people sitting on a stile at the bottom of the hill. One was Claude Ellis, and the other was a young lady. They did not see me until I was very near to them, and then Claude pretended not to see me and got up, and they both walked down the lane, and I followed them only a little way behind, so that I could see the young lady very well. She was prettily dressed, and was tall and very good-looking. She had the loveliest hair I ever saw, done in a number of most wonderful plaits. I am sure she could not have done it herself. Claude was bending over her and talking to her; and he looked very happy, and so did she. They turned in at the Parsonage gate, and I went home wondering very much who she was."'But I had not to wait very long, for that evening papa came in with the news that Claude was engaged, and that the young lady was staying at the Parsonage. Mr. Ellis had told him, so there could be no mistake about it. She is the sister of one of Claude's Oxford friends; and he has been staying with them in Scotland the last few weeks. Her name is Alice Fitzgerald, and she is very rich indeed. Papa says she is quite a prize for Claude, and that he will be a very rich man now, with her money and his own money put together. And papa says, that is a very good thing, for he has heard that Claude spent a great many hundred pounds at Oxford, and that poor Mr. Ellis would have been almost ruined if Claude's uncle had not died just then and left him the money. Papa thinks Claude is very extravagant, and he says he rather pities his wife. But I am sure Claude is very fond of her, and he looked so happy to-day I could not help feeling glad for him. He seemed so miserable the last time he came home. Do you remember when we met him in Bush Lane, how cross he was, and how he contradicted everything we said, and looked as if he had just heard all his relations were dead? Well, it's getting late, and I must end my letter.'
"That's all about Claude, May," said Maggie, as she stopped reading. "Wouldn't you like to see Miss Alice Fitzgerald?"
When Maggie had gone downstairs, taking her new writing-case with her, that she might begin at once to answer her little friend's letter, I got up and locked my door, and then sat down to think over what I had heard.
The news of Claude's engagement had come upon me like a thunder-clap. I tried to reason with myself that I ought to be very glad that Claude was engaged, and that as I could not be his wife he had found some one else to make him happy. And yet it was so soon, so very soon, for Claude to forget his love for me. I had thought that he cared for me more than that. I had thought that he held my love too dear, so quickly and so easily to exchange it for another's.
I suppose it was my pride that was wounded, and that the tears which came, in spite of myself, and rolled down my cheeks, were tears of mortification. I felt very vexed with myself that it should be so. I called myself all sorts of hard names, and wiped my eyes, and tried to think how nice it was that all was so comfortably settled for me; how delightful it was that I could feel that I had done the right thing, and yet that I had not brought a gloom over the whole of Claude's life. And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I detected a secret hope, which had been hidden there the last few weeks, that, some day or other, Claude might give up his infidel notions and become a real Christian, and that then we might meet again and become to each other what he had so earnestly wished us to be. I had even thought that perhaps this trouble might be the means of making Claude look into the reality of religion, and believe in that Saviour who is the only true source of comfort, and that thus the great obstacle to our union might be taken away.
Not that Claude was by any means my beau-ideal of all that a man and a husband should be. But then he was, after all, the nicest man I had ever met, and it might be that my ideal was a thing of imagination, never met with in real life.
And on this particular day I was feeling very lonely and desolate. I was about to turn out into the world alone—alone amongst strangers. I was going to a great and fashionable household, where, no doubt, I should be looked down upon, and despised as poor, and a dependent.
I had no one to take care of me, or to shield me from the rough places which I should be sure to come across. There was no one in the world that really belonged to me except my sister Maggie, and she was but a child. I felt very unprotected, desolate, and forsaken. I took up my Bible and turned wearily over the pages, if, perchance, my eyes might fall upon some words of comfort. And the words which caught my attention were these, in the thirteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel:
"Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end."
"Unto the end," an unchanging, an unvarying, an untiring love. I had chosen that love in preference to Claude's. Had I made a bad exchange? I had given up a love which had proved itself, at the best, but fickle and shallow, and I had chosen Christ's love, the love of Him of whom it was written, that having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end.
"His 'own.'" Did that indeed mean me? Or did it only apply to the few disciples gathered round Him in these last hours of His life on earth? Was it only these whom He loved unto the end? Or could I take up the words, and make them my star of comfort? Could I make them apply to myself now, as they applied to the apostles then?
Was it true now that I was His—His own? Was it true that I was in the world—in the wide, desolate world, alone, just as these apostles were so soon to be, and was it true that He would love me in spite of all my failings and all my sins, and that He would love me unto the end? Could it be true?
Another text came into my mind:
"Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."
These words surely gave me the right to take the other words and make them mine. What Jesus was then, in the yesterday of the past, so He is now, to-day; what He was to the apostles, so He is to me, and so He ever will be—the same in love, the same in sympathy, the same in constancy.
But I am so cold to Him, I thought, so ungrateful, so sinful. My love is so changeable and fluctuating. Surely He will not, He cannot, in spite of all this, go on loving me—loving me unchangeably. And yet, I know that Christ's love for us, if it exists at all, must exist quite independently of anything in us, for what can He see in the very best of men to win His love?
