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CLAUDE BURNS THE LETTERS.
"Oh, only some rubbishy old bills," said Claude, impatiently; "those Oxford tradesmen are the greatest scoundrels on the face of the earth! It's always their way! But the best plan is to take no notice of them; shy their bills into the fire, and leave them alone."
And, in spite of Alice's remonstrances, he walked to the fireplace, and thrust a roll of letters, which he took from his pocket, into the flames, and watched them turn to ashes.
"They will send them in again, Claude," said Alice, gravely.
"Then I shall burn them again," he said, with a laugh; "the rascals ought to know better!"
"But are you quite sure they are wrong, Claude?" she said, as they went back to the window. "Are you quite sure you never bought any of the things? Have you looked them carefully through?"
"Oh, I know all about it," said Claude, in a vexed voice; "do let it alone, dear. I have plenty of money to pay them all, if necessary; so please leave me to manage my own affairs. There's a splendid leader in the 'Times' to-day, Miss Trafford; have you read it?" he said, turning to Evelyn, and beginning a conversation with her on the politics of Europe.
Alice Fitzgerald left the window, took her work out of her pocket, and sat on a low stool by the fire; but she did not recover her usual good spirits for some time afterwards.
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WAS THE PROMISE BINDING?
image032FROM this time, as the spring advanced, Evelyn began to grow much stronger, and the doctors seemed very hopeful that she would soon be able entirely to leave off her invalid habits. She was strong enough to go upstairs and downstairs quite comfortably; and although she still spent a good deal of time on her couch, it was more because Sir William insisted upon it than because she felt it really necessary.
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FROM this time, as the spring advanced, Evelyn began to grow much stronger, and the doctors seemed very hopeful that she would soon be able entirely to leave off her invalid habits. She was strong enough to go upstairs and downstairs quite comfortably; and although she still spent a good deal of time on her couch, it was more because Sir William insisted upon it than because she felt it really necessary.
I began to think that my stay at Alliston Hall was drawing to a close, for when Evelyn was able to return to the gay and active life that she had led before her illness, she would not need me any longer; but when I once hinted at something of the kind to her, she vehemently declared that I should never leave her, and that she should be ill again directly, if I were to go away.
If I had had a pleasant life before, it was still more pleasant now; for we were able to drive out together, or to sit with our work on a seat on the lawn whenever the weather was warm enough.
I shall never forget that spring. Everything looked so lovely in that beautiful park. The long avenue with its budding trees; the soft, fresh green of the grass; the woods yellow with primroses, and the birds singing their happy songs in the trees; everything seemed full of life and of joy.
Evelyn was like a bird which has been long shut up in a cage and has suddenly regained its liberty. Her merry laugh was to be heard almost all day long, and her light step, as she went about the house again, showed that she was fast recovering her health and strength.
Yet one thought troubled me. Could it be that the opportunity was gone—that I should never now be able to lead her to think seriously about her soul and about eternity? I had tried so very often since my visit to Branston to begin to talk to her about these things, but the attempt had always ended in failure; and though I prayed most earnestly that God would make a way for me, and give me the opportunity for which I was now eagerly watching, yet no way seemed to be opened, no opportunity seemed to be given. And now Evelyn was getting well, and what chance was there that she would be led to think seriously when all around her was so bright and pleasant? Still I prayed on.
I had found out a few poor people in the neighbourhood of Alliston Hall, amongst whom I was able to do a little work for the Master. There were one or two old people who were glad for me to read to them; and there was a girl, dying in consumption, who was always pleased to see me. Thus, whenever I managed to get an afternoon for myself, when Evelyn was engaged with visitors, or was driving out with her father, I went across the park to visit these poor people, and always came back feeling refreshed in mind and body.
One afternoon I had been out rather longer than usual. I had left Evelyn busy with her letters, and, as it was now past post-time, I was afraid she would be wanting me, and would think that I had been a long time away. So, as soon as I had dressed for dinner, I hurried down to Evelyn's room.
As I came up to the door I heard a voice inside, and when I went in, I found to my astonishment, that a young man was there. He was sitting on a footstool in front of the fire, stroking Evelyn's little dog, and was apparently quite at his ease. He was a very handsome man, tall and well-built, with fine features and large dark eyes.
