Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: AT THE MANOR HOUSE.]
[Illustration]
WAS I RIGHT?
BY
MRS. O. F. WALTON
AUTHOR OF
_"Christie's Old Organ," "Peep Behind the Scenes," "Saved at Sea,"_
ETC.
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THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
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CONTENTS.
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CHAP.
I. THE TWO LETTERS
II. MY CHOICE
III. WAS I WRONG?
IV. MAGGIE'S AUNTS
V. FIRST IMPRESSIONS
VI. ALLISTON HALL
VII. CONSCIENCE AT WORK
VIII. ALICE FITZGERALD
IX. WAS THE PROMISE BINDING?
X. EVELYN'S CONFESSION
XI. THE OPPORTUNITY GIVEN
XII. BRINDISI
XIII. WAS IT HE?
XIV. JERUSALEM
XV. MY OLIVE-LEAVES
XVI. A MYSTERY
XVII. SUNDAY ON MOUNT ZION
XVIII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED
XIX. WAS I RIGHT?
WAS I RIGHT?
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CHAPTER I.
THE TWO LETTERS.
[Illustration] IT has often seemed very strange to me, that in moments
of great anxiety or trouble, when our minds and our hearts are
stretched to the uttermost, we notice with the keenest perception every
little object around us. Each moving leaf, each nodding flower, catches
our attention, and, years afterwards, we can remember, as distinctly as
if it were yesterday, how everything looked in those sorrowful moments,
when our minds were filled with thoughts of things and people far away.
There is one day in my life, which stands out from amongst the past as
a day above all others to be remembered by me. And, as I look back to
it, I see myself a girl of nineteen, sitting at my bedroom window, lost
in thought and perplexity! I can see the garden just as it looked as I
gazed out into it that afternoon—our quaint, old-fashioned garden, with
its hedge of laurel bushes, and the large elm trees at the end of it,
with the flickering light and shade underneath. I can see the rabbits
from the plantations round, nibbling the grass on the lawn; and I can
hear the trickling of the stream, which ran by the side of the house,
in which Claude, and Maggie, and I used to float our boats, in the
happy days when we were children. And now the old home must be left for
ever, for Maggie and I had not a penny in the world!
Our father had been the doctor in the village. It was a very poor
place, and the people had never any money to spare. My father was too
kind-hearted to press for payment, when he saw how hard it was for them
to live; and so the years went by, and although his practice was large,
he saved very little money. But even this small amount never came to
us, for just before his death, the bank in which it was placed suddenly
failed, and so, when he was gone, Maggie and I were penniless!
Maggie was much younger than I was; she was my half-sister, and her
mother died three weeks after she was born. She committed her little
baby to me, when she knew that she must leave it; and from that day
I became, as far as I was able, a mother to Maggie. I was a very
little mother, for I was only seven years old; but a feeling of great
responsibility and trust came over me, as I left the room where my
stepmother was dying. I crept up to the nursery, and stroked the baby's
face very gently, and felt as if she belonged to me from that moment.
And now, Maggie and I were left without a penny in the world. For
Maggie it was not of so much consequence. A letter had come from her
old maiden aunts, her mother's sisters, to insist upon her going at
once to live with them in the old Manor House at Brandon. Maggie would
be happy, and cared for there; that was a great relief to my mind.
Poverty and hardship would not cross the path of my little sister, and
I was more than content that it should be so. But there was no such
home in prospect for me. Maggie's aunts were, of course, not related to
me, and my mother had been a friendless orphan, so I had no one to take
compassion on me. Separated from the old home, separated from Maggie,
life looked very cheerless to me in prospect.
My mind was full of trouble and of perplexity, for on the table before
me lay two letters, which must be answered before evening, and upon the
answer to these letters would hang all my future life.
I sat at my bedroom window, not knowing what to do. The clock ticked
on, the hands were moving round, and my letters were still unanswered.
It was then, that, as I gazed into the garden, every tiny object was
imprinted on my mind. And I can remember that, as I was sitting there,
the sun went behind a bank of heavy clouds, and all was gloomy and
dismal in a moment. The rabbits ran back to their holes, the sunbeams
fled from the lawn, the wind whistled drearily in the chimneys of the
old house, and flapped the branches of the climbing rose-tree against
my bedroom window. It seemed to me then very like the cloud which had
come across my hitherto happy life. And now, what was before me? Joy or
sorrow?
It appeared to be left with me to decide. The two letters must be
answered. The first of these was from an old governess of ours, a kind,
good woman. I had written to tell her of my difficulties, and she wrote
to advise me to apply for a situation as companion to a young lady of
fortune, in answer to an advertisement which had just appeared in the
"Times" newspaper. A fair salary was promised, and all expenses of
travelling would be defrayed.
That was one of the letters which I had to answer. That was one path of
life which lay before me. It did not seem very bright in prospect. The
position of a poor companion in a large household was certainly not one
which I should have chosen for myself.
