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 case.
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 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 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, clear, 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 anyone, 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 dreamed that there was a touching little love story hidden away somewhere in her past history. I had never dreamed 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 sympathize 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 realize 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 afterward, 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 realize 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 afterward 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 stops 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 armchairs, 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 draft 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 wore 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 armchairs 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 footmarks on the clean floors, or to soil the clean coverings of the chairs and sofas. And the regularity and punctuality in the house quite equaled 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 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 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 get 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 favorite 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, earthly, 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 in heaven.
The next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House, and was received by the sisters with all respect and dignity. I was practicing 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.