Who could he be? Where had he come from? I had not heard that any visitors were expected that day, and I was utterly at a loss to account for his sudden appearance.
He jumped up when I came into the room, and threw himself into the arm-chair by the fire.
"This is Cousin Donald, May," said Evelyn as I came up to her; "do you think papa will be very angry with him for coming?"
"Oh no, of course not; why should he be?" said Mr. Trafford carelessly. "When a poor fellow has been toiling away day after day for months, it would be a crying shame to grudge him a little change of air when he happens to get a day's holiday."
"Don't you like the bank any better, Donald?" asked Evelyn.
"Any better!" exclaimed Mr. Trafford, starting from his seat. "I hate it, Evelyn. I shall run away some day, I declare I shall."
"Oh no, you won't, there's a dear, good Donald," she said; "papa would be so angry."
"I can't help that, Evelyn," he said; "you would run away if you were in my place; it is nothing but work, work, work, day after day, and I hate work. I can't help it, it is my nature. I was never meant to work; some people are, and they like work; but I never did and never shall."
At this moment Sir William's step was heard in the corridor.
"Here's papa," said Evelyn, hurriedly; "oh, Donald, I wonder what he will say."
"I don't care," said Mr. Trafford, with a laugh; "if the old gentleman has the least sense of—"
But here the door opened, and Sir William came in.
His nephew rose to meet him in the most affectionate and confident manner, and as if he were perfectly sure of a welcome.
"Well, uncle, how are you?" he said. "I'm so glad to find Evelyn better; it is so nice to see you again, uncle."
Sir William took his hand and shook it coldly. "And pray where did you come from, Donald?" he said, sternly.
"Why, the fact is, uncle," said the young man, "to-day is a bank holiday, and I have been working so hard lately that I thought a little fresh air would set me up again, and as I had not seen you for such a long time, I thought I would look you up."
"When I was a young man, Donald," said his uncle, dryly, "I waited for an invitation before I went to visit my friends."
Mr. Trafford coloured, but he answered gaily: "I can put up at the 'Royal Oak,' to-night, uncle, if it is at all inconvenient for me to stay here; I did not think the house would be full at this time of the year."
Sir William did not answer him, but turning to Evelyn, told her that the gong had sounded, and asked her if she wished to go downstairs to dinner.
"No, papa," said Evelyn; "I think May and I will dine upstairs. I feel rather tired this evening."
"Very well, then, we will go downstairs, Donald," said Sir William; and they left the room.
"Oh dear, May," said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut, "I am afraid papa is very angry; I never saw him look so vexed before. But I don't know why he should be so angry, do you? It isn't as if Donald was no relation of ours, and I am sure he is very nice. I can't think why papa is always so vexed when he comes here."
"I am very sorry you are so tired, Evelyn dear," I said, as I made her lie down on the sofa till dinner was brought upstairs.
"Oh, I'm not so very tired, May," she said, "but I wanted papa and Donald to have dinner alone, because, don't you see, papa will be obliged to talk to him now. If we were there, I know just how it would be. Papa would talk to you and talk to me, and hardly say a word to Donald. But now, you see, he must talk to him, because there is no one else there, and you will see they will be quite friendly after dinner; at least, matters will be much better than they are now."
And, to a certain extent, Evelyn was right. When we went into the library we found Mr. Trafford sitting comfortably in an easy chair, with the "Times" newspaper in his hand, discussing the events of the day with his uncle, apparently quite at his ease, and looking as comfortable as if his presence in Alliston Hall was the result of an urgent and pressing invitation.
And Sir William? He was not at his ease. I could see that by his tightly compressed mouth when his nephew was speaking, and by the careful way in which he tried to engross Evelyn's attention as soon as she came into the room. But still I could see that he found it very difficult to keep up any appearance of displeasure in the face of Mr. Trafford's pleasant, cheerful manner, and almost impossible to quarrel with a man who was quite determined not to quarrel with him.
Evelyn was very silent the whole evening, and seemed in bad spirits. She talked a little to me, but she very seldom spoke to her father or her cousin. Altogether it was a most uncomfortable evening, and I was not sorry when it was over.
