AUNT BETHA was not the person to do anything by halves. She had promised to set forth early the next day to "hunt for lodgings," and she did not shrink from her task. She was up earlier than usual, that everything might be in order and her daily routine gone through in good time. First there was Guy to be washed and dressed; and his breakfast, with his two little sisters, Maude and Hilda,—Edith breakfasting in the dining-room with her elders. Then came the visit to the kitchen, and Mrs. Wilton's orders and counter-orders to convey to the young servant who cooked under Aunt Betha's supervision. There were the daily accounts to balance, and the daily arrangements to make; and last, not least, the daily burden of others to be borne. How nobly and uncomplainingly Aunt Betha bore this burden I have no words to tell you. She had gone through deep trials in her young days, and had been the usefulsister to Mrs. Wilton's mother. Then when that sister died, and dying said, "You will have a home with Anna; don't give her up, she will want help," Aunt Betha transferred her faithful service from the mother to the daughter. She was too poor to live without earning her own living, and she chose to do this by the position in Dr. Wilton's house in which we find her.
Dear Aunt Betha! She was plain, and short, and very old-fashioned in her dress. "I hear too much about dress in this house," she would say, "to care much about my own." And black silk for Sundays, and a black merino or alpaca for week-days, made short and full, was her unvarying costume. Aunt Betha was scrupulously neat and clean, and her caps, tied with mauve ribbon under her chin, were always fresh and bright. So were the large collar and cuffs which finished her "afternoon dress;" though when she was busy about the house in the morning she dispensed with the cuffs, and wore a large apron and holland sleeves over her gown.
Mrs. Wilton had that dislike to trouble which can hardly be called indolence; for she was active in her habits, and could go through a good deal of fatigue without complaining. She would walk with Louise to a house at some distance, if the carriage was not available, rather than miss an afternoon party. Shewould give herself any amount of trouble about one of her husband's patients who she thought belonged to a good family. She would plan and contrive for Louise and Kate's dress and amusement; and her own appearance was singularly youthful and her dress faultless; and all this was not effected without much pain and trouble. But all the daily routine of household duties which did not bring any especial honour with them she disliked. Drudgery could be as well done by Aunt Betha as by her. Why should she be a drudge? "Aunt Betha was made to be useful, and she enjoys it. Dear old woman! We give her a comfortable home, and she is happy. Nothing could fit in better."
"I am not to exceed two pounds a week, Anna?" Aunt Betha asked, as she put her head into the dining-room, where Mrs. Wilton and Louise were lingering over breakfast and complaining that Digby was so late.
"Oh, about the lodgings!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilton. "Are you going now, dear?" (Mrs. Wilton often called Aunt Betha "dear.") "I will go up to Guy, then."
"Susan is with him. He is better this morning. Good-bye,—I have no time to lose."
"Very well. Take a cab if you are very tired. Certainly not more than two pounds a week for the lodgings; but less will be better."
Aunt Betha closed the door, and was soon on her way, her quick, light footsteps growing faint and fainter as she went along the smooth pavement of Edinburgh Crescent. She had a message at the green-grocer's and an order at the butcher's to leave as she passed the shops which supplied the wants of Roxburgh; and then she turned away from what might be called the West End of Roxburgh to the neighbourhood of St. Luke's Church. Here there was a substratum of small villas and long, narrow streets, which were a long way from the crescents and terraces of the gay town to which so many people resorted for health and pleasure. The college at Roxburgh stood a little apart from crescents and small streets, and a large number of well-built houses clustered around it, where the families of boys who attended the college mostly lived. In days gone by there had been a mineral spa at Roxburgh, which had proved the starting-point of the large fashionable watering-place of these later times. But "the spa" had declined in popularity, and the old pump-room was in a forlorn state of decay and desolation. It had given Roxburgh its fame; and now, being out of repute, was cast aside and renounced.
The part of the town towards which Aunt Betha directed her efforts lay below the deserted spa, andwas nearer the large, smoky town of Harstone, which was scarcely two miles from Roxburgh, where a busy life of trade and commerce went on in the valley, apart from the life of pleasure on the hill above. A cloud of smoke lay in the valley above Harstone, and the river fogs crept up on this side of Roxburgh, laden with the smut and breath of the chimneys, in late autumn and winter; but on this bright August morning, the towers and spires of the Harstone churches looked picturesque in the soft, gray mist which lay over them and the tall masts of the ships in the docks.
Aunt Betha did not, however, turn her eyes to the valley. She was too much intent on scanning the rows of small houses with "Apartments," "Furnished Apartments," printed on boards in the windows.
"Number 3 Lavender Place. That is a nice bow window, and white curtains. I'll try there." Aunt Betha rang the bell, and did not fail to notice "that you might see your face in the brass knob of the handle." A very neat woman came to the door, and in answer to her inquiries said—
"Yes, I have apartments to let,—a drawing-room and four bed-rooms."
Aunt Betha felt quite delighted at what seemed likely to be the speedy end of her labours. Everything was so neat. Drawing-room back and front.Could anything be better? Then came the question of terms.
"Two guineas a week."
"Would you, Mrs.—" Aunt Betha paused.
"Parsons—my name is Parsons," said the landlady.
"Could you, Mrs. Parsons, say less if the rooms were taken for some time?"
"Perhaps I might, ma'am. Imightsay two pounds."
"Very well. I don't think I shall do better. I will close at once, and send you word as to the day the family will arrive."
"Pray, ma'am," inquired Mrs. Parsons, "how many are there in the family?"
"A widow lady, and, let me see, a servant,—poor thing, she must keep one servant; she has been used to more than you can count on your fingers,—and six children."
"I never take children, ma'am,never," said Mrs. Parsons.
"Oh dear, that is unfortunate; but these are not young children. The little boys are twins, and are—"
"Boys!that quite decides me, ma'am. I don't like other folk's servants about my place; but Imighthave got over that, had the children been girls. But boys—"
"Then I must wish you good-morning," said Aunt Betha. "Can you tell me of any house where children would not be objected to?Ilive in a house full of children myself, and I find them, as a rule, a deal pleasanter than grown-up people. But of course you must please yourself."
"I look at my furniture, ma'am, and my peace and comfort. I look to the ruin of carpets and chairs, and—"
But Aunt Betha stayed to hear no more, and trotted off on her arduous errand.
