"Is Donald much older than you?" I asked.
"Yes, he's six years older," said Evelyn. "Papa and mamma had been married a long time, and they thought they would not have any children of their own, so papa was talking of adopting Cousin Donald, and educating him and leaving the property to him. Uncle and aunt were pleased about it, because they have so many children. Cousin Donald is the eldest of thirteen now, and there were plenty of them even then, so they were quite willing to spare him to papa. But of course when I came I put an end to that little plan," she said, laughing.
"And where is your cousin Donald now?"
"Oh, poor fellow, he's in a bank, and he does so hate doing sums. He always did. They make his head ache, he says. He likes riding and shooting and fishing, and all such things; just the kind of life he would have had here, you know. It is hard for him, is it not? And I am afraid Donald is rather lazy, and they say he wastes his money. But he is so good looking, and I really think he cannot help it -- yes, I really think he cannot help it."
"Cannot help what?" I inquired.
"Oh, being extravagant," Evelyn explained. "He buys all sorts of unnecessary things, and the money goes fast. But it must be so hard to see nice things and not to be able to buy them. I would never be able to do that. As soon as ever I see anything I like, I send into the shop and have it brought out to me at once."
I smiled to myself as I went on with my work, for I was thinking how different Evelyn's experience had been from mine. She seemed to guess my thoughts.
"I suppose you have not always had everything that you needed and wished for?" she said.
"Everything I really needed -- yes," I answered. "Everything I may have wished for -- no."
"Oh dear, was it not tiresome?" she asked.
"I think it was good for me," I said.
"Good for you?" she repeated. "That's just like the brown alpaca. How could it be good for you?"
"I think it made me enjoy all the more the good things which were given me," I said; "things that perhaps you might have thought nothing of, and things which would have given you no pleasure at all."
"What sort of things?" asked Evelyn, sounding interested.
"Oh, any little present that was given me. Any new book, or picture; any little pleasure or treat of any kind. We had so few new things, that when anything fresh came it was prized and valued more than I can tell you. I really think it gave us more enjoyment than far grander things would give you."
"Oh, I dare say," said Evelyn. "There are some things that I wish for, and then when they come I don't care for them. If you only saw the number of books on those shelves which have never even been opened. I wished for them, and ordered them, but when they arrived I'd given up wishing for them, and I've never begun to read them."
I thought of the little shelves at home which had held my small library, each volume of which was the prized gift of some friend, and which had been read and re-read until I knew their contents almost by heart.
Before I had been long at Alliston Hall I came to the conclusion that the enjoyment of this life is much more evenly distributed than many of us think. For where pleasures are many, the enjoyment that they give is comparatively small. But where pleasures are few and far between, they cause so much more enjoyment, and the lives of those who receive them are quite as full of sunshine and brightness as they would be if their pleasures were more in number.
Chapter Seven
MY LIFE at Alliston Hall was a happy one. Day after day went by without any care or anxiety, and everyone was so kind to me that I could not feel lonely or homeless any longer.
The more I knew of Evelyn Trafford the more I loved her. In spite of her light, careless way of talking, there was a great deal of genuinely kind feeling in her, and I am sure she did all in her power to make me happy. I never once remember, the whole time I was with her, feeling uncomfortable on account of my position in the house. Both Sir William and Evelyn treated me as if I was one of the family, and I received nothing but kindness from their numerous visitors and friends. Lady Eldridge was the only exception. Whenever she made her appearance at Alliston Hall, she thought it her duty to keep me fully aware who she, Lady Eldridge, was, and who I, May Lindsay, was, and of the immense and immeasurable distance between us.
The guests at Alliston Hall did not pay long visits, so I had constant change and variety in my life, and heard and saw a great deal more of the outer world than I had in our quiet country home.
