MAGGIE'S AUNTS.
[Illustration] 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 ease.
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 dreamt 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,
dear, 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 any one, 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 dreamt that there was a touching
little love story hidden away somewhere in her past history. I had
never dreamt 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
sympathise 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 realise 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 afterwards, 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 realise 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
afterwards 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 steps 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 arm-chairs, 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
draught 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 were 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 arm-chairs 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 foot-marks on the clean floors, or to soil
the clean coverings of the chairs and sofas. And the regularity and
punctuality in the house quite equalled 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 any one 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 got 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 favourite 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,
earthy, 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 on heaven.
The next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House, and was received
by the sisters with all respect and dignity. I was practising 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.
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