In and out of houses went poor Aunt Betha, with alternate hopes and fears. Some were dirty and slovenly: the landladies of these called the children "little dears," and said "they doted on children." Some rooms were too dear; some too small; and as the sharp-sounding clock of St. Luke's struck twelve, Aunt Betha felt tired out and ready to give up. She was standing hopelessly at the corner of Lavender Place, when a pleasant-looking woman, crossing the road, exclaimed with a smile, "Why, if that's not Miss Cox! Dear me, Miss Cox, how are you, ma'am?"
"I am pretty well, Ruth, thank you; but I am tired out. I am looking for lodgings for poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's family, and I can't find any."
"Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I sawhis death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?"
"Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties."
Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss Cox, and had basely deserted her as soon as she couldcook—send up a dinner fit to be eaten—to dress the dinner of the baker's boy who had served 6 Edinburgh Crescent with bread.
"Dear me! I thought Mr. Wilton was a very rich gentleman. I have heard the young ladies talk of the fine country place. How was it?"
"He had misfortunes and losses, Ruth; and his family are coming here to live in furnished lodgings. But I can meet with none. Can you help me?"
Ruth looked right and left, as if she expected to see some one coming up or down the road with the news of lodgings in their hands, and was silent. At last a light seemed to break over her rosy face. "If they don't mind being next to our shop, I believe I do know the very place. Will you come and see? The house belongs to my mother-in-law, and she has got it nicely furnished. It is not far; will you come, Miss Cox?"
"Is it quite near, Ruth? for I must be back for the children's dinner, and I am so tired."
"You can take a tram from the Three Stars, and that will get you home in no time. It is not far, Miss Cox."
"Well, I will come, Ruth; but I don't feel sure about engaging the lodgings. Your mother-in-law won't mind my looking at them?"
"Oh no, ma'am, not a bit. She was an old servant, you know, of some real gentry at Whitelands, and the old lady died last fall twelvemonth, and left mother—I always calls her mother—a nice little sum and some real valuable furniture."
"Oh! then she won't take children," said Miss Cox despairingly. "She won't take boys?"
"That she will, if you like the apartments; there won't be no difficulties," said Ruth in a reassuring voice. "You see, my Frank's father died when he was an infant, and mother went back to her old place, where she lived till two years ago, when the mistress died. Then she took this little business for Frank, and the house next. It is quite a private house, and was built by a gentleman. She thought she should be near us and help us on a bit, and so she has. And she put the furniture in it, and has added a bit here and there; and she let it all last winter to the curate and his mother; and here we are, Miss Cox. Look straight before you."
Miss Cox looked straight before her as she was told, and there, at the end of the road, stood a neat white house with a pretty good-sized baker's shop on the lower floor, and two windows above. There was a wing with a bake-house, and then a tall elm tree, left of its brethren which had once stood there in a stately group, either by accident or by design, and given their name to the locality—Elm Fields.
"There's my Frank at the door," Ruth said, nodding; "he wonders what I am come back for."
"I remember him," said Miss Cox; "he used to take an hour to deliver the bread. Ah, Ruth, you should not have married such a boy."
"Shouldn't I? Then, Miss Cox, you and I don't agree there. If I am a bit older, Frank is the best husband that ever lived.—This way, ma'am."
Ruth opened a wooden gate and went up a narrow path to the door of a small house, built of old-fashioned brick, with a porch at the side, and a trellis covered with clematis.
"Quite like country, isn't it, ma'am?—Mother," Ruth called. And then from the back of the house Mrs. Pryor emerged, a thin, pale, respectable-looking woman, but with a sad expression on her face. "Here's a lady, mother, come to look at your apartments, for a family—Dr. Wilton's brother, you know, mother, where I lived when I first saw Frank."
"Ah! indeed; will you please to look round, ma'am? It is a tidy place; I do all I can to keep it neat and clean; and there's some good furniture in it, left me by my dear blessed mistress." And Mrs. Pryor raised her apron to her eyes, and spoke in a low voice, like one on the brink of tears.
"Well then, mother, when ladies come to be in their eighty-sevens, one can't wish or expect them to live. It is only natural; we can't all live to be a hundred."
"I don't like such flighty talk, Ruth," said Mrs. Pryor reprovingly. "It hurts me.—This way, ma'am."
Aunt Betha followed Mrs. Pryor into a sitting-room on the ground floor, square and very neat,—the table in the middle of the room, a large mahogany chiffonier, with a glass of wax flowers on it, and two old china cups. Miss Cox went to the square window and looked out. The ground sloped away from the strip of garden, and the hamlet of Elm Fields, consisting of the cottages and small houses where Frank now delivered his own bread, was seen from it. There was nothing offensive to the eye, and beyond was a line of hills. Harstone lay to the right. Another room of the same proportions, and four bed-rooms, all very neat, and in one, the pride of Mrs. Pryor's heart, a large four-post bed with carvedposts and heavy curtains, the very chief of the dear mistress's gifts and legacies.
Aunt Betha felt it would do—that it must do; and there was a little room for the servant which Mrs. Pryor would throw in, and all for the prescribed two pounds a week.
"I will tell Dr. Wilton about it, and you shall hear this evening, or to-morrow morning at latest, and you will do your best to make them comfortable. They have had great sorrows. One thing I forgot to consider,—how far are we from the college?"
"Not a quarter of an hour by the Whitelands road," said Ruth eagerly. "I can walk it in that time; and young gentlemen, why they would do it in five minutes."
"How many young gentlemen are there?" Mrs. Pryor asked feebly, when they were in the passage.
"Two that will go to the college," said Ruth quickly. Then, with a glance at Miss Cox, she said in a lower voice, "I will make it right. Now, ma'am, you will catch the tram at the Three Stars if you make haste."
Poor Aunt Betha trudged off to the Three Stars, and stumbled into the tram just as it was starting.
She reached Edinburgh Crescent almost at the same moment as Dr. Wilton, who was returning from his first round.
"I have found a house which I think will answer for the poor people from Maplestone," she said. "I did not absolutely engage the rooms till I had consulted you and Anna."
Dr. Wilton gave a rapid glance to the white slate in the hall, and then said, "Come in here a minute, auntie," opening the door of his consulting-room. "Where are the lodgings?"
"In the neighbourhood you mentioned—by St. Luke's Church—in that new part by Whitelands called the Elm Fields. They are kept by a respectable woman, the mother of an old servant of ours—Ruth—and there is room for them all. Four bed-rooms, two sitting-rooms, and a little room for the servant."
"I'll take a look at the place this afternoon. I expect it is the very thing; and I have to see a patient in that direction. If I am satisfied, I will engage them from this day week. Guy is better to-day."