The next day we did not see much of Mr. Trafford, for Sir William took him out with him after breakfast, and managed to keep him to himself nearly the whole day. Only once, when Sir William was unavoidably absent for a short time, was he left in the library with Evelyn and me.
"I wish you liked the bank better, Donald," said Evelyn, as soon as her father had left the room.
"I never shall like it better, Evelyn," he said, impetuously; "it is absurd my trying to live in London on the miserable allowance I get there. It is utterly ridiculous; no gentleman could do it."
"But, Donald," Evelyn said, "you really should be more careful of your money; you ought never to have bought—"
At a sign from him, she stopped suddenly short in what she was saying.
"You really ought not; ought you, Donald?" she said, instead.
"Yes I ought, Evelyn," he said, in rather an annoyed voice; "it's all right. But it is really absurd their paying a fellow such a miserable salary. I don't mean to stand it much longer. I shall run away, and try my fortune somewhere else."
"Oh no, Donald dear, you must not run away," said Evelyn, beseechingly; "just think how angry papa would be!"
But just then Sir William came back, and invited Mr. Trafford to walk with him as far as his farm-bailiff's house, and we did not see him again until he came to take leave of us before starting for the railway station. He whispered something to Evelyn as he bent over her to say good-bye, and I distinctly caught the words, "Remember—promise;" and then he hastily shook hands with me and went out of the room.
I never knew Evelyn so difficult to please as she was that evening. Nothing that I did seemed to be right, and she was fretful and tired; and even when her father was in the room, she made no effort to rouse herself or to talk to him.
Sir William looked at her very anxiously from time to time. I could see that he attributed this change in her to her cousin's visit, and I heard him once expressing a hope that that was the very last time that Master Donald would come without an invitation; he did not approve of the free-and-easy manners of the rising generation, and he was glad that he had spoken to him pretty plainly on the subject.
Evelyn went early to bed, and I went to my room, but not to sleep. I felt very unhappy and perplexed. These two words which I had heard, against my will, haunted me: "'Remember—promise.'"
What did he mean by it? What was Evelyn to remember, and what promise had she made which she would not either speak to her father or to me? It was so unlike Evelyn to keep a secret. She generally came out with everything at once, and told me just what she was thinking about. I felt sure that this must be something she did not wish her father to know, and the thought troubled me very much indeed.
As I got up the next morning, I prayed for grace and strength to help me, if possible, to influence Evelyn to do what was right.
I found her in a very different frame of mind from what she had been the night before. She was still silent, and looked unhappy, but she was very loving and affectionate to me.
"May, darling," she said, as she put her arms round my neck, and kissed me, "are you very angry with me?"
"Angry with you? No indeed, Evelyn," I said; "why should I be angry?"
"Oh, I was so horrid to you last night, I know I was; I can't bear to think how nasty and disagreeable I was. How you must have hated me!"
"No, Evelyn dear," I said; "you were only tired and—"
"And what?" she said.
"And troubled, were you not, dear?" I ventured to say. "Troubled about something of which I did not know, and so could not sympathise with you."
"Yes," she said, "I was very bothered and troubled, and I wanted to tell you about it so much; but I did not know whether I ought to do so."
I did not answer her, but went on quietly with my work.
After a minute or two she said in a whisper: "May, I'm not going to tell you anything, but I'm going to show you something. That won't be telling, will it? Hush! Is that any one coming? No, it is no one coming; it is only Clemence going downstairs; but, mind, if the door opens, you must look just the same as usual, and not say a word. Mind!"
She drew from her pocket a little leathern case and opened it. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring.
"Isn't it pretty?" she asked, as she showed it to me.
"Very pretty," I said, "very beautiful. Did Sir William give it to you?"
"Oh no," she said; "papa does not know anything about it, and I must not tell him. You can guess who gave it to me; I am not going to tell you, but you can guess. And then, don't you see, if you know about it, then I can wear it sometimes; it seems such a pity never to wear it. I can put it on now and then, when we are here alone, and slip it off if I hear any one coming. Don't you think so, May dear? How grave you look!" she said, in an altered voice. "What is the matter? Are you very angry with me?"
"Not angry," I said, "not angry, Evelyn; but I feel troubled about what you have told me. Why don't you tell your father about it, dear?"
"Oh, I could not," she said; "he would be so vexed, so very vexed. I dare not tell him."
