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 armchairs near the fire.
Miss Hannah, the second sister, seemed to me to be a weak reflection of the eldest one, and I soon found out that she was ruled by her in everything, for she had not the 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 beyond question.
The youngest sister, Miss Louisa, was considered an invalid. The best of everything was always given her -- the most comfortable chair and the warmest corner, the best seat in the carriage, and at all times of the day little tempting dishes were served up to induce her to eat. Miss Jane and Miss Hannah were never tired of waiting on Miss Louisa, and treated her almost like a spoiled child.
They were extremely 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 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 carpet on the stairs was spotlessly white, as clean as if it was washed every morning. In fact, the most perfect neatness and order and cleanliness reigned everywhere throughout the old house. There were no little children to make dirty footmarks on the clean floors, or to soil the 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 three 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 anyone 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 pleasant for a little time. It was just what I needed after all I had gone through lately, but I decided that I would soon grow tired of it. I fancied that I would long for the doorbell to ring and an interruption to come in my clockwork existence. I would 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 branch 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 that 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 strongly, and would not be hardy enough to stand it.
However, I was not afraid that Maggie would be bored here, for she was a quiet child who was fond of playing alone and making her own amusements. There was a small farm close by, kept by old John and his wife, which was Maggie's constant resort. And here among the chickens, ducks, lambs, 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 bring her up to the best of their ability.
All these concerns 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 among the sisters. There was something in her face which made me trust her at once, and her good commonsense and real heartfelt sympathy could always be relied on. 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 I would come to the Manor House, and said I must remember that it would never be anything but a great pleasure to them all to have me there.
On Sunday we went to the village church together. A new clergyman -- Mr. Claremont -- had just been appointed. 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 next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House and was received by the sisters with respect and dignity. I was practicing on the drawing-room piano when he came in, and was alone with him for a few minutes while Miss Jane, Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa were arraying themselves in their best caps.
He spoke to me 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.
Chapter Five
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 sisters 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
"May," said Maggie in surprise, "whatever is the matter? You look so pale and ill. Shall I get you anything? I'm afraid I startled you, coming in like that."
"Oh no," I said, trying to smile, "I'm all right. Read me your letter, Maggie -- who is it from?"
"It's from Fanny." Fanny was Maggie's best friend and confidante. "Shall I read it all, May, or only the part about Claude?"
"Read the part about Claude first," I said, "and I'll lie down on my bed while 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 while 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 among 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 near to them, and then Claude pretended not to see me and got up, and they both walked down the lane. 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 good looking. She had the loveliest hair I ever saw, done in a number of most wonderful plaits. Claude was bending over her and talking to her. He looked happy, and so did she.
"They turned in at the Parsonage gate, and I went home wondering who she was. But I had not to wait 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. 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 rich man now, with her money and his own money from his Uncle Charles put together. And papa says that is a good thing, for he has heard that Claude spent a great amount of money 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 extravagant, and he says he rather pities his wife. But I am sure Claude is fond of her, and he looked so happy today that 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 there is about Claude," said Maggie.
When Maggie had gone downstairs, taking her new writing-case with her so she could begin to answer her friend's letter, I got up and locked my door and sat down to think over what I had heard.
The news of Claude's engagement had come upon me like a thunderclap. I tried to reason with myself that I ought to be glad that Claude was engaged, glad that he had found someone to make him happy. And yet it was so soon, so very soon, for Claude to forget his love for me. I thought that he cared for me more than that. I 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 the tears which rolled down my cheeks were tears of mortification. I felt 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 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 would give up his unbelieving ways and become a real Christian, and that we would 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 the Christian faith, 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 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 encountered in real life.
On this particular day I was feeling lonely and desolate. I was about to turn out into the world alone -- alone among strangers. I was going to a great and fashionable household, where no doubt I would be looked down upon.
I felt unprotected, desolate and forsaken. I took up my Bible and turned wearily over the pages, hoping my eyes would fall on some words of comfort. And the words which caught my attention were these, in the thirteenth chapter of Saint John's Gospel: "Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end."
"Unto the end." I had chosen the love of Christ -- an unchanging, untiring love.
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."
I was 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 securely before the train started -- followed 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 Maggie, crying as if her heart would break, and refusing to be comforted.
It was hard to leave them all, and especially to leave my little sister. But the promise of Christ's love which had been my comfort yesterday was my strength now, and the language of my heart was, "I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
I wondered, as I was travelling that day, what Miss Evelyn Trafford would be like, and what my duties as companion would be. But it was no use wondering -- that evening I would know.
I had a long, tiring journey, having to change my train no less than four times and wait at cold, cheerless junctions for several hours.
But in spite of the three sisters' oft-repeated predictions of doom, 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. By 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 for at least a mile before the lights of the great house appeared, and we stopped outside 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 was 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, and then up a wide staircase to a room at the top of the house. It was not a large room, but it was 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 make myself ready to go downstairs.
After about half an hour the maid returned and showed me to Miss Evelyn Trafford's room.
The maid opened the door and I went in. The gas was not lit, but the fire was blazing brightly. By its light I could see a young lady lying on a low couch on one side of it. She was pretty, with small, delicate features, and a beautiful fair complexion. She appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age. On the sofa beside her were two kittens curled up on a velvet cushion, and in front of the fire a little spaniel was fast asleep on the hearth-rug.
As soon as the door opened, Miss Trafford held 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 pleasant manner, which was very winning. "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? When papa said one day that it was so dreary for me here alone that he must get me a companion, I actually cried. It was silly of me, I know. I pictured to myself what this companion would be like, and I thought she would have gray curls, spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and always speak as if she was talking out of a book."
I could not help laughing heartily when she said this. An image came to my mind of a severe looking woman in a heavy, shapeless woollen outfit.
"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 everyone 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 Evelyn Trafford's great satisfaction.
"Papa said he would get me somebody young and charming if he could, and he told me how old you are. But I didn't think I would 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 disagreeable."
"Oh, I have already 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 brightly. "It always answers well for me. I liked you when you came in at the door, and I mean to like you always. I wish Ambrose would bring the dinner. The gong sounded long ago. I'm 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 Evelyn Trafford's couch and my chair. The table was already set for dinner, with everything in its proper place.
"Oh, it is so nice to have you here," said Evelyn. "Do you know, I haven't been downstairs to dinner for five months? Isn't that dreadful? And I have always had dinner 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 downstairs."
"Then you have only been ill five months?" I said.
"Only five months? As if that was 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 don't know what made you ill."
"Didn't papa tell you? How funny of him. Now, if I had been writing to you I would have told you the whole story. What did he tell you?"