"Yes; he slept better," said Aunt Betha.
She was very tired, for she carried the weight of sixty-five years about with her on her errands of love and kindness. "I must go now and carve for Anna," she said. "It is past one o'clock."
Dr. Wilton always took his hasty luncheon in the consulting-room,—a glass of milk and a few biscuits. He did not encounter that long array of young faces in the dining-room in the middle of his hard day'swork. Aunt Betha departed with her news, which was received with some satisfaction by Mrs. Wilton. At least, Elm Fields did not lie much in the way of Edinburgh Crescent. There was safety in distance. And Aunt Betha wisely forbore to make any reference to the baker's shop.
That afternoon a telegram was handed in at Maplestone, which Salome opened for her mother with trembling fingers:—
"Dr. Wilton, Roxburgh, to Mrs. Wilton, Maplestone Court, near Fairchester.
"I have taken comfortable lodgings here for you from the twenty-third. I will write by post."
THAT last week at Maplestone was like a hurried dream to all the children, who had known no other home. Their neighbours and friends were very kind and full of sympathy, and Mrs. Wilton and the little boys were invited to spend the last two days with the De Brettes, who lived near, and it was arranged that they should stay there with Ada; and that Salome, and Stevens, and the two elder boys should precede them to Roxburgh. Miss Barnes had said she would come with them for a day or two to help them to arrange the rooms, and prepare everything for Mrs. Wilton; but she was called away to the sick-bed of her own mother, and Stevens and Salome went with Raymond and Reginald alone. The beautiful summer seemed over, and it was in a chill drizzling rain that Salome looked her last at Maplestone. She did not cry as the fly, laden with boxes, rumbled slowly down the drive. Stevens sobbed aloud, and Raymondand Reginald kept their heads well out of each window; but Salome sat pale and tearless. The coachman's wife at the lodge stood with her children round her at the large gate, and curtseyed; but she hid her face in her apron, and cried bitterly. The gardener had preceded them with the cart to the station, and the boxes were all labelled before the party in the fly arrived.
"Shall I take the tickets?" Raymond asked.
"Yes; let Master Raymond take them," exclaimed Stevens.
Salome had the purse intrusted to her by her mother to pay expenses.
"It is better you should begin your responsibilities," her mother had said sadly; "and Stevens will have so much to attend to."
Salome opened the purse and gave Raymond a sovereign.
"Another," he said, waiting.
"That is enough. Four tickets, third class."
"Third class.Iam not going to travel third class, I assure you."
"We must, Raymond; wemust," said Salome. "Raymond!"
But Raymond was gone, and Salome stood laden with small parcels, while poor Stevens was counting over the boxes.
The gardener had a beautiful basket of flowers ready, and had filled a hamper with the best fruit and vegetables from the Maplestone gardens.
"I have put up a melon, Miss Wilton, and a lot of grapes. Mind how the hamper is unpacked. You'll still have some more flowers soon, for I shall be coming up to Roxburgh."
"Perhaps we had better not, thank you, Thomas. They are not ours now, you know—nothing is ours;" and, as often happens, the sound of her own voice as she gave utterance to the sad truth was too much for her. She put her little hand into Thomas's, and said in a broken voice, "Here comes the train! Good-bye, Thomas; good-bye."
At this moment Reginald, who had been doing his utmost to help poor Stevens, came up.
"Now, dear Salome, make haste. Here's an empty carriage."
"Third class? Here you are. How many seats?" said a porter.
"Thisway, do you hear?" Raymond called. "This way. Stevens is to go there, and you must come with me. I've got the tickets."
"Hallo, Wilton!" said a pleasant voice, "where are you off to?"
"I am going to Roxburgh with my sister," said Raymond. "My sister—Mr. Henry St. Clair," saidRaymond grandly. "Get in, Salome, or you will be left behind."
Raymond's friend took some parcels out of Salome's hand, and courteously helped her into the carriage, putting the umbrellas and cloaks up in the rack behind the seat, and settling the little parcels for her.
As the guard came to shut the door with the usual words, "Any more going on?" Raymond said, "Where's Reginald?" and, putting his head out, he called, "Hallo, Reginald; you'll be left behind."
"I am going with Stevens, third class," was the answer.
Raymond's brow grew dark, and he muttered something between his teeth. "What an idiot! I've got his ticket."
Salome, who had great difficulty in repressing the tears which the good-bye to Thomas had brought in a shower, said bravely, "We ought all to have gone with Stevens, Raymond."
Raymond turned away, hoping his friend would not hear, and then the two boys began to talk about Eton matters, and Salome was left to her own sad meditations. She could not help, however, hearing some of the conversation, and her surprise was unbounded when she heard Raymond say his return to Eton was uncertain, for since the "governor's"death their plans were all unsettled. They might go abroad for the winter; at present they had taken a house near Roxburgh!
Oh, how could Raymond talk like that? and what would become of him? Ashamed to go third class! ashamed to say they were poor! Oh, if only Reginald had been the eldest brother, what a difference it would have made.
Raymond got out at the junction, where they had to wait for the up-train, to smoke a cigar. His friend did not accompany him, and he and Salome were left together. With ready tact he saw that she would prefer silence to conversation, and he only asked her if she would like the window quite closed, as it was so damp, picked up a flower which had fallen from Thomas's basket, and then unfolded a newspaper.
The next minute a young man looked in at the window and said, "I thought I saw you at Fairchester. How are you, old fellow?"
"All right. Where are you bound for?"
"I am going down into Cornwall till term begins. I say, there's Wilton! As much side on as ever, I suppose. Bragging as usual, eh?"
Henry St. Clair tried to make it evident by a sign that remarks about Raymond were to be stopped.
"Never was such a fellow for brag. I have beenstaying near Fairchester, and I heard the other day that the whole family were left without a farthing and heaps of debts. Is it true?"
"I don't know," said Henry St. Clair. "Have you seen Barnard lately?"
"No. What makes you ask? I say, St. Clair, what's up?"
"Theup-train. Now we are off. Here comes Wilton."
Raymond came sauntering up, and knocking the ashes from his cigar, threw it away.
"You extravagant fellow!" St. Clair exclaimed.
"Well, I can't smoke here, can I?"
"You ought not to smoke at all, according to Eton rules," exclaimed the other boy, as he ran away to take his place in another part of the train.
"Where did Harrington come from?"
"He has been staying near Fairchester, he says," St. Clair replied carelessly, and then he began to read his paper.
