"May," he said, "I got your letter this morning, and I have come at once. The Fitzgeralds thought I was mad. I started up from the breakfast table and said I must catch the nine o'clock train. 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," Claude said, 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 friend I will always love you, but I cannot, cannot be your wife."
"And pray why not, May?" he said, rising impatiently 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 would like to know?"
"Claude, I cannot," I said; and the tears came, in spite of all my efforts to keep them back.
"But what is your reason, May?" he demanded, pacing up and down the room. "You must have some reason for what you say, and I cannot rest until you tell me what it is. What is it?"
"Claude," I said earnestly, "it would do no good. My mind is made up. I cannot do as you ask me, so please do not press me for the reason."
"But I will know it, May," he said, almost angrily. "I am not going home until 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 -- 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 someone better than me? Is that it?"
"Yes, Claude," I said, "there is one love which I hold more dear than yours."
"Who is it, May?" he demanded. "I didn't realize you knew anyone else well enough. Who can it be?"
"It is no one on earth, Claude," I said. "It is the Lord Jesus Christ."
"What nonsense, May!" he exclaimed in laughter. "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 put all those absurd notions out of your head and let us talk about the future. That matter is settled. You can be twice as religious after you are married as you were before."
"But, Claude, the matter is not settled," I said. "You know I could not expect to be happy, or enjoy God's presence, if I was disobeying His clear command."
"And pray what command do you mean?" asked 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 irately. "I wonder how many people's happiness has been ruined by it. It is perfectly ridiculous. Why, May, you don't properly 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 only 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 would 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 this 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 your friends?"
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 protested. "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 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 was 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? Surely you will not refuse me?"
And Claude took hold of my hand, and looked up pleadingly into my face.
A fierce struggle was going on in my mind. While Claude had been angry and impatient, it had been comparatively easy to be firm. But now, now that his voice was so pleading and tender, now that his hand was laid so lovingly on 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 could indeed be the means of leading him to better things? Miss Richards seemed to think so.
And yet my conscience told me plainly enough that the opinion of a good woman like Mrs. Richards 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 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.
"For My Name's sake; is it too much to bear for Me?" I heard Him ask me. 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. I will always love you, but I cannot be your wife. That is my final answer, so please say no more about it."
I suppose I spoke firmly, though I had tried to speak calmly, for Claude became angry. A change passed over his face in an instant. I do not think he had dreamed for a single moment that I would 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 on this as final, May?" he said, bitterly.
"Yes, Claude, as final," I replied. "But you will not let our old friendship end, will you? Why should we not be like brother and sister to each other still?"
"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 cross the lawn rapidly 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 would see him come to this house.
When I was left alone I felt as if I had gone through a great storm, and come out of it wearied and exhausted. My mind was too tired even to pray. I 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.
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 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."
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 tonight, May," she said, as we sat together at supper. Her lip quivered, and tears came into her eyes. "Oh, May, 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 calendar, 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 kind, but they are not like you. You are just like a mother to me. I shall never be happy, May, when I haven't you to talk to me, and I can't tell you all my troubles."
"But you can tell Jesus, Maggie," I said, "just as you have always told me. He will help you and comfort you far, far better than I could do."
"Yes, May," she said, "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 keep it until the last day, but perhaps I had better give it to you now."
I went to a drawer and brought out a writing case filled with paper, envelopes, pens, stamps, and everything necessary for letter writing.
Maggie was charmed with it, and was quite as happy 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 promised to tell me everything, even what time she got up every morning and went to bed every night.
Dear 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 Four
THOSE last days which Maggie and I spent together in the old home were 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 small 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 Maggie was in deed and in truth a child of God. We were 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 would 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 returned to his friends in Scotland.
The evening before Maggie and I left our old home, I went up to the Parsonage to say goodbye to Miss Richards. She received me kindly, but we were both guarded 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 we were far from being at ease.
Just as I was leaving I remembered how kind Miss Richards had been to me through my motherless life. She was always ready to help me with her advice whenever I needed help, and 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 after my stepmother's death.
"Miss Richards," I said, "you have been like a mother to me. I shall never, never be able to thank you enough."
"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. You have often brightened my life since I came here."
"Oh, Miss Richards," I said, "I never dreamed 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 my nephew 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 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 surprised, I own, and 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, I have felt that I had been looking at the matter entirely from my point of view -- mine and Claude's. You were quite right, dear May. I would have done just the same. Indeed once -- you will not mention it to anyone, I know -- I did exactly the same myself. It was hard at the time," said the good little woman, as the recollection of that sorrow. "It was hard at the time, for I loved him very much, but I can see it was the right decision now. I would 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, Miss Richards," I said.
"Yes, indeed," she said, earnestly. "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, by his own admission, a real Christian."
Miss Richards kissed me on the cheek as she said this, and I went home with a light and thankful heart.
Poor Miss Richards. I had never dreamed that there was a touching love story hidden away somewhere in her past. I was thankful that she thought I had acted rightly and would no longer blame me.
The busy time of packing and leave-taking was at length over. At the station and I had to purchase 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 realize that Maggie and I had left our 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 my appointment of companion at 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 starting my new duties.
This was my first visit to the old Manor House, but Maggie had spent a pleasant month there two years before, and was 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 expect John will be here to meet us," said Maggie, as we got out at the 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 comfort
able-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 us welcome, and turning to Maggie he hoped "Missy" was quite well. He was evidently quite at 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 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 countryside -- at least, so it seemed to me after the wooded hills and pretty valleys which had surrounded our old home. He went slowly indeed, and when there was the slightest rise 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 an 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 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 servant in a clean white apron and a large cap. She took us into the drawing-room, which was full of quaint and antiquated furniture, and abounded in sofas and armchairs covered with old-fashioned chintz.
In this room the three aunts were anxiously awaiting our arrival. They almost overwhelmed us with kindness, and insisted that we lay down to rest for half an hour on the comfortable sofas until tea was ready.
The room was 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 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 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 while we were resting.