Evelyn was only too pleased to explain about her imaginary companion. And then we went on from one laughable subject to another, and Alice Fitzgerald told us a number of amusing stories in such an absurd way that we laughed until we were quite tired.
"There," Alice said at last, as Evelyn declared that she had not laughed so much the whole time she had been ill, and that she felt all the better for it, "that's just what I was saying before Miss Lindsay came into the room: if only people, when they are in low spirits would laugh more, they would be all the happier."
"But when you are in trouble you cannot laugh, Miss Fitzgerald," I said.
"Oh, then, you should try," she said firmly. "Try to forget the trouble and laugh it off. That's always my way when anything bothers me or vexes me. I try to think of something amusing, and forget it."
"And do you always succeed?" I ventured to ask.
"Well, no, not quite always," she said, rather sombrely.
It was the first time that I had seen her look sombre. Her merry, laughing face was clouded for a moment.
But it was only for a moment.
"Anyhow," she said, "if you don't succeed in forgetting your trouble, it makes it easier to bear. It's better to go laughing through a trouble than crying through it. But laugh it off if you can, that's much the best way."
"But, suppose you can't laugh it off," I said. "You agreed that there are some troubles which are too deep to be got rid of in that way. Suppose you cannot laugh it off, and the trouble comes back after every laugh as heavy as ever? What then?"
"Oh, then," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, "we must bear it, I suppose -- bear it as best we can. Don't you think so?"
"I never try to laugh trouble away," I said. "I try to pray it away."
"Oh," she said, scornfully, "you believe in prayer, do you?"
"Yes; don't you, Miss Fitzgerald?"
"No, not now," she said. "I did once. That is to say, I never prayed much myself, but I used to believe that it did some people good. But Claude says it's all nonsense. My brother Arthur and he are always having long discussions about these things. Arthur believes in the Bible with all his heart and soul, and Claude does nothing but laugh at him."
"And you agree with Claude, of course," said Evelyn, laughing.
"Yes," said Alice, "I agree with him. And yet, do you know, I sometimes wish I didn't."
"May I ask, why not?" I said.
"Well," she said, "you mustn't tell Claude, he would be so angry, but I can't help thinking if Arthur should be right after all -- what then?"
"Yes, what then?" I said. "If the Bible is true -- what then?"
"Why then," she said, laughing again, "we are all lost, I suppose. So the best we can do is to enjoy ourselves as much now as we can. A short life and a merry one, that's my motto. Well, I suppose it's getting near dinner time." She rose hastily, gathered up her work and left the room.
"She is a strange girl," said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut.
"She's not really happy, Evelyn," I said. "She tries to laugh it off, as she says, but there is a great deal of unhappy doubt in her heart, I feel sure of that."
"Well," said Evelyn, changing the subject, "I think you should go and dress for dinner."
So I left the room and went upstairs, and prayed very, earnestly for them both, and especially for Alice Fitzgerald. Oh, if she only knew where true joy was to be found.
The next day Claude arrived. I was in Evelyn's sitting-room when Alice Fitzgerald brought him in to introduce him to her. And then she turned to me.
"An old friend of yours, Claude, I believe," she said.
Claude started. He had not noticed me before. "May . . . Miss Lindsay," he said, colouring painfully, "I did not expect to see you here."
And then he turned the subject quickly, and began to give us an account of his journey, his Oxford adventures, and all sorts of other things, until dinner was announced. I could see that he was not at his ease, and I thought that Alice Fitzgerald noticed it also.
I saw little more of Claude that evening, for I always dined upstairs with Evelyn, and he spent the evening talking politics with Sir William over the library fire.
But the next morning when I came downstairs, Claude was alone in the breakfast-room. I said "Good morning," and then was about to leave the room again, when he called me back, and said hurriedly,
"May, what did you tell her?"
"Tell whom?" I asked.
"Tell Alice," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "What did you tell her about me?"
"Only that we played together when we were children, and lived next door to each other."
"Was that all?" he asked.
"Yes, every word," I answered. "You surely did not think, Claude. . ."
"Oh no," he said, "of course not. Only it's more comfortable to know. All right, May," he added, carelessly, "we will let bygones be bygones now."
And then he sat down to the piano and played a merry air.
I stood and looked out of the window, wondering at the shallowness of his heart. And I felt, as I had never felt before, that I had not made a bad choice when I chose Christ's love and gave up Claude's.
In a few minutes the others came down, and we had breakfast. While we were at breakfast, Ambrose came in with the letter-bag, which he solemnly laid before Sir William as was his daily custom. Sir William took a key from his watch-chain and unlocked the bag, and then proceeded to distribute the letters.
"None for you this morning, Miss Alice," he said, laughing. "Which would you choose: to have your young man here to talk to you, or to get a letter from him? None for you, Miss Lindsay, not a single one. Six for me, and one for Mr. Ellis -- that's all."
Claude took his letter, opened it, and glanced hastily through it. The contents did not seem to be of the most agreeable nature, for he looked annoyed as he read it and then crushed it up impatiently and thrust it into his pocket. Alice glanced inquiringly at him, but Claude appeared to be engrossed in his food and took no notice of her inquiring looks.
When breakfast was over, Sir William went into the library where he generally spent the morning looking over the newspapers and writing his letters. We went up to Evelyn's room. I thought Alice wanted to linger behind to speak to Claude, but he did not seem disposed to take the hint, and he followed me closely upstairs.