"Near Fairchester!" thought Raymond; "then he will have heard all about us. Whom can he have been staying with, I wonder? How stupid Salome is sitting there like a dummy when she might talk, as she can talk sometimes, and be agreeable. One can't go about the world airing one's pauperism; it's such nonsense."
The rest of the journey passed without much conversation. The Wiltons were to get out at a small station where there was a junction of two miles to Roxburgh. Henry St. Clair was going on to Harstone. He helped Salome, and even said to Raymond, "Here, take your sister's bag and umbrella, Wilton."
Reginald and Stevens were behind at the van watching the piles of boxes turned out, and Stevens was nervously counting them.
Henry St. Clair bid Salome a pleasant good-bye, and she felt his kind attentions in contrast to Raymond's indifference.
"What a nice little thing that sister of Wilton's is!" Henry St. Clair thought, as the train moved off and he caught sight of Salome's slight figure standing by Stevens and the luggage which was to be carried across to another platform for the Roxburgh train. "A nice little thing! And what a selfish brute Wilton is; such a cad, too, with his big talk—while she is so different. I wonder whether it is true what Harrington has heard. I will ask Barnard. He comes from those parts, and is sure to know. I'll ask him."
The drizzling rain had turned into a regular down-pour, when at last Stevens and her boxes were safely stowed away in the omnibus, and Salome and herbrothers filled a cab, with small parcels, baskets, and rugs at the Roxburgh station.
"Where shall I drive, sir?" asked the cabman as he prepared to mount to his seat.
"What's the name of the house?" said Raymond. "Salome, where are we to drive?"
"I—I—don't quite know," said poor Salome. "How stupid of me!—Reginald, can you remember?"
"It's by a church, and the name is Friar, or Pryor, or—"
"There's a lot of churches," said the cabman; "and this ain't exactly the weather to stand here while you put on your considering cap, with the water pouring off one's hat enough to blind one."
"It's St. Luke's Church. Yes, I am sure it's close to St. Luke's," Salome exclaimed. "But Stevens will know—our nurse, who is in the omnibus."
"You want a nurse, you do," said the cabman, "to guide you? Come now, I can't wait here all night."
And now a shout was heard from the omnibus.
"The old lady wants to speak to you," said the conductor. And Salome, looking out at the cab window, saw Stevens frantically making signals and trying to make her voice reach the cab.
"Oh, Stevens knows, Stevens knows the address," and before more could be said, Reginald had jumped out and was soon climbing the steps of the omnibusto hear what Stevens said. He was back in a minute drenched with rain, and saying,—
"Close to St. Luke's Church—Elm Fields—Elm Cottage—Mrs. Pryor."
"All right," said the cabman. "I know—Pryor the baker; I pass down by there from Whitelands often enough." Then he climbed to his seat, the rain still falling in one continuous rush, and they were off.
"How idiotic of you, Salome, not to know the address," said Raymond; "and I do wish you would keep your hair tight. Look here!" And he gave one of the thick plaits a somewhat rough pull as it lay like a line of light upon Salome's black jacket. "I saw St. Clair looking at it. You didn't take in who he was."
"Some Eton swell, I suppose," said Reginald.
"I thought he was very nice and kind," said Salome.
"Nice and kind! He is Lord Felthorpe's son, and in the same house as I am at Eton. Old Birch always manages to get the right sort of fellows! How could you be such an ass, Reginald, as to travel third class when I had taken a first class ticket for you?"
"We ought all to have travelled third class," said Reginald stoutly. "Mother said second; but there is no second on the Midland Railway, so I went third."
"Well, just as you please," said Raymond. "I say, what a neighbourhood this is! not a good house to be seen," and he wiped the window of the cab with his coat-sleeve.
Salome looked out from her window also.
"I don't remember this part of Roxburgh. It cannot be near Uncle Loftus's house, I think."
"Oh no," said Reginald; "that is the swell part—Edinburgh Crescent and Maniston Square and the Quadrant. This is more like a part of Harstone. Hallo!"
The cab had stopped at last.
"What are we stopping for?" exclaimed Salome.
"I expect this is the place," said Reginald, "for there is a baker's shop, and Pryor over it."
"Nonsense," said Raymond. But the cabman got down and tapped at the blurred glass, signing to Raymond to let it down, and saying, "Now then, sir, look sharp!"
"This can't be the place,—it's impossible,—it's a mistake."
But now a cheerful voice was heard, and, with a large cotton umbrella held over her, Ruth appeared.
"It's all right! This way, sir, round by the gate. I am sorry you have such a day, that I am; it makes everything look so dismal. Frank will come and help with the luggage."
Salome followed Ruth to the trellised porch, where the clematis was hanging limp and damp, with drops from every tendril. Just within the porch stood Mrs. Pryor. Smiles were not in her way at all. She looked as sad and melancholy as the day, and when the creaking omnibus was heard coming up the road and stopping at the gate, she held up her hands.
"All those boxes! it's ridic'lous to think of getting 'em in."
"Nonsense, mother; Frank will manage that in no time. There's lots of room, and a family must have things to use."
"You walk in, miss," said Ruth to Salome; "tea is all set in the parlour. We thought you would like to have one room kept for meals and one for company."
"Company! what company! Who would ever come near them in that obscure quarter of Roxburgh," Salome thought. And now Raymond made it worse by coming in to declare he should not allow his mother to stay in a hole like this, and that he should go out and look for lodgings the very next day. Whoever took them must be mad, and he should not put up with it. Even Reginald's good temper was tried to the utmost, and he and Raymond began a fierce wrangle about the cab and omnibus fare; while Stevens, wet and tired and miserable, sat down onone of her big boxes, and seemed as if all exertion were over for her.
"I am wore out," she said. "I have not slept for three nights. I am wore out."
Of course, Mrs. Pryor was too much affronted at Raymond's remarks on her house—the house, with all the highly-polished furniture, which was at once her pride and joy—to volunteer any consolation; but quietly addressing Salome, she said,—
"You have not seen the bed-rooms yet; will you walk up, Miss Wilton?"
Salome followed, saying, as she passed Raymond and Reginald,—
"Please do not say any more. I daresay we shall be very comfortable.—And do come up with me, Stevens, and see the rooms."
The gentle, sweet voice softened Mrs. Pryor somewhat. Stevens was pleased to see the bed-rooms neatly furnished, and that not a speck of dust was to be seen; from these upper windows, too, there would be, on clear days, a nice open view; and altogether her spirits rose, and she said "with a few things put here and there she thought she might soon get a bed-room fit for her mistress."
