MY CHOICE.
[Illustration] ONE day, about six weeks before the time at which my
little story commences, I had been spending the day at the Parsonage.
I did not often go there now, but Claude was away, and his aunt, Miss
Richards, who had lived there since Claude's 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
summer-house, and sat there until the evening. We talked on various
subjects, the village, the people round, Mr. Ellis's health, and of
many other things. And then we talked of Claude.
"It will be very pleasant to have Claude at home," said Miss Richards;
"the house is so dull when he is away."
"Yes," I said, "you must miss him very much, Miss Richards, but I
suppose he will not be at home very long; when is he to be ordained?"
She did not answer me at once, and when I looked up, I saw that her
face was very troubled and sorrowful, as she bent over her work.
"Claude will not be ordained, May," she said at length; "I think that
is quite 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 go
into the ministry 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 for the bar."
"Is Mr. Ellis very disappointed, Miss Richards?" 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 Claude's peculiar ideas (you know what I mean, May, those new
views he 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 many hundreds at Oxford, and bills are still
coming in. He is young yet, you see, and I suppose all young men are
extravagant. But it is a great pity that he let the bills 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 very much troubled when the bills come, for he sees
that his father has not any money to spare, and 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. And
then 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 that anxiety is nothing
to the other. Mr. Ellis would not mind how much money he had to pay, if
only Claude had not taken up such rationalistic, infidel ideas."
"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
cavilled at, and which he maintained were not inspired; but 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 written 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. He does not want to have his mind satisfied, and
so he either does not read books on the other side at all; or, if he
reads them, he does so fully determined that his scepticism cannot be,
and indeed must not be shaken. If Claude would only prayerfully desire,
and prayerfully strive to have his doubts removed, I should have no
fear about him."
"I am so very sorry, Miss Richards," I said again.
"Yes, May, and so am I," said she. "I assure you that when I went
upstairs into Claude's bedroom, when he was last at home, and found at
the bottom of his box a number of his favourite books (the very names
of some of which made me shudder), I sat down on a chair in his room,
and had a good cry. I could not help it, May dear. For I thought of
the little, trustful face, which used to be lifted to mine years ago,
when I told him, for the first time, the beautiful stories out of the
Book he now despises and scoffs at. I thought of the little voice which
used to say the evening prayer at my knee, and which used, on Sundays,
to repeat hymns and texts to me in this very summer-house. And then
I thought of the small, black Bible, which, when he grew older, used
always to be laid beside his pillow, that he might be able to read it
as soon as it was light in the morning. I could see plenty of other
books in Claude's room, May, but no Bible! I could not help going
downstairs and bringing a Bible up to lay on the dressing-table, in
case he might see and read it. Though, of course, it would do him no
good, unless he came to it in a teachable spirit," she added, with a
sigh.
"But I have not lost hope for Claude yet," said Miss Richards, after a
pause. "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 any one has."
"I? Oh no, Miss Richards; you are quite wrong there," I said. "He will
never even speak to me on the subject."
"No, perhaps not," said Miss Richards; "but your quiet, gentle, 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, and
were like brother and sister to each other, I may have had some power
over him, but it is quite different now."
"You have tenfold more influence with Claude now than you had then,
May," she said quietly; "to give you pleasure is the greatest joy of
his life, to grieve you is his greatest pain."
I felt my face growing very 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 sister,
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, and I had avoided Claude as much
as our old friendship would allow me, until sometimes my conscience had
accused me of rudeness and unkindness.
But, after all, I had hoped it was but a fear. Claude loved me, it was
true, I argued to myself, and liked to bring me presents, and to give
me pleasure; but then it was only natural that he should do so, when we
had been brought up together, and learnt together, and played together,
and had had 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 very 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 good-bye:
"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 very 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 upon the sad time which followed those
days and nights of alternate hope and fear, and then the close to our
watching, and the terrible realisation that Maggie and I were amongst
the number of the fatherless children, prayed for, Sunday after Sunday,
in the Litany.
Miss Richards was very kind to me during that time of trouble, giving
me advice and help as I needed them, and relieving me greatly from the
sense of heavy responsibility which rested on me.
Claude was still from home, but he wrote a kind little note of sympathy
to me, when he heard of my father's death. He said he was very 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 sympathy and kindness,
such as Claude had always shown me from childhood. 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 very soon to obtain a situation as governess or companion,
where I could earn enough money to keep me 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
open a correspondence with him. And 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, 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 myself, and how he felt that the time had
now come to make me his wife, and to take me to a home of my own, where
I should be taken care of, and 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 off at once, as soon as
he received my letter, and the more so as, by a curious coincidence,
by the very 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 to 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 till then to tell me all this, for he feared that I should in
the meantime be answering some dreadful advertisement, and be 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 upon it as a matter of certainty that I should
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 should love
the one who was to become my husband, but still I loved him very
warmly, us a sister loves a dear brother who has been everything to
her since she was a little child. And surely a different kind of love
for Claude might, and probably would, come in my heart after we were
engaged.