"Why do you think he would be vexed?" I asked.
"Oh, because it must have cost such a great deal of money. Look, May, they are real diamonds; and Donald has so little money to spend, and papa thinks he is so very extravagant. There! I've told you who gave it to me; I did not mean to do so, but of course you had guessed before."
"I think it would be much better if you told Sir William," I said; "he might be a little vexed at first with your cousin for giving so much money for it, but I am sure he would be far more vexed if, by any means, he found out that Mr. Trafford had given it to you, and yet you had never told him of it."
"Yes," she said, "I know he would; but the worst of it is, that isn't all, May; if I told him that, I should have to tell him something else—I could not stop half-way."
"But I think you ought to tell him all," I said, "and to hide nothing from him which you feel he ought to know. You would be much happier, Evelyn, if you told him."
"Yes," she said, "I know I should; but then you see I promised not to tell him, and it would never do to break my promise."
"But if you promised to do what was wrong," I said, "it can surely not be right to keep your promise."
"Do you think so, May?" she said. "I thought it was a dreadful thing to break a promise."
"Yes, so it is," I answered, "if there is nothing wrong in what we have promised; but if conscience tells us afterwards that we ought never to have made the promise, and that we cannot keep it without doing what is wrong, then I feel sure that we ought to break it."
"Do you think so?" she said again.
"I am sure of it," I answered. "It is wrong to promise to do what is wrong, but to keep the promise is doubly wrong."
"I don't see that at all," she said; "I think if you promise to do anything, you ought to keep your promise, whether the thing is right or wrong."
"Suppose I should promise some enemy of yours that I would poison you, Evelyn," I said; "that would be wrong, would it not."
"Yes, very wrong," she said, laughing, though she had tears in her eyes; "what a dreadful illustration to use!"
"Never mind, it will show you what I mean. It would be very wrong of me to promise to do such a wicked thing, but it would be still worse if I kept my promise, and really did poison you; now, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she said, "I see; of course it would!"
"Well," I answered, "I think that rule applies to all promises. It is wrong to promise to do what is not right, but it is doubly wrong to keep our promise, and to do it; because, you see, that is only adding sin to sin. The making the promise is one wrong action, and the fulfilling the promise is only adding to it another and a still worse action."
"I never thought of that before," she said; "I have been wishing ever since that I had not promised not to tell papa. You see, May, I promised Donald that afternoon, before you came in, that some day or other I would be his little wife. I know I ought not to have promised him, but he was so nice and seemed to love me so much. He said he had brought that ring with him that I might always keep it near me, and that whenever I looked at it I might think of my promise. And then he said that I must not tell papa, because he would be so very angry if he knew. I told Donald that I should be obliged to tell papa, for how could we ever be married if papa did not know about it?"
"And what did Mr. Trafford say?" I asked.
"Oh, he said there was plenty of time for that—we could not be married for many a long day, and he would tell papa himself some day. So then he made me promise not to tell him till he gave me leave; and just then you came into the room, and we could not talk any more about it. I do wish I had never promised him."
"Yes, it was a great pity," I said; "but now I think the best thing you can do is to write to Mr. Trafford, and tell him you feel you were very wrong to make the promise, and that you feel it would be still worse to keep it."
"Do you think that would be a good plan?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "I am sure it is what you ought to do, Evelyn."
She did not answer me at once, but sat looking into the fire and thinking.
I sent up an earnest prayer that she might be led to do what was right.
Presently she looked up at me, and said: "I can't do it, May, it is no use thinking of it; I can't tell papa. Donald would be so angry; I don't think he would ever forgive me."
"Evelyn," I said, "you remember Herod's promise to give the daughter of Herodias whatever she asked for; and you remember why he kept that promise, even when the keeping of it made him commit murder."
"Yes," she said; "doesn't it say it was because of his oath's sake; I suppose Herod did not like to break his word."
"And Evelyn," I said, "there is another reason given; do you remember what comes next?"
"No; what is it?" she asked.
"And because of 'them which sat with him at meat.' I think that was the real reason why Herod kept his word. It was not because he minded breaking his promise—he was not the kind of man to mind that—but it was because he was afraid of what his friends might say or think; he may have thought, too, that his wife would never forgive him, and so he kept his promise, and cut off John Baptist's head—he was not brave enough to do what he knew was right."
