EVELYN'S CONFESSION.
[Illustration] 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.
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