And yet, although everything around me was so pleasant, and though everyone was so kind to me, I had not been many months at Alliston Hall before I began to feel restless and unhappy. I felt that I was not walking so closely with God as I had done before, but had become cold and careless, rising late in the morning and hurrying over my prayer and Bible reading, and then going through the day hardly ever thinking of my Lord or trying to please Him. But though I had so often forgotten Him, He still remembered me.
It was Sunday afternoon. Evelyn had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I went out into the garden until she awoke. There had been showers all morning, but now the sun was shining brightly, and the raindrops were sparkling like diamonds on the grass.
I went along one of the grassy terraces and turned down a quiet path, shut in by evergreens, which led by a gentle descent down to the sea. This was my favourite walk, and I always chose it when I came out alone. There were several seats on this path, positioned so as to catch a peep of the sea through the shrubs and trees which grew down to its edge.
As I turned a corner in this winding path I suddenly came upon Miss Lilla Irvine, sitting on one of the seats reading her Bible. I apologized for disturbing her, and was going to turn back, when she asked me to stay a little and read with her.
"You and I love the same Lord, May," she said. "I know we do, and I think it would help us to talk together of Him sometimes. At least," she added, "I am sure it would help me."
"Oh, Miss Irvine," I said, as I sat down beside her, "if you only knew."
"If I only knew what?" she said gently.
"If you only knew how careless I have been lately. I have hardly thought about Him at all."
"What has been the matter, May?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "I think everything has been too smooth and nice lately. Somehow, it is easier to do right when the road is rather rough. Don't you think it is, Miss Irvine?"
"Yes," she said, "when things go wrong, and all seems against us, we are driven to prayer. But we ought not to need driving into our dear Lord's presence."
"I wish I could come back, Miss Irvine," I said, "but it's easier to get wrong than to get right again. I got up this morning rather earlier and tried to pray, but I couldn't fix my thoughts on what I was saying. All sorts of things kept coming into my mind, and I gave it up at last."
"I think," she said, "that the Holy Spirit has been grieved, and without His help we cannot pray."
"Then what do you think I should do?" I asked.
"I think," she said, "you should go back to the Lord, just in the same spirit in which you first came to Him. Ask Him to receive you to take away all the sin which is separating you from Him, and to give you the comfort of His presence again."
I left her sitting there, and went on down the winding shady path to the sea. It was a quiet, solitary place. The only sounds were the splashing of the waves on the rocks, and the cries of the white seabirds as they flew backwards and forwards on the little rocky islands which lay close to the shore.
I knelt down in a sheltered corner and felt myself alone with God. I do not think that I have ever realized the Lord's presence more than at that moment. And then I confessed it all to Him: all my coldness, all my carelessness, all my neglect of prayer, all my indifference to Him. And then I prayed earnestly for the Holy Spirit, pleading that promise of Jesus -- "If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?"
When I went back towards the house I found Miss Irvine still sitting in the same place, and she said, as she took hold of my arm to walk home with me, "Is it all right, dear?"
"Yes, Miss Irvine, I have asked Him to forgive me, and I am sure He has."
"Yes," she said, "if you have asked Him I am sure He has. He is always ready to forgive us, if we will only go to Him."
* * *
As I look back on that part of my life which was spent in Alliston Hall, I cannot be too thankful that God gave me the friendship of Miss Lilla Irvine. I found in her a true friend, one in whom I could confide all my troubles and anxieties, and one who was always ready to sympathize with me and to advise me. Her visits, to my great joy, were long ones. At the time of which I am now writing she spent several months at her cousin's house, so that I had many opportunities of seeing her.
As Christmas time drew near, the three sisters at Branston Manor House wrote to ask me to spend Christmas with them, and Sir William most kindly gave me a fortnight's holiday. Evelyn was loath to part with me, and told me she would be dreadfully bored while I was away. But Sir William would not hear of my refusing the invitation, and promised to do his best to make up for my absence.
"Oh dear, oh dear, it will be a long two weeks," Evelyn said, the night before I left. "You shouldn't be so nice, May. If you were only a little more disagreeable, just the smallest degree like the brown alpaca, I would not miss you half so much."