Evelyn covered her face with her hands and cried.
I sat beside her and put my arm round her, and we sat thus for some time in silence.
Then she suddenly jumped up, went to the table, opened her portfolio, and began to write.
"I am going to be very brave, May," she said, as she smiled through her tears.
What Evelyn said to her cousin I do not know, but she cried a great deal whilst she was writing it. Then she slipped the letter into her pocket.
"It won't do to put it into the post-bag," she said; "we will got out at the post office, and post it when we drive out this afternoon, and then I will tell papa this evening, after dinner."
Oh, how thankful I was to hear her express this determination! I felt as if a great load had been lifted off my heart.
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EVELYN'S CONFESSION.
image035EVELYN was very pale, and trembled very much, as dinner time drew near. She went downstairs as usual, and tried to talk to her father, and to appear as if nothing was the matter; but I could see that it was a very great effort for her to do so, and that she was dreading the time when her secret must be told. She had posted the letter to her cousin that afternoon, so it was too late to draw back; and I do not think that she wished to do so, but she dreaded her father's displeasure, and longed to feel that the trying disclosure was made.
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EVELYN was very pale, and trembled very much, as dinner time drew near. She went downstairs as usual, and tried to talk to her father, and to appear as if nothing was the matter; but I could see that it was a very great effort for her to do so, and that she was dreading the time when her secret must be told. She had posted the letter to her cousin that afternoon, so it was too late to draw back; and I do not think that she wished to do so, but she dreaded her father's displeasure, and longed to feel that the trying disclosure was made.
When dinner was over we went into the library, and Sir William made Evelyn lie down on her couch, for he had noticed that she was pale and tired, and I, according to previous arrangement with Evelyn, made some excuse for leaving the room, and left her alone with her father.
I went upstairs into Evelyn's room, and sat waiting for the result, and praying that she might have courage to tell Sir William all, and that he might not be very angry. It seemed a long time before any one came. I took up a book and tried to read, but, though my eyes followed the words, I could not fix my thoughts upon what I was reading. Then I tried to sew, but that attempt was also a failure. So I went to the window, and sat looking out at the setting sun till the room grew dark. Then Clemence, Evelyn's maid, came into the room for something, and, seeing that I was in darkness, she lighted the gas, and drew the curtains, and then once more I was left alone.
At last I heard a step on the stairs. It was Sir William, and he was coming up alone. He came into the room, and shut the door behind him, and, coming up to me, he said kindly:
"Miss Lindsay, I have to thank you for the kind way in which you have influenced Evelyn to-day. She tells me that it is entirely owing to you, that she has been led to confess to me her foolish conduct."
"I am quite sure, Sir William," I said, "that Evelyn is very thankful that she has told you. She loves you so much, that it was misery for her to feel she was deceiving you."
"Yes, poor child!" he said. "She has suffered a great deal these last two days. I do not blame her; of course she acted very wrongly, but the chief fault does not lie at her door."
I did not answer, and he went on:
"That nephew of mine wants putting in his proper place. I hope this will be a lesson that he will not forget! I shall not spare him, I can tell you. I ant afraid he is a designing fellow! Evelyn does not see through him, of course, but I do; and I shall let him know it too. But I need not trouble you with this, Miss Lindsay," he said, as he rose to leave the room. "I just wanted to thank you very much indeed for being a true, wise friend to my dear child, and to tell you how I value the influence you have over her."
This was a great deal for Sir William to say. He had never before given even the slightest hint that he was pleased with anything I did. He was a very silent man, and seldom expressed his feelings, and, therefore, a few words of praise from him were worth double what they would have been had they come from any one else, and I felt very thankful that God had enabled me to please him in this matter.
"Evelyn is coming upstairs now, Miss Lindsay," said Sir William, as he left the room; "will you be so kind as to see that she goes to bed at once?"
I promised to do so, and presently he brought her upstairs.
She looked very tired and troubled, and her eyes were swollen with crying, but she put her arms round my neck and kissed me, and was very loving and affectionate to me. When her father had gone downstairs she said:
"Oh, May! I am so glad I told papa, so very glad; I am so much happier now."