I had said "Oh no!" instinctively, when I had first read the
advertisement which Miss Morley enclosed. And yet, the more I thought
of it, the more I felt that perhaps I ought to apply for the situation.
It was clear that I must work for my living, in some way; I disliked
teaching, so I felt that I was not fit to be a governess; perhaps,
after all, this would be the very place for me.
And yet, and yet, my heart shrank back from what might be the path of
duty.
For there was another letter on the table; another, and a very
different letter. And this letter must be answered before I could
at all decide about Miss Morley's proposal. I had read it so often
during the day, that I knew every word of it. And now I must take up
my pen and answer it. It opened out to me another path of life, a very
different path from the former—a path which seemed as bright as the
other was shady.
And yet, ought I to take it? Was it right for me to choose this path?
Should I indeed be happy if I decided upon it? Would it be really
bright, really peaceful? What course should I take? What answer should
I give?
The letter was from Claude Ellis, my old playfellow and friend. He was
the son of the clergyman of the village, his only child. Claude had no
companions at home, and therefore when we were children we went, day
by day, to the Parsonage, or Claude came to us, and we played together
between the hours for lessons. Maggie was too small to join in our
games, but she would sit on the grass near us, gathering daisies, and
watching us as we floated our boats in the little stream, or ran races
on the lawn. And then we grew older, and Claude was sent to school, but
always in the holidays our old friendship was renewed, and we walked
together, read together, and played together as before.
But soon school days passed by, and Claude went to Oxford. I remember
so well the day on which he came to say "Good-bye" to us before leaving
home. He looked very handsome, and was full of spirits, and was so much
looking forward to his college life.
Maggie and I walked to the garden gate with him when he went away. And
we talked of the time when he would come home again, and we should
spend our days together as we had always done in the holidays. Then he
went out, and the gate closed after him, and Maggie and I watched him
down the road, and she waved her handkerchief to him till he was out of
sight. And then we went back to the house, and I counted how many weeks
must pass before the term would be ended, and Claude would be with us
again.
But a very short time after, Mr. Ellis, Claude's father, was taken
ill, and the doctor ordered him to go abroad for the winter. So Claude
spent his Christmas vacation at Mentone instead of at home. And then we
looked forward to Midsummer.
But Claude did not return home until the greater part of the long
vacation was over. He was in Cornwall with a reading party, and did
not come to the Parsonage until about three weeks before his return to
Oxford. And so it came to pass, that Claude Ellis and I had not met for
nearly a year.
"Claude is at home," said my father, one morning at breakfast.
"Oh, is he?" said little Maggie. "How nice!"
And I was very pleased also. I expected to see exactly the same Claude
as I had parted from at the garden gate, a year ago; and I thought that
all would go on just as it had done when he was a boy at school, and
came home for the holidays.
So when I saw him coming up the road, I ran into the garden to meet him.
"Oh, Claude, I am glad to see you!" I cried, as soon as he opened the
gate. And then, in a moment, I stopped short, and went up to him quite
quietly, and giving him my hand, said in a very different voice: "How
do you do, Claude; when did you come home?"
For in a moment it flashed across me that Claude Ellis and I were
not the same as we were when we had parted at that very gate a year
ago. We were both older than we were then; our childhood was a thing
of the past. Claude and I had grown out of the boy and girl into the
young man and woman since we had last met. All this flashed across me
in a moment, as I noticed the difference in Claude's dress, manners,
and appearance, as he came in at the gate. And a chill came over me
as I noticed it, and I wished that I had not run to meet him quite so
eagerly.
And yet, when he began to talk, I felt that he was in many ways the
same Claude still, the same, but changed.
Was he changed for the better? In many ways he was. He was more manly,
and more gentleman-like, and had much to tell us of his college
friends, and college life, which made him a more amusing and pleasant
companion than before.
And yet, there was another change in Claude, which I could not help
noticing, in spite of my efforts not to do so. Claude Ellis was more of
a man, more of a gentleman; but he was, yes, he certainly was, though I
tried to persuade myself to the contrary, less of a Christian.
Before Claude went to college, we had often talked together of
the Bible, and he had explained to me many things which I did not
understand. We used sometimes to sit on the garden seat on Sunday
afternoons, and read a chapter together; and Claude used to talk so
nicely about it, and I thought he loved the Lord Jesus, and wished to
serve Him. He often spoke of the time when he would be old enough to be
ordained, and when I should come to his church and hear him preach; and
he told me what his first text would be, and how he had already written
some pages of his first sermon.
But after Claude's return I noticed a change in him. At first, he
always avoided any mention of religious subjects, and when, either in
his own home or ours, any allusion was made to them, he quickly turned
the conversation to some other topic.
I tried, for some days, to fancy that it was not because Claude had
ceased to care for what he had loved before, but rather that his
feelings had grown so much deeper and truer, that he felt things divine
too sacred to be talked about. But before the vacation was over, I was
obliged to admit to myself, however unwilling I was to believe it, that
Claude's views and opinions were quite changed about religious matters;
that he had begun to doubt what he had before received with childlike
faith; that he had begun to despise and hold in contempt that which
from his mother's knee he had learnt to love and reverence.