"Very well," I said, laughing, "I will come back provided with spectacles, and a brown woollen dress, and be as prim and precise as you please. And then I suppose I shall get plenty of holidays. Not that I want holidays," I said quickly, as I noticed the troubled expression on her face. "I was only joking, dear Evelyn. My whole life here is a holiday. I am very, very happy, because you are all so good to me."
"Just as if we could help being good to you, May," she said. "I told you that I loved you as a friend at first sight, and always would love you, and I am sure I do. And I do hope you will enjoy being with your young sister. But you must be sure to come back as soon as they can spare you."
It was six months since I had seen Maggie, and my heart beat fast as the train drew up at Branston Station and my young sister came forward to meet me. She had grown much since I had seen her last. Old John was waiting for us with the two luxurious horses, and we drove to the Manor House at the usual measured pace.
It was quite touching to see the welcome which the three sisters gave me. If I had been one of their own family they could not have seemed more glad to see me. Miss Jane, especially, took me under her wing from the moment that I entered the house, and it would indeed have been my own fault if I had not spent a pleasant Christmas time at Branston.
But what I enjoyed, perhaps, more than anything else, was hearing Mr. Claremont's sermons. There was something in this young pastor's plain, practical way of preaching which went direct to my heart. I always came away from hearing one of his sermons feeling thoroughly dissatisfied with myself, which perhaps, after all, is the best proof how useful they were to me.
On the last Sunday of the year I felt that indeed there was a message for me. In both his sermons that day Mr. Claremont spoke of the year that was past, gone for ever, with all its shortcomings and sins, all its neglected opportunities, all its wasted moments.
He told us that God had given to each of us a special work to do for Him, and that if we did not do it, the work would be left undone. And then he asked us whether all those who lived in the house with us were among the saved.
As Mr. Claremont spoke, one face was ever in my mind's eye. It was Evelyn Trafford. Loving and amiable and sweet tempered as she was, I knew that she cared nothing for the Lord I loved. She had never been taught to think of things above.
And yet what could I do for her? I had sometimes tried to get a word in, edgewise as it were, for my Master, but it was difficult and it never seemed to do any good.
Sometimes I thought it did harm. If she was alone with me she turned the subject so quickly, and did not seem so much at her ease with me afterwards. And if anyone else came into the room, she would begin to talk almost scoffingly of all that I loved and reverenced, as if she was determined to show me how little she cared for it all. And so I was beginning to think that it was wiser to be quiet and to say nothing.
Yet this sermon had made me uneasy. If Evelyn should die unsaved, and I had never once really spoken to her about her soul's interests -- oh, how I would blame myself. And yet, when could I do it? How could I begin the subject?
I met Mr. Claremont the next day as I was going to see one of Miss Jane's sick people, and I ventured to tell him how much I had felt challenged by his sermon.
"But does it not require great wisdom in speaking to others?" I asked.
"Undoubtedly," he said, "there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silence."
"But with me, Mr. Claremont," I said, "it always seems the time to keep silence."
"Ah," he said, "perhaps if you look carefully within, Miss Lindsay, you will find that at the bottom of it all there has been a little cowardice, a little unwillingness to be brave for the Master's sake. Please forgive me for saying so, but I have often found it so myself. Often, when I have neglected speaking to others about their souls, I have found that it was not from want of opportunity, but from want of courage to use the opportunities that were given me."
"Yes," I said slowly, "I believe you are right."
Chapter Eight
I WENT BACK to Alliston Hall determined to be on the watch for the time to speak, and praying most earnestly for that time to come. Evelyn welcomed me warmly, and told me she had never known a fortnight pass so slowly.
"Have you many visitors here?" I asked.
"No," she said, "there is only Alice Fitzgerald. I didn't know she was coming when you went away, but I found out she was staying with friends of hers not far off, so I asked her to come here on her way home. Her father is an old friend of papa's."