"I was sure you would be, Evelyn dear," I said; "it is terrible to have a secret like that weighing on the mind."
"Yes," she said, "I am very glad I told him; but oh, May, he was so angry—not with me, not half enough with me; he would not see that it was my fault, but he was terribly angry with Donald."
"I do not think you can be surprised at that, Evelyn dear," I said; "I do not think Mr. Trafford behaved honourably, and Sir William is such an honourable man himself that he felt it very keenly."
"Yes, perhaps so," she said; "but I don't think Donald meant any harm. Poor Donald does not think before he does things; he—"
But I would not let Evelyn talk any more about it that night, but rang the bell for Clemence, and went with her to her bedroom.
She kissed me at the door, and as she said "good-night," she whispered:
"Papa has taken that ring, May; he says it must have cost at least £50, and he is sure Donald has no money to pay for it."
The next morning no one alluded to what had happened the night before; even when we were alone Evelyn did not seem inclined to speak of it, and I made every effort that I could to turn her thoughts into another channel.
Sir William spent most of that day in his private room writing letters, and we seldom saw him, but he was very tender and loving to Evelyn whenever he came into the room, and seemed anxious to make her feel how entirely he had forgiven her.
Evelyn and I were sitting together at the window with our work, when the man started for the village with the post-bag. Evelyn watched it out of sight, and then turned to me with a sorrowful face:
"Poor Donald!" she said. "What will he say when he gets it?"
It was the first time that she had mentioned her cousin that day.
I begged her to try not to think of what he would say, but to feel very thankful that she had done what was right, and could now look her father in the face with a happy heart.
It must have been, I think, two days after this that, as Evelyn was lying on the sofa reading, and I was sitting beside her writing a letter, we heard a carriage coming quickly up the avenue.
"A carriage!" said Evelyn. "I wonder who is coming! Just look-out, May."
I went to the window, but I did not know the carriage at all, and as it came nearer I saw that it was a hired one, and that there was one gentleman inside.
"Can you see who it is?" Evelyn asked.
"I can see him, Evelyn," I said, "but I do not know who it is; it is no one that I have ever seen before. I think he wants Sir William; he and Ambrose have come out upon the drive together, and Ambrose is pointing in various directions. There! He has sent the carriage away; he is evidently going to stay!"
"This is quite exciting!" said Evelyn, laughing. "I must come and look."
She put down her book, got up from the sofa, and came to the window.
Ambrose was still talking to the strange gentleman in the middle of the drive, and pointing to the various parts of the park, as if he were trying to tell him where Sir William had gone.
"Oh, May," she said, "it is Uncle Edward; what can he want?"
"Uncle Edward?" I repeated.
"Yes," she said, "Donald's father. Oh, I wonder why he has come! I am sure it is about Donald. What can be the matter?"
She sat down looking quite faint and ill.
"Don't be troubled about it, Evelyn dear," I said, "very likely your uncle has only come in answer to Sir William's letter. Sir William would be sure to write to him about what you told him the other night; would he not? And most probably your uncle wants to talk it over with him."
"Oh yes," she said, "that must be it; do you think I should go down and speak to Uncle Edward?"
"No," I said, "you must lie down directly; you do not look at all fit to go downstairs, and I will tell Ambrose to ask your uncle to come up here."
But before I had time to carry out my intention the door opened, and Mr. Edward Trafford came in.
"How do you do, Evelyn, my dear?" he said, in an agitated voice. "Can you tell me in which direction your father has gone? Ambrose has been trying to explain to me, but I could not quite make out what he meant, these different turnings in the park are so bewildering."
"Had not you better wait, uncle, till papa comes back?" said Evelyn; "I do not think he can be long now, and you might miss him if you went to meet him."
"Yes," he said, "so I might; I think I will wait."
"You will have luncheon, uncle?" said Evelyn.
"No, no! Indeed, my dear," said her uncle; "no, I had something as I came along—no, I could not touch anything now. I will go downstairs and look if I can see your father coming."
"Is anything the matter, uncle?" asked Evelyn, anxiously. "Are any of them ill at home?"
"Oh no," he said, hurriedly, "no, dear, no one is ill. I just want to see your father on business."
He was very pale and agitated, and looked, Evelyn said, years older than when she had seen him last.
