A feeling of my utter nothingness and insignificance in God's sight came over me so powerfully that I was almost crushed by it. "O Lord," I said, as I looked up into the sky, "I will be content to receive Thy Word with childlike faith, and what my mind is too weak and small to understand fully, I will yet believe, because Thou hast told me, and because Thy Word must be true."
A hundred books, written by the cleverest men on earth, could not convince me that the Bible was a mere human production, for I had found in it what I had found in no other book -- peace for a troubled conscience, comfort in sorrow, victory over sin.
I lay down to sleep that night reassured and comforted, with my doubts entirely removed, and I do not remember that they ever returned to me.
But Claude, what could I do for him? I could do nothing but pray for him, for he never gave me an opportunity of speaking to him again about what had so troubled me.
His college days passed by, and every vacation that he was at home he came frequently to see us, and each time he came I felt more persuaded that his new views had not improved his character. He looked restless and dissatisfied, as if something was preying on his mind.
And yet Claude was kind to Maggie and to me. He never came home without bringing me some little present, and he never seemed tired of our company.
Chapter Two
ONE DAY, about six weeks before the time at which my story commences, I had been spending the day at the Parsonage. I did not often go there any longer, but Claude Ellis was away and his aunt Miss Richards who had lived there since his mother died invited me to spend the afternoon with her. Claude had just left Oxford, and was staying for a few weeks with some friends in Scotland before settling down at home.
After dinner Miss Richards and I took our work into the little summerhouse and sat there until the evening. We talked on various subjects, the village, the people round, Mr. Ellis's health, and many other things. And then we talked of Claude.
"It will be pleasant to have Claude at home," said Miss Richards. "The house is so quiet when he's away."
"Yes, Miss Richards," I said, "you must miss him very much, but I suppose he will not be at home long. When is he to be ordained?"
She did not answer at once, and when I looked up I saw that her face was troubled as she bent over her work.
"Claude will not be ordained, May," she said at length. "I think that is absolutely decided now."
"Why not, Miss Richards?" I asked in astonishment. "I thought that had been settled years ago, when Claude was a little boy."
"It was only settled conditionally, May," she said. "Claude was to be ordained if it was his own wish to do so. His father would never press him into such work if he did not feel drawn to it himself."
"And Claude does not feel drawn to it?" I asked.
"Oh no, he has written to his father most decidedly, giving up all idea of becoming a clergyman and expressing his wish to study law."
"Is Mr. Ellis disappointed?" I said.
"Of course, he is disappointed in one way, May, for he has made a great effort to give Claude a university education in order to make him more fit for his work as a minister. But at the same time he quite sees that with those new views Claude has taken up at Oxford, his ordination is, at least for the present, out of the question."
I made no answer, but went on diligently with my work.
"Claude has been a great expense to his father," Miss Richards went on. "He has cost him much money at Oxford, and demands for payment are still coming in. Claude is young yet, you see, and I suppose all young men are extravagant. But it is a great pity that he let the accounts run on for so long. Some go as far back as his first term."
"What does Claude say about it?" I asked.
"Oh, he is always troubled when the accounts come, for he sees that his father has not any money to spare. So he talks about the time when he will have money of his own at his Uncle Charles's death, and when he will be able to repay all his father has advanced for him. He is quite certain that the tradesmen must have added a great deal which he never bought. But it is so long ago, May, nearly four years, so of course he cannot be sure of it."
"I am very, very sorry," I said.
"Yes, and so are we," said Miss Richards. "But Mr. Ellis would not mind how much money he had to pay, if only Claude had not taken such hostile views to the Christian faith."
"Does he still hold those views?" I asked. "He spoke to me once about them, a long time ago, but I have heard nothing of it since. I hoped Claude had studied the other side of the question, and had grown wiser."
"Oh, my dear," said Miss Richards, "he seems to me to get worse and worse. At first it was only some small parts of the Bible which he objected to, and which he maintained were not inspired. When he once began to doubt, there was no knowing where he would stop doubting. He carried the same spirit of critical suspicion into everything."
"But surely there are books which would in a great measure answer Claude's doubts?" I suggested.
"Yes, undoubtedly," said Miss Richards, "but it seems to me Claude prefers doubting, for he does not seem at all anxious to have his doubts cleared away. What he believes now suits his manner of living. If Claude would only prayerfully desire, and prayerfully strive to have his doubts removed, I would have no fear about him."
"I am so sorry, Miss Richards," I said again.
