“Shall I ring the bell, Miss Trafford?” I inquired, when dinner was over. “Don’t call me Miss Trafford,” she said, quickly; “call me Evelyn, it sounds much nicer, and is six letters shorter.”
“But perhaps Sir William would not like it,” I objected.
“Oh, papa likes everything I like,” she said, decidedly. “I wish you to call me Evelyn, and mean to call you by your first name too— ‘Miss Lindsay’ sounds just like the brown alpaca. What is your Christian name?”
“My name is May,” I said; “and I shall be very glad if you will call me May, instead of Miss Lindsay; shall fancy I am at home again.”
“Well then it’s settled, May,” she said, laughing; “and now you may ring the bell.”
Soon after the dessert was cleared away a rustling of silk was heard in the passages, the door opened, and three ladies entered the room.
The first was a stout, elderly lady, very handsomely dressed. In her younger days I felt sure she had been a beauty, and I think she must have been greatly admired. But she had, I thought, an unpleasant expression in her face, and a haughty and disagreeable manner.
“Well, Evelyn,” she said, as she swept past me without a word or a look, “how are you feeling now?”
“Oh, very nicely, thank you, Lady Eldridge,” she said; “Miss Lindsay and I have had quite a pleasant chat together.”
“Miss Lindsay, ah! yes, I see,” said Lady Eldridge, turning to me for the first time; “the young person whom Sir William has engaged as your companion, Evelyn, I believe.”
And then she took no further notice of me, but sat upon the sofa at Evelyn’s side, fanning herself vigorously.
There was something in Lady Eldridge’s manner which made me uncomfortable and uneasy, and I had withdrawn to the table with my work as the two other ladies advanced to the fire, not intending to take any part in the conversation, when a pleasant, gentle voice by my side said kindly, “You must be tired with your long journey, Miss Lindsay; had you to stop many times by the way?”
I looked up and met one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. It was not exactly a pretty face, and the features were far from handsome, but there was such a beautiful expression upon it that you could never have called it plain. I should have been very puzzled if anyone had asked me how old she was. At one time she looked quite young, not more than four or five and twenty; and the moment afterward I detected strong marks of care, or anxiety, or trouble on the face, which made me think she must be at least ten or fifteen years older.
I told her about my journey, and then she asked me one question after another, in the kindest, pleasantest way, as if she really cared to know all I had to tell her. She led me on from one subject to another, and I found myself telling her of our old home; of Maggie, and my hopes and fears for her; and of many other things, whilst Lady Eldridge and Evelyn were talking together on the sofa; and all the chill and repression, which had come over me when Lady Eldridge entered the room entirely passed away, and I felt perfectly at my ease again.
When I told her of our leaving our dear old home, her eyes filled with tears, and she said quietly, “I know what a trial that is; I have gone through it myself. What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting and no going away!”
Such a happy, thankful feeling came into my heart as she said this. There was something in the way she said it, as well as in the words themselves, which made me feel sure that my new friend was one who loved the same Lord I loved. And, if I had felt drawn to her before, I was doubly drawn to her now.
We had no opportunity for further conversation, for Evelyn was growing weary of Lady Eldridge, and invited us to come nearer to the fire.
“Put away your work, you industrious girl,” she said to me. “The brown alpaca always had her work close to her fingers’ ends at a moment’s notice.”
“My dear Evelyn,” said Lady Eldridge, “a most profitable way for a young person.”
But Evelyn took no notice of her, and turned to my new friend.
“Where have you been all day, Lilla?” she said. “You have only been to see me three times.”
“Have I been so negligent as that, dear?” she said. “I must mend my manners tomorrow; but I have been very busy writing letters, so you must forgive me.”
Until I had turned to the fire, I had not looked at the third lady who had come into the room. She was sitting languidly in an armchair by the fire, with her eyes fixed on the door, as if she were looking anxiously for someone to enter. She was decidedly advanced in middle age, yet she was dressed like a girl of seventeen: in a low, white evening dross, and a most elaborate gold chain and locket round her neck. She looked dissatisfied and restless, as if she was always striving to reach some object which was eluding her grasp. She took no particular interest in the general conversation which was going on, but seemed either lost in thought, or not thinking at all.
Lady Eldridge was giving an account of Eastern life, which she described as the most delightful life on earth. I found she had lived many years abroad, and was going to Constantinople the following spring. She could not settle in England more than a year at a time, she said. “Those miserable skies; those depressing fogs; those dreadful rainy days, enough to make any one commit suicide who has lived in the East, my dear.” And Lady Eldridge fanned herself again, at the bare recollection of it.