"Alice Fitzgerald?" I repeated. "Alice Fitzgerald? I wonder if it is the same."
"The same as what, May?" Evelyn said, laughing at my astonishment. "Do you know an Alice Fitzgerald?"
"No," I said, "I do not know her, but she is a great friend of a friend of mine."
"Well, this Alice Fitzgerald. . . How pale you are, May," said Evelyn, suddenly stopping short in her explanation. "Are you very tired?"
"No, not at all," I said. "Go on, I want to hear about your Alice Fitzgerald."
"Well, my Alice Fitzgerald is a pretty girl, at least I think she is, and a nice sort of girl, though she isn't a bit like you. I don't mean that you are not nice, you dear old thing," said Evelyn, laughing, "but she is quite different from you. I'm rather afraid you will quarrel."
"Oh no, I hope not."
"No, you must not quarrel," said Evelyn, "though she has some strange ideas, but after all what does it matter what one believes?"
I was about to answer her when the door opened, and the subject of our conversation entered. She was a tall, fair-haired girl of about my age, and was indeed as Evelyn had said pretty.
"Alice, this is my friend, May Lindsay," was Evelyn's introduction, as she came in.
Miss Fitzgerald shook hands with me pleasantly, and then sat down on a low seat by the fire and took her work out of a pretty, embroidered bag which hung by her side.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," Alice said, "for I have been hearing your praises sounded morning, noon and night ever since I came."
"Well, isn't she nice, Alice?" said Evelyn, raising herself on the sofa. "Didn't I give you a good description of her?"
"I expect Miss Fitzgerald is not so hasty in forming her opinion as you are, Evelyn," I said.
"By the bye, Alice," Evelyn went on, "May thinks she knows a friend of yours -- at least, if you are the same Alice Fitzgerald. What is her name, May?"
"It is a gentleman," I said, turning red in spite of all my efforts to the contrary. "Mr. Claude Ellis."
"Claude?" repeated Miss Fitzgerald, in astonishment. "Do you know Claude? I never heard him speak of you."
"No, perhaps not," I said, "but I do know him very well indeed. We were playfellows when we were children, and lived next door to each other all our lives."
"How strange that I never heard your name," said Miss Fitzgerald. "I was staying at the Parsonage last spring. Were you in the village at the time?"
"No," I said, "we left a little time before you went there. Do you remember noticing a house standing in a large garden, close to the Parsonage?"
"Oh yes," she said, "it was shut up when I was there, and Claude said the doctor used to live there."
"The doctor was my father," I said, checking the tears which would come in spite of myself, and which nearly choked me.
"Well, that's funny," said Evelyn, "that you should know this dearly-beloved Claude, about whom I have heard so much lately. Did you know he's coming here tomorrow, to make my acquaintance? Papa has invited him to come for a day or two while Alice is here."
Claude coming to Alliston Hall? Claude coming tomorrow? How I wished that my stay with Maggie and her three aunts at the old Manor House had been a little longer. I made some excuse to leave the room, and went to my own bedroom and locked the door.
"Claude coming tomorrow," I repeated over and over to myself. All the old trouble seemed to have come back again. I had hoped that I would never see Claude again, that our paths in life would never cross each other. And now he was coming tomorrow. How astonished he would be to see me here. I wondered whether he would feel it as much as I did.
As I sat alone in my room I prayed for grace and help, and I felt that the strength came as I prayed. I felt that I could not go downstairs, but Evelyn's maid Clemence came to tell me that Miss Trafford wanted me.
"You naughty girl," said Evelyn when I entered, "what have you been doing? Why, you're as cold as ice. Come to the fire and warm your hands. I really couldn't let you stop up there any longer. Do you know I thought you were, at last, turning into the brown alpaca? She always shut herself up in her bedroom half the day."
"And who in the world is the brown alpaca?" asked Alice Fitzgerald. "Do tell me about her, Evelyn."