Was I right?

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

"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.