We found Evelyn lying on the sofa, waiting for me to show her how to do a new pattern in crochet work which I had learned from Maggie's Aunt Jane who was clever with her fingers. I sat down on a low stool close to Evelyn, directing her as she worked. Alice and Claude went to the other end of the room, into the large bow window. Claude had brought a newspaper upstairs with him, and throwing himself into an armchair he began to read it with an air which plainly indicated that he did not wish to be disturbed.
Alice Fitzgerald came behind him. Leaning over his shoulder, with her arm on the back of the chair, she seemed to be reading the newspaper with him. But after a minute or two I heard her say, "Let me see that letter, Claude. What was it about?"
"Oh, it was nothing particular," said Claude, turning to another part of the newspaper. "It was only a business letter."
"That's always the way with men," interrupted Evelyn. "Whenever they don't want you to see a letter they always say, 'It's only a business letter.' Papa always does so, and it's of no use my telling him that I like business letters. He only laughs and says, 'Women don't understand business, or, if they do, they ought not!'"
But Alice Fitzgerald did not let the matter drop. In a few minutes I heard her ask again from whom the letter had come, and Claude answered in a vexed tone, "It is only from my father, Alice. There, take it and read it if you make such a fuss about it." And he tossed the letter onto the table.
Alice sat down and read it, and when she had gone through it once, she turned it over and read it again, and then folding it up slowly she handed it back to Claude. He put it into his pocket and went on reading. Alice leaned over his shoulder, and her face,
which was generally so bright and merry, was serious and thoughtful. Evelyn and I were busy with our pattern, and for some minutes no one spoke.
Then I heard Alice say, in a low voice, "What enclosures were there, Claude? What is it that has vexed your father so much?"
"Oh, only some rubbishy old account," 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. Toss their accounts into the fire and leave them alone."
And, in spite of Alice's objections, he walked to the fireplace and thrust a wad of papers into the flames, and watched them turn to ashes.
"They will send them in again, Claude," said Alice.
"Then I shall burn them again," he said, with a laugh. "The rogues ought to know better."
"But are you quite sure they are wrong, Claude?" she said, as they went back to the window. "Are you absolutely sure you never bought any of the things? Have you looked through them carefully?"
"Oh, I know all about it," said Claude, in a vexed voice. "Do let it alone. 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 today, 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, and sat on a low stool by the fire. But she did not recover her usual good spirits for some time afterwards.
Chapter Nine
FROM this time, as the spring advanced, Evelyn began to grow much stronger. The doctors seemed hopeful that she would soon be strong enough to go upstairs and downstairs quite comfortably, although she must spend a good deal of time on her couch. Sir William insisted on it, even though Evelyn did not think it really necessary.
I began to think that my stay at Alliston Hall would be drawing to a close, for when Evelyn was able to return to the active life that she had led before her illness, she would not need me any longer. However, when I once hinted at something of the kind to her, she vehemently declared that I must never leave her, and that she would be ill again 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 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 had been long shut up in a cage and had 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 would never now be able to lead her to think seriously about her soul and about eternity? I had tried so often since my return to talk to her about these things, but the attempt always ended in failure. 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, so 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 a few needy people in the neighbourhood of Alliston Hall, among 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 of 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 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, a young man there. He was sitting on a footstool in front of the fire, stroking Evelyn's little dog, and apparently completely at his ease. He was a 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 armchair by the fire.
"This is Cousin Donald," said Evelyn as I came up to her. "Do you think papa will be angry with him for coming?"
"Oh no, of course not. Why should he be?" said Donald 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?" he exclaimed, starting up 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 Donald 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 was 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."
Sir William took his hand and shook it coldly. "And pray where did you come from, Donald?" he asked sternly.
"Why, the fact is, uncle," said the young man, "today 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."
Donald Trafford colored, but he answered cheerfully, "I can put up at the Royal Oak tonight, uncle, if it is at all inconvenient for me to stay here. I didn't think the house would be full at this time of the year."
Sir William did not answer him, but turning to Evelyn he 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 angry. I never saw him look like that 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. He is the son of papa's brother. I can't think why papa is always so upset when he comes here."
"I'm sorry you're so tired, Evelyn," I said, as I made her lie down on the sofa until dinner was brought upstairs.
"Oh, I'm not tired, May," she said. "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 h
e will have to talk to him, because there is no one else there. You wait and see, they will be quite friendly after dinner. Or 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 Donald Trafford sitting comfortably in an easy chair, with The Times newspaper in his hand, discussing the events of the day with his uncle, and apparently completely at his ease.
And Sir William? He was most clearly not at ease. I could see it 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 difficult to keep up any appearance of displeasure in the face of Donald Trafford's pleasant, cheerful manner, and almost impossible to quarrel with a man who was determined not to quarrel with him.
Evelyn was silent the whole evening, and seemed in bad spirits. She talked a little to me, but she 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 Donald 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 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 with your money. You ought never to have bought that--"
At a sign from him she stopped suddenly in what she was saying. "You really ought not, 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 mustn't run away," said Evelyn. "Just think how angry papa would be."
But just then Sir William came back and invited Donald. 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 goodbye, and I distinctly caught the words, "Remember -- promise." Then he hastily shook hands with me and went out of the room.