There was a long silence in which I did not like to say anything more.
"But I have not lost hope for Claude yet," Miss Richards continued. "I believe that when he is older he will be wiser in many ways. And May," she said, "my great hope for Claude lies in you. You have more influence with him than anyone has."
"I? Oh no, Miss Richards, you are quite wrong there," I said. "Claude will never even speak to me on the subject."
"Perhaps not," said Miss Richards, "but your quiet, loving influence must have its effect in time."
"But, Miss Richards, you are quite mistaken in supposing that I have any influence with Claude. I know when we were children together, we were like brother and sister to each other and I may have had some influence over him, but it is very different now."
"You have tenfold more influence with Claude now than you had then, May," she said quietly.
I felt my face growing crimson as Miss Richards said this. She had put into words a fear which had been hidden away in my heart for some months -- a fear that I had never dared, even in my own heart, to put into words -- a fear that I was becoming more to Claude than a mere childhood companion, and that he had plans and views for our future, his future and mine, which I could not, which I ought not, to entertain for a moment. And because of this undefined fear I had kept away from the Parsonage as much as possible during the vacations. I had avoided Claude as much as our old friendship would allow me, until sometimes my conscience had accused me of rudeness and unkindness.
Claude loved me, it was true, and liked to bring me presents. But surely it was only natural that he would do so, for we had been brought up together and learned together and played together, and had shared every thought and scheme in common. It was nothing more than that -- so I had argued with myself. But Miss Richards's words had revived my old fear, and increased it a hundredfold.
I was glad when, a minute or two afterwards, the village clock struck five and I could make an excuse to leave.
Miss Richards had evidently noticed my embarrassment, for she said kindly, as she wished me goodbye, "I hope I have not troubled you, May dear, but my heart is so full of anxiety about Claude just now, that I have spoken perhaps more strongly than I ought to have done."
I went home perplexed and troubled, but the next day my thoughts were turned into an entirely fresh channel by the sudden illness of my dear father. I will not dwell on the sad time which followed those days and nights of alternate hope and fear.
Miss Richards was kind to me during that time, giving me advice and help as I needed them, and relieving me greatly from the sense of heavy responsibility which res
ted on me.
Claude was still away from home, but he wrote a kind note of sympathy to me when he heard of my father's death. He said he was sorry that he was away at the time. Had he been at home he would have done all in his power to save me any unnecessary care and anxiety in my time of sorrow.
I tried to hope that this was only brotherly kindness, such as Claude had always shown me. I answered the letter by a short note, thanking him for his kind expression of sympathy, and telling him a little of our future plans -- how Maggie was going to live with her aunts in the old Manor House at Branston, and how I hoped soon to obtain a situation as governess or companion where I could earn enough money to keep myself in comfort and independence.
By return of post came a second letter from Claude. I almost trembled when I saw his handwriting on the envelope. I had not intended to start a correspondence with him. When I took the letter from the envelope, and saw its length, I was still more troubled and afraid. Then I read the letter; and when I had read it once, I read it again, and yet again. And now this letter lay on the table before me, still unanswered, and post time was drawing nearer and nearer. I looked at it once more, although I knew almost every word of it already.
Claude began by stating his utter disapproval of my scheme of obtaining a situation as companion or governess. I was not fitted for it, he insisted, and he would never allow it to be carried out. And then he went on to tell me that he had far different plans for my future -- plans which had mingled with his boyish dreams, and which had been for years the one idea of his life.
And then he told me how he loved me, how there was no one on earth that he had ever cared for except me, and how he felt that the time had now come to make me his wife and take me to a home of my own where I would be cherished and loved more than any wife had ever been before.
He said it was hard for him to put into a letter all the feelings of his heart. He had never planned to tell me all this by writing, but he felt compelled to write as soon as he received my letter, and the more so as, by a curious coincidence, by the same post he had heard of the sudden death of his uncle Charles who had left him a large sum of money -- quite sufficient, Claude said, to enable him to marry and take me to a comfortable home.
At the end of the week, he said, he hoped to be with me. But he could not wait until then to tell me all this, for he feared that I should in the meantime be answering some dreadful advertisement and making another and a very different engagement. He concluded by urging me to write by return of post, as he longed to know that the whole matter was finally settled and arranged.
The more I read this letter, the more persuaded I felt that Claude never, for a single moment, entertained the possibility of my refusing him. He seemed to look on it as a matter of certainty that I would be only too glad to do as he asked me. He was evidently utterly unprepared for anything but an immediate and hearty acceptance of his offer.