"I am glad mother did not come with us," said Salome. "It will be all settled before Monday. If only Raymond would make the best of it."
ONE really sunny, good-tempered person has a wonderful effect in a household. Ruth Pryor was the sunny element in the two days of rain outside, and discomforts of unpacking inside the house, which followed the arrival of the first instalment of the party from Maplestone. She smoothed down difficulties; she laughed at her mother-in-law's melancholy forebodings that "the party was too grand for her," and that she, who had lived for so many years with a lady of title—her dear, departed mistress—was not going to put up with "airs" from a young man like Mr. Raymond.
"It takes a time to get used to everything," Ruth said; "they'll settle down right enough, and so Mrs. Stevens thinks. She says her mistress, poor thing, is too broken down to grumble; and I am sure Miss Wilton is a little angel."
"Veryuntidy, very careless—dropping things hereand there; and she has spilled some ink on the tablecloth."
"A mere speck," said Ruth; "you'd need to put on your spectacles to see it; and a green and black cloth does not show spots."
"Not toyoureyes, Ruth; you are far too easy. It's a good thing you have no family."
"There now, mother, don't say that," said Ruth, a shadow coming over her round, rosy face. "You know how I fretted when I lost my baby; and Frank, he fretted enough."
"Well, well, you may have a baby yet, only you would find you'd have to be more particular as to bits and pieces strewed everywhere," and Mrs. Pryor stooped to pick up some leaves which Salome had dropped as she filled the two stiff white vases with the Maplestone flowers.
Mrs. Wilton and the boys were expected that evening. Raymond and Reginald were to meet them at the station; and Salome had been following Stevens about the house, giving finishing touches here and there, and trying to hope her mother would be pleased. The "parlour," now called the drawing-room, was wonderfully improved by pushing the table back against the wall, and covering it with books and a little flower-basket from the old home. Then there was a "nest" of small tables, whichSalome and Stevens separated, and covered two of them with some bits of scarlet cloth, round which some lace was run by Stevens. On these tables some photographs were set in little frames, and two brackets were nailed up with a book-shelf. Salome looked round with some satisfaction as the sun struggled through the clouds and seemed to smile on her efforts. Reginald enjoyed all the wrenching of nails from boxes and running out on messages; and altogether things assumed a brighter aspect.
Raymond had been out the greater part of the two days, and only came in to meals. He was moody and disagreeable: selfish and discontented in the days of prosperity, he naturally made no effort to sweeten the days of adversity.
"Have you got any money, Salome?" he asked his sister, as she sat down in the dining-room with ink and pens before her and a large blotting-case, which had once been a music portfolio, and was now filled with a great variety of scribbled paper, the beginnings of many stories which had been read to her little brothers by the nursery fire at Maplestone, and were considered, by them at least, the "jolliest tales that were ever told—much jollier than printed books."
Out of this chaotic heap Salome thought of forming a story for children, of which visions floated before her, bound in olive green, and embossed withgold, and illustrated with pictures, and advertised in the papers! Only Reginald was to be in the secret. And then the joy of giving her mother the money she should get for her book. The little heap of gold was already rising from ten to twenty, nay, to thirty sovereigns, when Raymond's question broke in on her dream,—
"I say, Salome, have you got any money?"
"Money! No, Raymond, only a few shillings; but mother will have some this afternoon."
"Well, you see, I spent nearly a pound of my own for the tickets, and the omnibus, and cab, and porters."
"Not for the omnibus and cab. I gave Reginald seven shillings for them. And as to the tickets, you ought not to have taken first class tickets. One was a waste, because Reginald did not use it."
"A lucky thing I had the sense to take first class tickets. Fancy St. Clair findingmein a third class carriage—andyou, worse still! If Reginald was such a fool, I can't help it, it was not my concern; but I have a right to look after you, and I know my father would never have allowed you or Ada to travel third class with a lot of half-tipsy navvies, for all I could tell."
Raymond said this with a grandly magnanimous air, as if he were to be commended for brotherly attention.
Salome bit the end of her pen-holder, and could scarcely repress a smile, but she only said,—
"What do you want money for, Raymond?"
"What do I want it for? That's my business. I am not going into Roxburgh without a penny in my pocket. It's not likely."
"Well," Salome said, "I hope you will not tease mother for money. I hope you will spare her as much as you can. I believe I have some money of my own,—ten or twelve shillings,—and I can let you have it, or some of it." Salome put her hand in her pocket to get out her purse. Alas! no purse was there. "I must have left it upstairs," she said.
And Raymond exclaimed,—
"A nice hand you'll make of keeping money for the family."
"Stevens," Salome said, rushing up to Stevens, "have you seen my purse?"
"No; you've never lost it?"
"I can't have lost it.—Reginald,—I say, Reginald, have you seen my purse? I thought it was in my pocket."
Reginald called out from his mother's bed-room, where he was fastening up a bracket for her little clock,—
"What do you say you've lost?"
"Oh, my purse, Reginald! whatshallI do?" andSalome wildly turned out a drawer in the room which she was to share with Ada, and left it in dire confusion.
"Dear me, Miss Salome, pray don't make work like that," said Stevens. "I do wish you would learn to take care of your own things at least. You never was fit to look after money."
Salome was in despair, when Reginald came out of his mother's room holding the lost purse on high.
"O Reginald, where did you find it? You might have told me before. It was a shame. Wheredidyou find it?"
"Under the table in the dining-room last evening," and he tossed the purse to her, saying, "It's not very heavy. But youshouldbe careful, Salome; you are awfully careless."
"Don't be rude, Reginald; it's not for you to take me to task. Mind your own business, please."
"Hallo! there's a carriage. It's Uncle Loftus; yes, that it is," exclaimed Reginald. "He has not hurried himself to look after us, I must say."
Salome felt a nervous fear of her uncle, and stood irresolute at the top of the narrow stairs.
"Come down with me, Reginald," she said; "do come."
"Oh no, you'll get on better alone," Reginald said; "and Raymond is downstairs."
"The doctor, Miss Wilton," said Mrs. Pryor, in a tone which seemed to imply that some one was very ill. "The doctor," she repeated, looking up from the narrow hall at Salome.
Salome went down slowly, and her heart beat so loud she could almost hear it. Her Uncle Loftus brought back the memory of her father so vividly. He resembled him, as brothers do often resemble each other—a family likeness, which starts out always more forcibly when one of that family is gone.