And I remembered that these very apostles, of whom this was written, were very faulty and imperfect in their love to Him. Only the very next day one of them, the one who had professed the most love for Him, denied Him with oaths and curses, saying, again and again, "I know not the man." And every one of them, even the disciple whom Jesus loved, forsook Him in His hour of need and fled.
And yet of these very men, with all their failings and imperfections, it was written:
"Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end."
My heart grew light again, and I went downstairs quite comforted and happy, and without a single wish in my heart to change places with Miss Alice Fitzgerald.
The next morning I left the Manor House soon after breakfast. I was followed to the door by Miss Jane bidding me, in her calm, decided way, to be sure to choose a carriage with at least two elderly ladies in it, "because, my dear, one reads of such awful robberies and murders taking place in railway carriages!" Followed also by Miss Hannah, entreating me to remember what Miss Jane had said, and also to be quite sure that the guard had fastened the door well before the train started. Followed even by Miss Louisa, suggesting the advisability of always having both windows closed, and both ventilators securely fastened, lest any draught should enter the carriage. Followed, not only to the door but as far as the garden gate, by my little Maggie, sobbing as if her heart would break, and refusing to be comforted.
It was very hard to leave them all, and especially to leave my little sister, and to go forth alone into the world; but the words which had been my comfort yesterday were my strength now, and the language of my heart was,—
"I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
How much I wondered, as I was travelling that day, what Miss Evelyn Trafford would be like, and of what my duties, as companion, would consist. But it was of no use wondering; that evening I should know.
I had a long, tiring journey, having to change my train no less than four times, and to wait at cold, cheerless junctions for several hours.
But in spite of the sisters' oft-repeated predictions of the reverse, I and my luggage arrived safe and sound at the little station of Alliston.
As soon as I left the carriage, a footman came up to me, and, touching his hat, inquired if I was Miss Lindsay. When I answered in the affirmative, he took charge of my luggage, and led the way to a carriage which was waiting for me outside the station.
We drove on in the darkness for some distance, through what seemed to be country roads and lanes, for I could see no lights by the wayside, and nothing to break the darkness of the night.
After a long time the carriage stopped in front of a small house, which I saw must be a lodge, for by means of the light which came from a diamond-paned window I could see a woman opening some large iron gates for the carriage to go through.
When we had passed the lodge, I expected every moment to reach the house, and my heart beat faster and faster in expectation of my arrival. But we went on and on and on for at least a mile before the lights of the great house appeared, and we stopped before the door.
The footman got down from the carriage and rang the bell. The door was opened by a grave and solemn butler, and I went inside, feeling as if I were walking in my sleep, so tired and confused was I with my long journey.
I was ushered through a spacious hall, filled with stags' horns and old swords, and stuffed birds and foreign curiosities, and old oak cabinets, up a very wide staircase to a room at the top of the house. It was not a large room, but it was very pretty and comfortable, and a cheerful fire was blazing in the grate.
The maid who had shown me my room told me that Miss Trafford would be glad to see me as soon as I was ready, so I hastened to take off my dusty travelling dress and to make myself ready to go downstairs.
After about half an hour the maid came back again to conduct me. We went through several long passages, past a number of doors, until we arrived at Miss Evelyn Trafford's room.
The maid opened the door and I went in. The gas was not lighted, but the fire was blazing brightly, and by its light I could see a young lady lying on a low couch on one side of it. She was very pretty, with small, delicate features, and a beautiful fair complexion, and appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age. On the sofa beside her were lying two kittens curled up on a velvet cushion, and in front of the fire was a little spaniel fast asleep on the hearth-rug.
As soon as the door opened Miss Trafford hold out her hand to me.
"Come in, Miss Lindsay," she said; "come to the fire; you must be tired and cold; it's dreadfully cold out, is it not? There, Flossy, get up and let Miss Lindsay come to the fire."
She had a pretty, childish manner, which was very winning and pleasant. "I am so glad you have come," she said, when I was seated, "and you look so nice. Do you know I thought you would be dreadful, before you came! When papa said one day that it was so dull for me up here alone he must get me a companion, I actually cried, Miss Lindsay. It was very silly of me, I know, but then I always am a silly child. I pictured to myself what this companion would be like, and I thought she would have grey curls, and spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and always talk as if she were talking out of a book."
I could not help laughing heartily when she said this.
"Oh, I am so glad you can laugh," said Miss Trafford; "the companion, in the picture I made of her, never laughed—she only smiled, as if she was thinking, 'How foolish every one in the world is, and especially this weak-minded child I have to take care of.'"
This, of course, made me laugh again, to Miss Trafford's great satisfaction.
"Papa said he would get me somebody young and charming if he could, and he told me when he was writing about you how old you were, but I didn't think I should like you a bit, and I didn't want you to come at all."
"I hope you will change your mind soon, Miss Trafford," I said; "I will try not to be very disagreeable."
"Oh, I have changed my mind," she said, quickly; "I changed it as soon as you came in at the door. I always judge by first sight. If I love people when I first see them, I always love them; and if I hate them, I always hate them. I never change my mind afterwards."