And although 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 day-dreams, and although even now, at times, I longed,
oh, how much! for some one to lean on—some one very wise, very good,
very true, and infinitely better in every way than I was; and I had
never pictured Claude to myself as the one who was to be all this to
me; yet still he would be a kind, loving husband, and I might be very
happy if I were his wife.
And I was so fond of Claude that I felt it would make me very miserable
to feel that there was any estrangement 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 practically end, and when
we met we should 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 should use
my influence with Claude! What would she say if I were 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 in the arbour.
Should I be happy with one 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?
Should 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, the confidence unsullied, 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? Should I be
really happy, really contented with such a state of things?
And then came another question. Even supposing I should be 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
vi. 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 very clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried
to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. For in the
first place, I reasoned, Claude was not a heathen as these Corinthians
were. He 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 the word unbeliever, conscience answered, surely includes every one
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 am not perfect. Oh, how cold and indifferent I am at times!
How full of carelessness, and pride, and every kind of sin! Who am I,
that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who
am I, that I should say Claude is not good enough for me?
And yet the line of distinction in the text was evidently 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
deed and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?
I dared not say that I was not, for even as I asked myself the
question, a day years ago came back to my mind, a day when Mr. Ellis
had been giving us a Bible lesson and had spoken to us very solemnly
about coming to Christ for ourselves, and that at once.
I remembered how anxious and serious I had felt as I left the Bible
class, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where
I was now sitting. I remembered how I had closed the door behind me,
and had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on
Jesus, and had 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.
And then I remembered the peace which had followed, and how, for days
afterwards, life had been entirely new to me, and my thoughts, and
feelings, and wishes had been entirely different from what they were
before. And since that time, though I had very 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. So then it seemed as if
the command in the text did apply to me.
But surely if I married Claude, I might use my influence with him for
good. He loved me very much, and, as Miss Richards had said, I had more
influence with him than any one had.
Was it right for me to throw away this opportunity of doing good? Was
there not a text which said that husbands, "who obey not the Word,"
might yet, without the Word, be "won by the conversation of their
wives?" And did not St. Paul say, "What knowest thou, O wife, whether
thou shalt save thy husband?" Surely these verses justified me in
thinking that if I married Claude, he might, through my influence,
become a Christian.
And yet when I turned to these passages, and read the context, I saw
that they clearly referred to those wives who were converted after
their marriage—that such were told not to leave their unbelieving
husbands, but to remain in that state in which they were called, and to
such, and to such alone, the promise about being the means of saving
their husbands applied. It had evidently nothing whatever to do with
those who were converted whilst they were still unmarried, nor did it,
in the very slightest degree, overthrow the clear command I had just
read:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers—"
A command which applied to the unmarried believers, as plainly as the
command in the first Epistle applied to the married ones.
And, when I began to think the matter over, with a more unbiased mind,
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. For
surely if I had not enough influence now to persuade him to love better
things—now, when he was so anxious to win my favour,—surely afterwards,
when he felt certain of my love, he would not be more likely to be led
in an entirely different direction. Surely I should become worse, and
Claude would become no better. I should be less of a believer, and he
would remain still an unbeliever.
To do evil, that good may possibly come, is entirely opposed to the
whole teaching of the New Testament; nowhere is the faintest hope held
out that such a course will result in good. And I could undoubtedly
expect no blessing from God on my endeavours to lead Claude aright
if I had acted in the face of God's command and had gone in direct
opposition to His clear injunction:
"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."
And so I felt, when I had thought the whole matter carefully over, that
it came to this:
Was I willing to shut Christ out from the first place in my heart, and
put Claude there instead? Or, on the other hand, was I willing to give
up Claude, and hold all the closer and firmer to Him who had for years
been my hope and my refuge?
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
should offend Claude; choosing Claude, I should forfeit the love and
the favour of Christ. Christ or Claude—which?
A verse, which I had learned as a child, came suddenly into my mind,
and looking up to the sky above me, in which the sun was once more
shining, I repeated it aloud, for it seemed exactly to express the
earnest cry of my soul:
"My heart is fixed, O God,
Fixed on Thee;
And my eternal choice is made,
Christ for me."
Christ for me. Christ's smile, Christ's favour, Christ's blessing;
these are my choice. Whatever it costs me, I cannot, I will not, give
them up.
I knelt down, and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing
me the clear, the sure, the right way for me to take. And then I took
up my pen to answer Claude's letter.
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