"Well, my dear child," Dr. Wilton said, advancing to Salome when at last she opened the door, "how are you getting on? You are quite comfortable here, I hope. It really looks very nice and home-like. It was the best we could do for you. I heard from your mother yesterday, and she says she is coming this afternoon with the children and—and—" (Dr. Wilton could not fit the sister with a name) "your sister. I will try to meet your mother, and bring her up in the carriage. I have to be at the hospital in Harstone at four o'clock, and I think I can just manage to get to the Elm Fields Station at five. The boys must meet the train too, and they and the children and the luggage can come up in the omnibus."
"Thank you, Uncle Loftus," Salome said gently."I am very glad mamma should drive up in the carriage."
"What a quiet, demure little thing she is," thought Dr. Wilton. "Where are your brothers?" he asked.
"I thought Raymond was here," Salome said, rising as if to call him.
"No; do not call him now. I wanted to tell you that I have, I hope, succeeded in getting him into a merchant's office in Harstone. It really is a most difficult thing to provide for boys in these days, as I shall find. All professions need so much outlay to begin with—articles for the law, and so on. But Mr. Warde, out of respect to your poor father's memory, says he will take your brother on, at a nominal salary of twenty pounds, just to keep him in clothes; and considering the calamity at Fairchester, I think it is better the boy should start clear here. Reginald must have another year at school, I suppose, and I will speak to Dr. Stracey about it. The term does not begin till the middle of September. The little boys you and Ada can manage between you, I daresay."
"Oh yes," Salome said; "I can do their lessons at present."
"That's right. You know your poor father's affairs are in such a fearful mess that it is impossible to tell yet how things stand. The liquidation of the CentralBank will go on for years. A heavy overdraft there is the ugliest part of the matter."
"An overdraft!" poor Salome exclaimed; "I don't understand!"
"No, my dear, you can't understand, I daresay. But, as I told you, your poor mother's income is secure, and on that you must all make up your minds to live till better times. It is just three hundred a year."
Three hundred a year conveyed a very hazy idea to Salome.
"How much had we a year at Maplestone, Uncle Loftus?"
"How much?—my dear, your father was living at the rate of four or five thousand a year!"
"Fourthousand!" This at least was a help to a clear understanding. Four thousand did stand out in sharp contrast to three hundred. Salome was speechless.
"Your Aunt Anna will be calling on your mother to-morrow, and she will settle about your coming to see your cousins. You must be about Kate's age—seventeen."
"I am not quite sixteen," Salome said. "Ada is just fifteen, and Raymond seventeen. Reginald is nearly fourteen."
"Only a year between each of you, then!"
"The little ones are much younger. Carl is nine,and Hans eight. They were born on the same day of the month."
Family records of births and ages were not in Dr. Wilton's line. He looked at his watch, and said,—
"Well, I must be off. I will speak to your mother about the situation for Raymond, and other matters, as we drive up from the station. Good-bye, my dear." And Dr. Wilton was gone, leaving Salome standing in the middle of the room. She would have liked to kiss him, to cry a little, and be comforted. But there was something in her uncle's professional manner, kind though it was, which threw her back. He would do his duty, she felt; he would not give up his brother's children; but he would do it as shortly as possible, and waste neither time nor words over it.
He had smiled, and looked kind; he had spoken pleasantly and cheerfully; he had even put his arm round her when she first went into the room, and there was real feeling in the words, "Well, my dear child," as he kissed her forehead; but for all that, Salome felt like a sensitive plant, touched by the gentlest hand, which draws in, and cannot unfold in response.
"If only father were here!" the girl exclaimed, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, that he were here! Oh, that we had all thought more of him when we had him! And what a life he must havehad the last year; never telling us, and yet in such trouble!" Vain regrets for our dead; vain longings to be what we can never be again! Let us all take care, as the daily life rolls swiftly on, that we lay up happy memories, or at least pleasant memories, when that daily life has becomethe past,—the past which, when it was the present, was, alas! so often sown with the seeds of unkindness, harshness of word and judgment, ill-temper, selfish disregard for the feelings of others, which yield such a bitter harvest when those we love are hidden from our sight, and we can never more lighten a burden, or help to make the way easy by smiles and good-temper, by tenderness and forbearance, by the love which covereth a multitude of faults.
Salome was roused by Raymond's entrance.
"Why did you not come and see Uncle Loftus?"
"He did not ask for me."
"Yes, he asked where you were; but he told me not to call you."
"I did not want to see him. I hate his patronizing ways. Have you found your purse?"
"Yes, Reg had picked it up; but you are not going out before dinner, are you, Ray?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Raymond, stretching and yawning. "I should have thought we had better have dined at seven, when mamma comes."
"I—I don't think Mrs. Pryor would like a late dinner."
"Well, I can get a little luncheon somewhere in Roxburgh. It is so fine, and it is so slow being cooped up here."
"You have to go with Reg to the Elm Fields Station to meet mamma—don't forget that—at five o'clock."
"All right." But Raymond lingered. "The money, Sal; I'll pay you back." Salome opened the purse and took out two half-crowns. "Thanks!" said Raymond; "itisa come down to want a paltry five shillings."
"O Raymond!" Salome said passionately,—"O Ray, do try to make the best of things to mother! It will make her so dreadfully sad if you grumble. Dear Raymond, I will do all I can, only please do try to make the best of everything."
"You are a kind little thing," said Raymond; "but I wish we were all at the bottom of the Red Sea. There is nothing left to live for or care about; no pleasure, and no fun; nothing but to be looked down upon!"
"I believe Uncle Loftus has heard of something for you, and perhaps you will make money and be a rich merchant." Raymond whistled and shrugged his shoulders, and strolled off, lighting a cigar in the porch.
Then Salome went to find Reginald, and make her peace with him.
"Reg, let us go out. It is so fine; and I am so sorry I was so careless about the purse. It was very good of you to pick it up, Reg; I was horridly cross to you."
"Never mind, Sal. Yes, let's go out and look about the place till dinner."
"I don't see that we want any dinner to-day, Reg. We can have the cutlets at tea, when the others come; and Stevens won't mind—she can have eggs and bacon. And we'll find a shop and have some buns and ginger-beer. I'll get ready at once, and tell Stevens to tell Mrs. Pryor. It will be fun, and save expense, you know."
Poor child! she was soon ready; and Reginald and she set off in better spirits than they had known since their troubles had fallen on them.