We watched him go out upon the drive again, and look first in one direction and then in another. Then he passed up and down in front of the house for more than half an hour, looking troubled and distressed, and with his eyes fixed on the ground, but glancing up hastily every few minutes to see if his brother was in sight.
At last Sir William appeared, and we saw the brothers meet. They did not come into the house, but they turned into one of the private walks in the park, and paced up and down, backwards and forwards, for more than an hour. Each time that they turned round they came for some little distance within sight of the house, and then they were hidden from our view by the trees, and we could not see them again till they came back to the same place. They seemed to be talking very earnestly, and now and again they stood still and spoke to each other face to face, as though they were arguing some important point, on which they could not agree, or at least could not come to any satisfactory conclusion.
Evelyn was very restless the whole time. She began to follow the example of her father and uncle, and to pace up and down the room; but I insisted on her putting her feet up on the sofa and remaining quiet.
At length the two gentlemen brought their walk and their talk to a conclusion, and came towards the house. Sir William ran upstairs as soon as he came in.
"How are you, my dear child?" he said to Evelyn, even more tenderly than usual. "You look so pale. Please take care of her, Miss Lindsay, and make her lie down."
"What is the matter, papa?" whispered Evelyn, whilst I prepared to leave the room, thinking Sir William might wish to speak to her alone.
"Oh, I will tell you about it afterwards, dear," said her father; "it is some rather unpleasant business about which your uncle wanted to see me. Don't go away, please, Miss Lindsay; we have letters to write at once, I must not stay now."
In spite of Evelyn's pleading glances, Sir William went downstairs, and he and his brother, after hastily partaking of dinner, spent the rest of the evening together in Sir William's private room.
"What can it be?" Evelyn kept saying. "What can papa mean by unpleasant business? It can't be about what I told him the other night, or he would have said so. What can be the matter?"
Of course, I could not help her to find out, we could only wonder and wait.
Mr. Edward Trafford left the next morning at a very early hour, that he might catch the first train for London. Sir William and I were alone at breakfast, for Evelyn was not well enough to rise.
"How is Evelyn this morning?" said Sir William, anxiously, as I entered the room.
I told him that she had had a bad night, and was still in bed.
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" he said. "I will not tell her to-day; I think it might upset her still more; I will wait till she is somewhat better."
"Don't you think, Sir William," I ventured to say, "that the suspense of not knowing what is the matter is worse for Evelyn than knowing the truth?"
"Well, perhaps you are right, Miss Lindsay," he said; "I will tell her after breakfast."
"I hope it is no great trouble, Sir William?"
"Well, it is a most unpleasant business," he said; "the fact is, that nephew of mine is a downright rascal. What poor Evelyn ever saw to admire in him I never could tell. I always knew he was good-for-nothing but mischief, and he has proved I was right. I will tell you about it, Miss Lindsay, and then you can advise me as to the best way of telling Evelyn. You know my brother was here yesterday—poor fellow, he is dreadfully crushed by it! I am very sorry for him, although, as I could not help telling him, he has himself to blame for it. He was so weak with that boy; he gave him everything he wanted as a child, and spoiled him, and pampered him, and petted him, and let him order every one in the house about, and then was foolish enough to expect him, after this, to turn out well, and to earn his own living.
"But to make a long story short, my brother received a telegram the night before last, telling him that his son had run off from the bank, taking more than £500 with him. No one knows where he is gone, and, of course, detectives have been sent off in all directions to catch him, and his poor father is quite weighed down with shame and sorrow. If he is found, of course he will get a long term of imprisonment; and, if he escapes, it is not likely that his friends will ever hear of him again, for he will never dare to come to England."
"Where do they think he has gone?" I asked.
"Probably to Spain," Sir William said, "but we cannot tell. And now, what do you think about my telling Evelyn? I am afraid it will upset her very much!"
"Yes," I said, "I am afraid it will; she will feel it dreadfully, but still I almost think it would be better to tell her, for she must know some time, and she will be less able to bear it if she is kept longer in suspense."
"Well," said Sir William, "I believe you are right, Miss Lindsay; I will go upstairs now; it will be better to get it over."
I sat waiting his return in the library, but more than an hour passed before he reappeared. Then he said, "I have told her, Miss Lindsay, and she bore it better than I expected, poor child. Will you go upstairs and try to comfort her a little?"