"Oh, you have never been to Oxford, May," he said, rather
contemptuously one day, when I was trying to prove something to him
from the Bible. "You should read some books, which were lent to me
by a man on my staircase. We are behind the times in this little,
out-of-the-way place; the world is growing very clever and learned,
and there are many things which we have always taken for granted about
which there is really great doubt and uncertainty."
"What things, Claude?" I said. "You do not surely mean—"
"I mean parts of the Bible, May, and doctrines which are supposed to be
proved from the Bible. But what is the use of talking about it to you?
I don't want to unsettle your mind. If you like to believe it, and if
it makes you happy, go on believing it, and be glad that you haven't
read the books I have read."
"But you, Claude?" I said, sorrowfully.
"Oh, never mind about me, May, I am all right; I am a little wiser than
you, that is all!"
"Are you happier, Claude?" I ventured to ask.
"Oh, I don't know, May; I don't think happiness, which is based on a
delusion, is much worth having."
"Oh, Claude," I said, "it makes me wretched to hear you talk like that."
"Then talk about something else, May," he said gaily; "you began the
subject, not I."
"But, Claude—"
"Now, that will do, May!" he said impatiently. "We don't think alike
about these subjects, simply because I know a great deal more about
them than I did before I went away, or than you do now; so let the
matter drop."
I was very unhappy after this conversation with Claude. He gave me no
opportunity of renewing it; but though he had not explained to me any
of his doubts, he had left an uneasy, troubled feeling on my mind, a
feeling which I could not shake off.
When I went upstairs to bed that night, I sat down to think over what
Claude had said. What if, after all, I was resting upon a delusion,
building my happiness upon an unreality? What if, after all, my faith
was in vain, my hope unfounded?
Horrible doubts, such as I had never known before, came crowding into
my mind. "Are these things so?" was the oft-repeated question of my
heart. It was a sad awakening from the trust and implicit confidence
of childhood; an awakening which, perhaps, comes to every thoughtful
mind, when its faith is brought into contact, for the first time, with
the intellect of this world; an awakening which leads us either into
the terrible region of doubt and uncertainty, or into faith, far firmer
than ever before, because based, not on mere childish impressions, but
on the words and the being of the eternal God.
In this state of perplexity I went to my bedroom window and looked out.
It was a bright, starlight night, so I put out my candle, and sat by
the window, gazing into the sky at the countless multitude of stars.
Who had made all these mighty worlds? Who was keeping them all in their
places, and making them fulfil the object for which they were created?
I knew who it was; my faith in the existence of an Almighty God
remained unshaken. I could never look around me on God's universe and
doubt that God was.
And then, as I looked at the stars, other thoughts came—thoughts of
the majesty and wisdom and power of the God who had made all these;
thoughts, too, of the smallness and insignificance of our own little
world—in comparison with the rest of God's great universe a mere speck
in space.
And I—what was I?
Only one of the beings which inhabited this tiny world; one of the
smallest and least wise of all in God's universe! Who was I, that I
should say to God, "Why doest Thou this?" Who was I, that I should
presume to sit in judgment on anything in God's revelation?
"His wisdom is unsearchable, His ways past finding out," was the
language of my heart. I am but a little child,—how can I understand
God's plans? I know so little, I understand so little, I see such a
little way, either before me or behind me. How can I, then, expect to
understand that which is understood fully only by God Himself?
A feeling of my utter nothingness and insignificance in God's sight
came over me so powerfully that I was almost crushed by it. Who was
I—what was I, that I should dare to doubt what God had in wonderful
condescension revealed to me, because of the vast amount of knowledge
which was too wonderful for me; so high that I could not attain unto it?
"O Lord," I said, as I looked up into the sky, "I will be content to
be a little child, receiving 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."
And even as I said the words, this verse came into my mind:
"Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know
in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
Then the day was coming when, in another world, my mind would be
strengthened to understand these difficult matters which were now
perplexing me—these things which I only knew in part, and which, for
this very reason, just because I only knew a part of them, seemed to me
so perplexing and mysterious.
And then there was another thought which comforted me perhaps more
than anything else, and it was this: I had proved the Bible to be
true myself. I knew it was the Word of the God of truth by my own
experience. I had prayed, and had received many an answer to my
prayers. I had pleaded the promises, and had found them more than
fulfilled to me in every hour of need. I had fallen back upon the grand
old truths of the Bible in many a time of trouble, and had never found
them fail me.
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, and 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 had occasionally
an imperious and dictatorial manner, such as he had never had before,
and he looked restless and dissatisfied, as if something was preying on
his mind.
And yet Claude was very kind to us, to Maggie and to me. He never came
home without bringing us some little present, and he never seemed tired
of our company.
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