When Salome was outside the gate, and had nodded to Ruth, who was behind the counter of the shop, she discovered she had got both left-hand gloves. "But it will spoil all if I tell Reg, and go back, and keep him waiting while I hunt for the right-hand glove. He will say I am incorrigible." So by a little skilful manœuvring Salome persuaded her right hand to accommodate itself to circumstances, and tripped almost gaily by her brother's side.
THE walk had an exhilarating effect on both brother and sister. There is a charm in novelty to us all, and it is a charm which is more especially felt by the young. The present moment bears with it its own importance, and neither future nor past has the power with children that it has with grown-up people. Reginald and Salome soon left behind them the lines of small villas and long narrow streets intersecting each other which stretched out from the district called Elm Fields, connecting it with Roxburgh in one direction, and sloping down towards Harstone in the other.
Beyond all these signs of increasing population was a wide expanse of common or down, skirted, it is true, by houses which year by year are multiplied, but yet comprising an acre or two of broken ground with dips and hollows, and, again, wide spaces of soft turf, freshened by the breezes which come straightfrom the mouth of the river on which Harstone stands, some ten miles away.
"This is nice," Salome said. "I feel as if I could run and jump here. And look at that line of blue mountains, Reg! Is it not lovely? Oh, we can come here very often! I think I remember driving across these downs when I came with dear father to stay at Uncle Loftus's three or four years ago. We are nearer the downs than the fashionable part of the place, I believe."
"Yes," said Reginald; "I call this jolly. And there's the college over there; we will go home that way, and find out a short cut back to Elm Fields. I say, Sal, there is no one near, or no one who can watch us; let's have a race to the big thorn bush right in front, and on to the stumpy tree to the left."
Salome gave a quick glance round, and then said, "Off!" Away she went, fleet of foot, her plaits of hair falling over her shoulders, refusing to be kept in place by the hair-pins, which were indeed not strong enough to bear up that mass of tawny locks on ordinary occasions, certainly not now when Salome was flying in the teeth of a brisk wind over the open downs.
"Well done," said Reginald, breathless with his exertions, "you were not two yards behind me; but, I say, Sal, your hair!"
"Oh, what shall I do? and no pins! I must go back and look for them."
"Here's one caught in your jacket; but it would be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay to look for the others on the down. No one will know you; let it all go."
"I will go to a hairdresser and have it cut off. It's no use being bothered like this. Now, let us walk quietly; I wish to consult you about my story. Shall I make the children orphans, living with a cross aunt? or shall they have a father and mother? And would you put in that tale about the monkey which Hans is so fond of? That is a really true tale, you know. It happened to Stevens's little niece."
"Well, I think stories about monkeys pulling watches to pieces and breaking tea-cups are rather stale. So are all stories, if you come to that—the same things told hundreds of times, just the names of the children changed."
Salome was silent, feeling rather disappointed at this douche of cold water over her schemes of authorship.
"But, Reg, if stories are to be like life, theymustbe the same things told over and over again, just as things do go on happening over and over again. For instance, all that is happening to us now has happenedto thousands and thousands of other families,—may be happening at this very moment. The thing is," said Salome thoughtfully, "it is thewayof telling a story which makes the difference. We see things differently, and then we put the old thing in a new light. That is why there is everything fresh every day, and nothing can be really stale, as you call it. All this beautiful view never can look quite the same, for there is certain to be a variety in the lights and shadows."
"Oh, well, I daresay; but then I am not sentimental or romantic, though I think you are awfully clever, and would beat Ada, or any of us, any day. I wonder how I shall get on at the college? It will be very different to Rugby. I must work hard and make the best of the year, for I am only to have a year more at school. Did not Uncle Loftus say so?"
"Yes; but perhaps it may turn out differently. You are sure to get on, whatever happens. It is about Raymond I am so afraid. I cannot imagine him in an office in Harstone.—How that girl is staring at me, Reginald, and the boy too. Is it at my hair?"
"Come along," said Reginald; "don't look at them."
He turned towards the low wall which skirts theside of the down where the high rocks, through which the river runs, rise to a considerable height on the Roxburgh side. Reginald leaned with folded arms against the wall, and Salome, uncomfortably conscious that her hair was floating over her back in most dire confusion, stood by him, never turning her head again. At last Salome heard a voice close to her say,—
"Yes, I am sure it is, Digby. Let me ask her."
"Nonsense. You can't be sure."
There was a moment's silence, and then Kate Wilton seized on her chance. Salome's pocket-handkerchief, as she turned at a sign from Reginald to walk away, fell from the pocket at the side of her dress.
"I think this is yours," said Kate, "your pocket-handkerchief; and I think you are my cousin. We—we came to see you at Maplestone two years ago."
The brightest colour rose to Salome's face, and she said, "Yes, I am Salome Wilton. Reginald!"—for Reginald had walked on, resolutely determined not to believe they had any kinship with the boy and girl who had stared at them—"Reginald," Salome said, overtaking him, "do stop;" adding in a lower voice, "It's so uncivil."
Reginald, thus appealed to, was obliged to turn hishead, and in the very gruffest voice said, "How do you do?" to Digby, who advanced towards him.
"I am so glad we met you," Kate said. "I have been watching you for ever so long. Something made me sure you were our cousin. I was not so sure about your brother. I daresay he has very much grown in two years, but you are so little altered, and"—Kate paused and laughed—"I knew your hair; it is such wonderful hair. Don't you remember how you used to let it down at Maplestone, and make me guess which was your face and which was the back of your head? It was not so long then."
Salome felt more and more uncomfortable about her hair, and said, "I am quite ashamed of my untidiness; but I have lost all my pins, and my hair is such a dreadful bother."
"It is beautiful," said Kate. "I am sure I should not call it a bother. I wish you could give me some; but we have all scraggy rats' tails. We should like to walk with you, if we may," Kate continued. "Which way are you going?"
"Oh, no way in particular. Reginald and I came out for a walk. We have had such dreadful weather since we have been here."
"Yes; and Digby and I, like you and your brother, were tired of staying at home. It is so dull forthe boys when they have bad weather in the holidays. I hope it is going to clear up now."
Salome hoped so too, and then there was silence. But Kate soon broke it with some trivial remark, and the girls made more rapid advances towards friendship than the boys. Kate was pleasant and good-tempered, and was easy to get on with. But Salome listened in vain for much conversation between the boys. All the talk came from Digby, and she felt vexed with her brother for his ungraciousness. But boys are generally more reticent than girls, and have not so many small subjects to discuss with each other on first acquaintance, till they get upon school life and games.