She kept up a continual run of conversation for about half an hour; but she gave me the idea of being a woman who had hardly opened a book in the whole course of her life, and who was thoroughly ignorant of everything except the worldly ways of the worldly world, in which she seemed to be anything but ignorant.
But her chattering was brought to a close by a rap at the door, and the announcement that the gentlemen had arrived in the drawing room.
“Those tiresome men!” said Lady Eldridge; “as if they could not amuse themselves for half an hour without sending for us. Well, Alicia, I suppose we must obey the lords of creation and go downstairs. Goodnight, Evelyn, my dear.”
And, without taking the slightest notice of me, Lady Eldridge sailed out of the room.
The other two ladies said good night to both of us and followed in her train, and Evelyn and I were left alone.
“Well, what do you think of them?” she said, as soon as the door was shut; “bring your chair close to the fire and tell me.”
“I think that the lady who sat near me has one of the sweetest faces that I ever saw,” I said. “I could quite believe in anyone loving her at first sight.”
“Oh, Lilla, yes; isn’t she nice?” said Evelyn, carelessly; “everyone seems to like poor Lilla.”
“Why do you call her poor?” I asked.
“Oh, because she has had so much trouble,” Evelyn answered; “she was engaged to a young officer a good many years ago, and it was broken off; his father persuaded him to marry someone with more money. Lilla is papa’s first cousin, and she often stays here; it is very dull for her at home; her father has married again, and his new wife is such a horrid old thing, who treats Lilla as if she were a child of twelve. But Lilla never complains; she is very patient. And what did you think of Lady Eldridge?”
“I had rather not say, please, Evelyn; I do not think it is very kind to talk about people so much.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt Lady Eldridge, I assure you,” she answered; “she is miles too high up in the world to be hurt by anything you or I may say or think of her—at least she thinks that she is. Papa says she has nothing to boast of, if her antecedents were looked into. She was quite poor, and lived in some remote Eastern city, when her good looks attracted Sir Hugh Eldridge’s attention, as he was passing through the place, and he married her. But she thinks herself a perfect queen now, and lords it over everybody. I often pity her poor maid. It is ‘Lawrence, here;’ ‘Lawrence, do this;’ ‘Lawrence, do that;’ from morning till night; for Lady Eldridge thinks it is a disgrace to do the simplest thing for herself, or even to know how it ought to be done. She boasts of being as ignorant as a baby about all money matters, and cannot even pay a bill for herself. Silly old thing!” said Evelyn, contemptuously, “I have more respect for Alicia Hay than I have for her.”
“Is that the lady who sat in the armchair by the fire?” I asked.
“Yes, poor thing!” said Evelyn; “she wouldn’t talk a bit tonight. I know why, just as well as if I had been there. It was just because Lord Moreton didn’t take her down to dinner;” and Evelyn laughed at the thought of it. “Didn’t you see how she looked at the door every time a step came in the passage, because, sometimes, papa comes up for a few minutes on his way to the drawing room, to cheer me up a little; and sometimes he brings one of the gentlemen with him; but they didn’t come tonight, so poor Alicia was quite disconsolate; she had not the heart to talk to anyone. And if she only knew, oh, if she only knew what Lord Moreton really thinks of her!”
“Poor thing!” I said; “is she very fond of him?”
“Oh, not of him in particular,” said Evelyn, laughing; “but you see poor Alicia is getting old; she really is, though she would be very angry if any one told her so, and she wants very much to be married, and to have a home of her own.”
I was not sorry when Evelyn asked me to ring the bell for her maid Clemence, and I was at liberty to go to my own room, for I was very tired after all the traveling and excitement I had gone through that day.
I lay awake for many hours, watching the flickering of the firelight, and listening for the striking of a large clock in the hall, whose deep, sonorous voice could be heard in every part of the great house.
The next morning I awoke before it was light, and had been dressed for more than an hour before Clemence came to conduct me to her young mistress’s dressing room. I found Evelyn lying on a sofa by the dressing room fire, in a pretty pink dressing gown, and with her fair hair hanging down in long waving tresses. She looked a perfect picture, I thought, and one that any artist would take pleasure in painting. She seemed pleased to see me, but was languid and tired, and not so much inclined for talking as she had been the night before.
Breakfast was brought up soon after I arrived, and, whilst we were eating it, the door opened, and an elderly gentleman came in. He had evidently been very handsome in his younger days, and there was a cheerful, pleasant, good-tempered expression on his face, which made him look younger than I imagine he really was.
