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. Even when her father was in the room she made no effort to rouse herself or talk to him.
Sir William looked at her anxiously from time to time. I could see that he attributed this change in her to her cousin's visit, and I heard him expressing a hope that it was the last time that Donald would come without an invitation. He said 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 unhappy and perplexed. These two words which I had heard, against my will, haunted me: "Remember -- promise."
What did Donald Trafford 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, telling 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.
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 different frame of mind from the night before. She was still clearly unhappy, but she put her arms round my neck and kissed me. "Are you 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," I said. "You were only tired and. . ."
"And what?" she asked.
"And troubled, were you not?" I ventured to say. "Troubled about something of which I do not know, and so cannot sympathize with you."
"Yes," she said, "I was bothered and troubled, and I wanted to tell you about it so much. But I didn't 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 anyone coming? No, it's only Clemence going downstairs. But mind, if the door opens you must look just the same as usual and not say a word."
She drew from her pocket a little leather 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 doesn't know anything about it, and I mustn't 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 sometimes when we are here alone, and slip it off if I hear anyone coming. Don't you think so, May? How serious you look," she said, in an altered voice. "What is the matter? Are you angry with me?"
"Not angry," I said, "but I feel troubled about what you have told me. Why don't you tell your father about it, dear?"
"Oh, I couldn't," 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 extravagant." She stopped suddenly and looked at me. "There, I've told you who gave it to me. I didn't mean to do so, but of course you had already guessed."
"I think it would be much better if you told Sir William," I said. "He might be a little cross at first with your cousin for spending so much money on it, but I'm sure he would be far more vexed if he found out that your cousin Donald 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 about the ring, I would have to tell him something else -- I could not stop halfway."
"But I think you ought to tell him all," I said. "You must 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 would. But then you see I promised not to tell papa, 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."
"I never thought of that before," she said. "You see, May, I promised Donald that afternoon, before you came in, that some day or other I would be his 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 so that I could always keep it near me, and that whenever I looked at it I could think of my promise. And then he said that I must not tell papa, because he would be so angry if he knew. I told Donald that I should be obliged to tell papa, for we could never be married if papa didn't know about it."
"And what did your cousin say?" I asked.
"Oh, he said there was plenty of time for that. We couldn't be married for many a long day, and he would tell papa himself when the time was right. So then he made me promise not to tell him until he gave me permission -- and then you came into the room and we couldn't 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 your cousin and tell him that you feel you were 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, hesitantly.
"Yes," I said, "I am sure it is what you ought to do."
She did not answer me at once, but sat looking into the fire and thinking. I sent up an earnest prayer that she would be led to do what was right.
Presently she looked up at me, and said: "I can't do it, May, so it's no use thinking about 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. Do you remember why he kept that promise, even when the keeping of it made him commit murder by cutting off John the Baptist's head?"
"Yes," she said; "doesn't it say it was because of his oath's sake. I suppose Herod didn't like to break his word."
"And Evelyn," I said, "why didn't he like to break his word?"
"Why?" she asked.
"The Bible says it was 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 a big promise -- he was not the kind of man to mind that -- but it was because he was afraid of what his friends would say or think. He may have thought, too, that his wife would never forgive him, and so he kept his promise to kill John the Baptist. 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 and began to write.
"I am going to be 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 while 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 get out at the post office and post it when we drive out this afternoon, and then I will tell papa this evening after dinner."
How thankful I was to hear Evelyn express this determination. I felt as if a great load had been lifted off my heart.
Chapter Ten
EVELYN WAS pale, and trembled very much as dinner time drew near. She went downstairs as usual and tried to talk to her father and appear as if nothing was the matter. But I could see that it was a 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 now to draw back. I do not think that she wished to do so, but she dreaded her father's displeasure.
