WAS THE PROMISE BINDING?
[Illustration] 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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