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 endeavored 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 anyone 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 dreamed 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 afterward 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 anyone, 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 tonight, 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 almanac, 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 brought 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.