“Oh, papa,” said Evelyn, brightening up the moment that she saw him, “I am so glad you have come! How naughty of you not to come last night! I wanted you so much to see Miss Lindsay—May, I call her now,” she added, laughing.
Sir William shook hands with me very kindly, and said he hoped I should soon feel at home, and that his little daughter would not wear me out with her chattering.
“Now, papa, what nonsense!” said Evelyn, gaily; “May was at home when she had been here ten minutes, were you not, May? And she likes chattering just as much as I do. You talk just as if she was the brown alpaca I told you about. But she is not a bit like her; she is so nice, papa, and we get on together famously.”
“That’s right,” said Sir William, seating himself on the sofa; “and how is my little puss this morning?”
“Only a little tired, papa,” she said, wearily; “the pain kept me awake last night.”
He looked at her very anxiously, I thought, as he stooped over her, and gently arranged her pillows, as carefully and tenderly as any woman could have done.
“Keep very quiet this morning, little girl,” he said; “I will not let any of them come near you. Miss Lindsay will read to you, and you can lie quite still.”
“Oh no, thank you, papa,” she said, cheerfully; “let them all come, it does me good to have people coming in and out; it amuses me; they are so funny, some of them, aren’t they, papa? Don’t they make you laugh sometimes?”
Sir William made some evasive answer, and glanced towards the end of the room, where I was sitting at work.
“Oh, you need not mind her, papa,” said Evelyn aloud, “she is not the brown alpaca. I mean to tell her everything, and to talk just the same when she is in the room as when she is out of it.”
Sir William seemed rather amused at the rapid friendship that had sprung up between us, but it did not appear to displease him, for he smiled kindly at me, and gave me a few more words of welcome as he rose to leave the room. But when he got to the door he said gravely: “Lord Moreton is very anxious to see you this morning, Evelyn; shall I let him come when you get into the other room?”
Evelyn laughed heartily.
“Yes, if it is any amusement to him, papa,” she said; “I am sure he amuses me. Oh! if you had only seen him the other day; he came up when Alicia Hay was sitting beside me, and neither of them spoke a word. He sat looking at me, and she sat looking at him, and they were both perfectly stupid.”
“Lord Moreton is a very worthy young man, Evelyn,” said her father, gravely.
“Oh, a very worthy young man,” she repeated, in exactly the same tone, so exactly that I could scarcely keep from smiling; “but the worst is, papa, that I don’t like very worthy young men; they are so dreadfully uninteresting—at least, if Lord Moreton is a specimen—they sit and look at you, and then clear their throats, and try to make some feeble remark, and break down in the middle. Oh dear I it is so amusing. Now Cousin Donald never does that; he can make himself very agreeable; I wish he would come to see me.”
“Donald has other business to attend to,” said her father, rather sharply; “he has no time to lose now; Donald must make his way in the world.”
“Yes,” she said, rather sadly; “poor Donald!”
“I do not know why he need be pitied,” said Sir William, dryly; “if he will only work he will soon be able to earn a very fair income.”
“But Donald does not like work,” said Evelyn; “he says he would like to be independent, and to have plenty—plenty of money.”
“He never will have plenty of money,” said Sir William, almost angrily, as he shut the door.
“Papa does not like poor Donald,” she said, as soon as he was out of hearing; “but he is so handsome, and he has such nice brown eyes. I do not know why papa dislikes him so much. I think it is because he is afraid he likes me too much. It is very strange that he does like me; I should have thought that he would have hated me, because if I had never been born Cousin Donald would have lived here, and would have been just like papa’s son. That makes me feel so sorry for him.”
“Is he much older than you?” I asked.
“Yes, he is six years older,” said Evelyn; “and 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 very 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 all that little plan,” she said, laughing.
“And where is your cousin Donald now?”
“Oh, poor fellow, he is 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 very hard for him, is it not? And I am afraid he 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,” she explained. “He buys beautiful little bouquets for his button-hole, and all sorts of little unnecessary things of that kind, and the money goes very fast. But it must be so hard to see pretty things and not to be able to buy them. I should 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 wanted and wished for?” she said.
“Everything I really wanted—yes,” I answered; “everything I may have wished for—no.”
“Oh dear! was it not very 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.
“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, just for a minute, and then when they come I do not care for them. If you only saw the number of books on those shelves, the leaves of which have never been cut. I wished. for them, and ordered them, but when they arrived. I had given up wishing for them, and I have 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 comparatively small; whilst where they are few and far between they cause so much larger an amount of enjoyment, that the lives of those who receive them are 1uite as full of sunshine and brightness as they would be if their pleasures were more in number.