When dinner was over we went into the library where 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 to Evelyn's room, and sat waiting for her, and praying that she would have courage to tell Sir William all, and that he would not be angry. I took up a book and tried to read, but though my eyes followed the words I could not fix my thoughts on 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 until the room grew dark. Then Clemence, Evelyn's maid, came into the room for something, and seeing that I was in darkness she lit 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. Coming up to me, he said,
"Miss Lindsay, I have to thank you for the way in which you have influenced Evelyn today. 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 thankful that she has told you. She loves you so much, and 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 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 he a lesson that he will never forget. I shall not spare him, I can tell you. I am afraid he is a devious fellow. Evelyn does not see through him, 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 for being a true, wise friend to my daughter, and tell you how I value the influence you have over her."
This was a great deal for Sir William to say. He was a 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 anyone else. I felt thankful that God had enabled me to please him in this matter.
"Evelyn is coming upstairs shortly, Miss Lindsay," said Sir William, as he left the room. "Will you he so kind as to see that she goes to bed at once?"
I promised to do so, and presently he brought his daughter upstairs. She looked tired and troubled, and her eyes were swollen with crying, but she put her arms round me, and was 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," I said. "It is terrible to have a secret like that weighing on the mind."
"Yes," she said, "I am glad I told him. But oh, May, he was so angry -- not with me, not half enough with me. He simply would not see that it was my fault, hut he was terribly angry with Donald."
"I don't think you can be surprised at that," I said. "I don't think your cousin Donald behaved honourably, and your father is such an honourable man himself that he must have felt it keenly."
"Yes, perhaps so," she said. "But I'm sure Donald didn't mean any harm. Poor Donald doesn't think before he does things. He--"
But I would not let Evelyn talk anymore about it that night, and rang the bell for Clemence. As Evelyn said goodnight, she whispered, "Papa has taken that ring, May. He says it's valuable and he's 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 in another direction.
Sir William spent most of that day in his private room writing letters, including one to Donald, and we seldom saw him, but he was tender and loving to Evelyn whenever he came into the room, and seemed anxious to make her feel how completely he had forgiven her.
Evelyn and I were sitting together at the window with our work, when the servant started for the village with the post-bag containing Sir William's letter to his nephew. Evelyn watched the man 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 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 drive.
"I wonder who is coming," said Evelyn. "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 it's no one I have ever seen before. I think he wants Sir William. The gentleman and Ambrose are standing on the drive together. There, the visitor has sent the carriage away. He is evidently going to stay."
"This is 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 the gardener 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 was trying to tell him where Sir William had gone.
"Oh, May," she said, "that's Uncle Edward. What can he want?"
"Uncle Edward?" I repeated.
"Yes," she said, "Donald's father. Oh, I wonder why he has come. I'm sure it is about Donald. What can be the matter?"
"Don't be troubled about it, Evelyn," 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 as well as to Donald about what you told him the other night. 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 now. You don't look well enough to go downstairs. I will go into the garden and tell Ambrose to ask your uncle to come up here, if you wish."
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 where to find your father? Ambrose has been trying to explain to me, but I could not make out what he meant. The different turnings in the park are so bewildering. I thought perhaps you would be able to explain better."
"It may be best to wait inside, uncle, until papa comes back," suggested Evelyn. "I don't think he will be long now, and you might miss him if you went outside to find 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, and I could not touch anything now. I will go downstairs and see if your father is back."
"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 pale and agitated, and looked, Evelyn said later, years older than when she had seen him last.
We watched him go out onto 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, 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. They did not come into the house, but 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 they turned round they came within sight of the house, and then they were hidden from our view by the trees and we could not see them again until they came back to the same place. They seemed to be talking 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 extremely restless the whole time. She began to follow the example of her father and uncle and 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, while I prepared to leave the room, thinking Sir William might wish to speak to his daughter alone.
"Oh, I will tell you about it afterwards," said her father. "It is some rather unpleasant business about which your Uncle Edward wanted to see me. Don't go away, please, Miss Lindsay. I have letters to write at once, so 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 Evelyn find out. We could only wonder and wait.
Mr. Edward Trafford left the next morning at an early hour to catch the first train for London. Sir William and I were alone for breakfast, for Evelyn was not well enough to rise.