I went upstairs, and found Evelyn still in bed; her face was buried in the pillow, and she was crying bitterly. I sat down beside her without speaking for some time, just holding her hand in mine, to show her how much I was feeling for her. What could I say to comfort her? I hardly knew what to say, and perhaps, after all, silent sympathy was the best.
At length, after a long time, she grew calmer, and then she said, without uncovering her face:
"Oh, May, isn't it dreadful?"
"Yes, darling," I said, "I am very, very sorry; I had no idea it was anything so dreadful as that!"
"No," she said, "and I am sure I had not; the very worst that I could think of was that Donald had got very badly into debt, and had wasted all his money. I never dreamt that he—"
But here she burst into tears, and could not go on with what she was saying.
"Evelyn, dear," I said, "for your father's sake, try not to make yourself ill; he is so fond of you, and so distressed at the thought of what this trouble must be to you."
"Yes," she said through her tears, "papa has been so kind, so very, very kind. He told me that it was because he loved me so much that he could not bear to think of me caring for Donald. Papa says he always thought that Donald was good-for-nothing; but he seemed so nice, May, so very nice he was to me. I knew he was foolish and careless, but I never thought he could do a wicked thing like that!"
Evelyn had stopped crying now, and could talk quite calmly.
"Do you remember, May," she said, "when he was here last, something that Donald said to you and to me about running away?"
"Yes," I said, "I remember it quite well; he mentioned it twice when I was in the room."
"Yes," she said, "so he did. Oh, May, could he have been thinking of taking the money then?"
"I do not know, dear," I said, "we must hope not; we must hope that he yielded to a sudden temptation, and that he has been sorry for it ever since."
"Oh, May, I am afraid not," said Evelyn; "do you know I seem to see Donald in quite a different light from what I did before,—more as papa has been seeing him all the time. I am afraid papa was right about him, May, and I was wrong. Ah! Poor, poor Donald!"
"Will you ring for Clemence, May?" Evelyn said, a few minutes after this, "and I will get up; I shall feel better if I am dressed and in the other room."
But the other room made very little difference in poor Evelyn's spirits. She tried to work, she tried to read, she tried to write, but all were alike impossible; her thoughts were ever busy with her trouble, and every attempt to divert them was in vain.
As the day went on, she talked much more, and it seemed a relief to her to tell me everything that her father had told her that morning.
"May," she said, "did papa tell you about the ring?"
"No," I said, "he only just told me in a few words what was the matter, that I might be able to tell him whether I thought it would be better to tell you about it at once, or to wait until to-morrow."
"Oh, I am so glad you asked him to tell me to-day," said Evelyn; "it would have been dreadful to have waited all that time, and not to have known what was the matter. But I was going to tell you about the ring. You know Uncle Edward went, first of all, as soon as he received the telegram, to London, that he might hear all he could about Donald's disappearance. He went, amongst other places, to his lodgings, and looked about the room, and turned over all his papers, to see if he had left any note behind him; and do you know Uncle Edward found such a quantity of bills, most of them unopened, and all of them unpaid, and amongst others there was one from a London jeweller for a diamond ring worth £75. Uncle Edward could not imagine why Donald had bought such an expensive ring, and said it would be a very heavy sum to pay, for he means to pay as many of the tradesmen as he can. So then papa told him the story of the ring, and gave it back to him, that he might return it to the jeweller instead of paying the bill. Uncle Edward was very much annoyed that Donald should have treated papa so badly, after papa's kindness to him, for he would never have got that good place in the bank if it had not been for papa."
Oh, how I wondered if this was the opportunity for which I had been praying so long, the opportunity of speaking to my dear Evelyn about eternal things, and of leading her to the Saviour. I hoped it was, and I turned the hope into an earnest prayer, that I might have the wisdom to follow as God should lead, to step into the door as soon as ever His hand opened it. Once or twice I thought of speaking, but then again I felt, perhaps, that, till the first burst of her sorrow was over, it was wiser to be silent. But a sweet thought came across me as I sat at my work that evening, that, after all, the nearest way to reach the heart of one we love is to go round by heaven; and I tried, oh, how earnestly, to reach Evelyn's heart in that way.