And now what answer should I give? I pressed my throbbing temples and tried to think the matter over calmly and deliberately.
Did I love Claude Ellis? Yes, undoubtedly I loved him very much indeed; not in the same way, it is true, as I had imagined that I would love the one who was to become my husband, but still I loved him warmly, as a sister loves a brother who has been everything to her since she was a small child. And surely a different kind of love for Claude might, and probably would, come into my heart after we were engaged.
Claude was certainly not at all like the husband that I had pictured to myself in the days long ago, when I was foolish enough to indulge in daydreams. I had never pictured Claude as the one who was to be all this to me. Yet surely he would be a kind, loving husband, and I might be very happy if I was his wife.
And I was so fond of Claude that I felt it would make me miserable to feel that there was any distance or coldness between us, as there undoubtedly would be if I refused to be his wife. Our old friendship, which had lasted so long, would come to an end. When we met we would feel restrained and uncomfortable in each other's presence. I could not bear to think that such would be the case.
And then Miss Richards -- how anxious she evidently was that I would use my influence with Claude. What would she say if I was to refuse him? How strange she would think it. How grieved and disappointed she would be.
And yet, with the thought of Miss Richards, came the recollection of what she had told me of Claude as we sat together. Would I be happy with someone as my husband who scorned the Book I loved best on earth, who slighted and neglected the Friend who was to me the chiefest among ten thousand?
Would I be happy with no family prayer in my household? With no reading of the Word of God, and with religious topics for ever banished because husband and wife thought so differently about them? Would the love between us be perfect when there was one subject -- and that one the subject nearest to my heart -- on which we had no communion? One Name, and that one the Name above every name, which neither of us ever mentioned to each other? Would I be really happy, really contented with such a state of things?
And then came another question. Even supposing I was happy, was it right for me to accept Claude's offer? Was it right in God's sight for me to marry one who was not a Christian? I knew there was a text somewhere in the Epistle to the Corinthians which spoke on this point. I opened my Bible and looked for it, and I found it in 2 Corinthians 6:14. "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?"
It was a clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. In the first place, I reasoned, Claude did not worship gods of wood and stone. He was looked upon as a Christian, and lived and had been brought up in a Christian family. But then I thought that the word unbeliever surely includes everyone that is not a believer.
Was Claude a believer? Could I honestly say that he was a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would Claude himself like to be thought a believer? Could I from my heart say that I thought Claude was safe in Christ, resting his soul on Christ for salvation? No, I was obliged sorrowfully to admit to myself that such was not the case. But then, I argued, I was not perfect. Who was I, I thought, that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who was I, that I should say Claude was not good enough for me?
Yet the line of distinction in the text was clearly drawn, not between perfect people and imperfect people, but between believers and unbelievers. Was I then a believer? That was the question. Was I in action and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?
A day many years ago came back to my mind. I remembered how anxious I had felt as I left the church one Sunday, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where I was now sitting. I had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on Jesus, and looked to Him by faith as my own Saviour. I remembered how all my sins had risen up before me that day as they had never done before; and how, one by one, I had taken them to Christ to be atoned for and forgiven.
Then I remembered the peace which followed, and how for days afterwards life was entirely new to me, and my thoughts and feelings and wishes were entirely different from what they were before. And since that time, though I had often grown careless and indifferent, still I had never been happy when I was not walking closely with God, and I had always longed at such times to be back in the sunshine and light of His presence again.
When I began to think the matter over, I was driven to the conclusion that Claude was far more likely to lead me away from Christ than I was to lead him to become a believer. If I could not convince him now, then surely after marriage I would become less of a believer, and he would remain still an unbeliever.
Christ's love or Claude's? Which should I choose? I could not have both, for I felt that to have both was impossible. Choosing Christ, I would offend Claude; choosing Claude, I would forfeit the love and the favour of Jesus Christ. Christ or Claude -- which? The a
nswer was clear.
I knelt down and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing me the sure, the right way for me to take. Then I took up my pen to answer Claude's letter.
Chapter Three
IT was not an easy task to answer Claude's letter, for I did not wish to wound him or 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 although I hoped always to remain his friend, 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. I told him that my mind was fully made up, and I begged him at once to dismiss the idea of marriage to me from his mind. I tried to write 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 would lose the situation.
The following afternoon Maggie was spending the day with a playfellow of hers in the village, and I heard footsteps in the hall. 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.
Was I Right? Abridged Edition Page 2