"Do you think that is a good plan?" I said. "Don't you think it is rather an unfair way of judging?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," she said; "it always answers very well for me. I liked you when you came in at the door, and I mean always to like you. I wish Ambrose would bring the dinner, the gong sounded long since. I am sure it is time for it, and you must be so hungry. Miss Lindsay, will you please ring the bell?"
One of the footmen soon appeared with a small round table, which he placed between Miss Trafford's couch and my chair. The table was already prepared for dinner, with everything in its proper place.
"Oh, it is so nice to have you here," said Miss Trafford. "Do you know, I haven't been downstairs to dinner for five months. Isn't that dreadful? And I have always had dinner quite alone, except twice, when there was no one staying here, and then papa came up to my room and had dinner here. It was such fun; he and I had this little table, and Ambrose came in here to wait. I laughed all the time, and so did papa; it seemed such a little room after the dining-room, and the three men did not at all know where to stand, because there was no room for them to come close to the table."
"Then you have only been ill five months?" I said.
"Only five months! As if that were not long enough," she said; "it seems more like five years to me!"
"Yes, it is a long time," I said; "but I was afraid you might have been ill longer still. I do not know what made you ill."
"Didn't papa tell you? How funny of him! Now, if I had been writing to you, I should have told you the whole story. What did he tell you?"
"He only said that he wanted a companion for his daughter, and asked for my references."
"That was just like papa," said Evelyn; "he always does everything in what he calls a business-like way, which I always say means never telling anybody anything."
"Will you tell me what made you ill?" I asked.
"Yes, it was that young horse," she said; "such a beauty! You must see him, Miss Lindsay; he is quite black, and has a white star on his forehead, and his name is Wildfire, because he flies along so fast. Papa said he was too young for me to ride; but I was not a bit afraid, and Cousin Donald asked me to go out with him for an hour. Cousin Donald is very fond of me," she said, laughing; "he would like me to marry him; but that would never do, you know. Papa says he is very poor, and he would not hear of such a thing. But Cousin Donald is very good-looking, and I like riding with him, he rides so well, and we had a splendid ride that day; but then Wildfire threw me, and all my fun was over."
"Were you much hurt?" I asked.
"Yes," she said; "the doctors said my spine was injured; only a little though," she added, quickly, "and if I keep very, very still, and never walk about for a year, they think I shall be quite well again. Oh dear! I wish the year was over now! But it will be much nicer now you have come."
"You must tell me, please, Miss Trafford, what my duties are," I said.
"Oh, don't talk about duties," she said, pretending to stop her ears; "I can't bear the word. I never could do anything because it was a duty. That's just the sort of word the companion in my picture used to say. She used to draw up her head and look through her spectacles, and say, solemnly, 'Miss Evelyn, remember your duties.'"
"But you will tell me what my work is to be here," I repeated; "Sir William did not mention it in his letter."
"You won't have any work," she said, "except to amuse me; you are to be my friend, if you like to call that work—to read to me, and talk to me, and have meals with me, and make the year go a little quicker."
"That isn't very hard work," I said.
"Oh, I don't know," she answered; "you'll find me a very tiresome child sometimes, and if you had been the brown alpaca dress, and grey curls, and spectacles, I would have led you such a life that in less than a week you would have said to papa, 'Sir William Trafford, I must beg to resign the charge of your flippant and wilful daughter.' Before you came, papa said we were to have some profitable reading in a morning, and story-books only after luncheon; but I hate profitable reading, and papa never makes me do what I hate."
"What kind of reading do you mean?" I inquired.
"Oh, history and geography, and all such things; I never could bear them. What is the good of knowing who Henry VIII.'s wives were, and which of them he beheaded; and nearly giving oneself brain fever in trying to remember what relation John of Gaunt was to everybody else."
"I am very fond of history," I said; "I think some parts are quite as interesting as a story-book."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she said. "You are talking just like the brown alpaca dress! I shall expect you to pull the spectacles out of your pocket in a minute."
And then I could do nothing but laugh, and in a moment she had changed the conversation, and was rattling on about something else.
"There are not many visitors here just now," she said; "you'll see them all by and by. They generally pay me a visit after dinner. And mind you stop when they come; I want you to see them all. The brown alpaca dress always got up when any one came in, and made a very stiff bow, and went away and shut herself up in her bedroom. So mind you don't do the same; you must look at all the people well, and tell me what you think of them, when they are gone."
"Oh, I should not like to do that," I said.
"Why not?" she said, laughingly. "I don't mind telling you what I think of any one. There is Lady Eldridge; she is very grand and stately, and I don't like her a bit; and there is Lord Moreton—he never has a word to say, and is very stupid; but he has a quantity of money and a splendid estate, and papa is always saying what a nice young man he is. And so he may be, perhaps, in some ways; at least he is very harmless, but then he squints, and I never could marry any one who squinted—could you, Miss Lindsay?"
"I don't know," I said, laughing; "I never thought about it."
"Well, I couldn't, it would drive me mad. And then there is Alicia Hay—papa's old maid cousin—and if you ask me what I think of her, I think she is trying very hard to get married and never will. And then there is Lilla—but I won't tell you about them all now, you will see them for yourself by and by."