"I hope you will come home with us," Kate said, after a pause, during which she had been calculating the time of her mother and Louise's departure to luncheon at a friend's house in the neighbourhood. A glance at the clock of a church they passed reassured her. "They were certain to have started," she thought. "Aunt Betha would not mind if I took home half-a-dozen people to luncheon."
"You are going out of your way, Salome," said Reginald. "We ought to turn up this way to Elm Fields."
"I want them to come home to luncheon, Digby. Do make them."
"Oh yes, pray, come," said Digby, "unless you have anything better to do."
"Oh no," said Salome simply. "Reginald and I were going to get some buns at a shop. We did not intend to go back till—"
A warning, not to say angry, glance from Reginald stopped Salome, and she added,—
"Perhaps we had better not come, thanks. Mamma and Ada and the children are coming this afternoon, and Reginald has to be at the station at five o'clock to meet them."
"Well, as it's not one o'clock yet," said Digby, "there's time, I should think, for both." He changed companions as he spoke, and, leaving Kate to Reginald, walked briskly on with Salome towards Edinburgh Crescent.
The bell was ringing for the "children's dinner" as the four cousins were admitted by the "boy in buttons" who answered the doctor's bell, and had in truth time for little else than swinging back that door on the hinges and receiving patients' notes, telegrams, and messages.
"You are late, Miss Kate," was Bean's greeting. By reason of his name poor Bean had a variety of sobriquets in the family. Of these "Stalky Jack" and "Vegetable" were amongst the most conspicuous.
"Is mamma gone?" Kate asked anxiously.
"Yes, miss, just turned the corner as you came up. Lady Monroe don't lunch till one-thirty:welunch at one sharp."
Another ring, before the door had well closed, took Bean to it again, and Kate, saying, "It is all right, Salome, come upstairs," led the way to the room she shared with Louise, while Digby took Reginald into the dining-room.
An evening dress of blue and white lay on one of the little beds, and Kate dexterously covered it with a white shawl; for Salome's deep crape reminded her that neither she nor Louise was really wearing the proper mourning for her uncle.
"Just take the daisies out of your hats," her mother had said, "and wear your black cashmeres. It is really impossible to provide mourning for a family like this; and besides, so few people here will know much about it—so many are away; and by the time Roxburgh is full again, the six weeks' mourning for an uncle will be over. Still, as you two elder girls are seen with me, you must not be in colours; it is a fortunate thing I had just had that black silk made up."
The memory of her mother's words passed swiftly through Kate's mind, and she hoped Salome would not notice the blue dress. She need not have been afraid. Salome was fully occupied with plaiting upher hair and possessing herself of two or three stray hair-pins she saw on the dressing-table.
The room was not particularly tidy or attractive; very different to the bright sunny room at Maplestone, with its wreath of ivy round the windows and its decorations within, in which Ada delighted. The back of Edinburgh Crescent looked out on strips of dark gardens, shut in by red brick walls; and beyond, the backs of another row of houses.
"Louise and I are obliged to share a room," Kate said. "Though this house looks large, we fill it from top to bottom—we are such an enormous family. That's poor little Guy," she said, as a wailing, fretful cry was heard. "The nursery is next our room. Guy is our baby: he is very delicate, and I don't think papa has much hope that he will live. Now we must come down to luncheon. I hope you don't mind barley soup and treacle pudding. We are certain not to have anything better to-day, because mamma and Louise are out." She said this laughing as she ran down before Salome.
The long table with its row of young faces bewildered Salome. She felt shy and uncomfortable, and Aunt Betha, rising from her place at the head of the table, advanced kindly toward her.
"Come and sit next me, my dear. There are so many cousins; don't attempt to speak to them all.Will you have some hashed mutton or cold beef?—Go on with your dinners, Edith andMaude"—for the little girls had stopped short in eating to gaze curiously at their cousin. "Do you take beer, my dear? Only water! that is right. We are all better for taking water.—Now, Digby, send down the potatoes.—We wait on ourselves at luncheon. I hope you find your lodgings comfortable. Mrs. Pryor is a very superior person, rather gloomy, but Ruth laughs enough for a dozen. A giddy girl she was when she lived here.—You remember Ruth, Kate?"
"No, I don't," said Kate; "we have a tide of girls passing through the house. They are all alike."
Aunt Betha's kindly chatter was a great help to Salome, and she began to feel less oppressed by the presence of her cousins. Such an army of boys and girls it seemed to her! and the home picture so widely different to that which she had known at Maplestone. "Children's dinner," with neither father nor mother present, at Dr. Wilton's was of the plainest, and Mrs. Wilton expended her ornamental taste on her drawing-room, where she had many afternoon teas and "at homes." Dinner parties or even luncheon parties were rare, and the dining-room was therefore generally bare and commonplace in its arrangements. A dusty fern, which looked unhappy and gas-stricken,drooped rather than lived in a china pot in the middle of the table; but beyond this there were no signs of flower or of leaf.
Yet it washome, and Salome felt by force of contrast homeless and sad. The boys were going to see a cricket match, and Digby wanted Reginald to come with them.
"I shall not have time, thank you. We ought to be going back now, Salome."
But Kate overruled this, and Reginald was obliged to consent, and went off with his cousins till four o'clock, when he was to return to pick up his sister and take her to Elm Fields before going to the station.
"We will have a cozy talk in the school-room, and I will get Aunt Betha to let us have some tea. The children are all going out, and mamma and Louise will not be back yet, so we shall have peace." Kate said this as, with her arm in Salome's, she led the way to the school-room,—a very bare, untidy room in the wing built out at the back of the house, and over Dr. Wilton's consulting-room. Two battered leather chairs, which had seen years of service, were on either side of the fireplace; and there was a long bookcase, taking up the wall on one side, where school books for every age and degree were arranged in brown paper covers. A writing-desk standing on the table, with a cover over it, and an inkstandwith pen and pencil, all belonging to Miss Scott, the daily governess, was the only really tidy spot in the whole room. The walls were covered with maps and pictures cut from theIllustrated News—two or three of these in frames—conspicuous amongst them the familiar child in the big sun bonnet tying up her stocking on the way to school, and another sitting on a snowy slope, apparently in a most uncomfortable position, but smiling nevertheless serenely on the world generally.
"This is our school-room, and I am glad I have nearly done with it. That cracked piano is enough to drive one wild. It is good enough for the 'little ones' to drum on. Do you care for music?"
"Yes, I care for it, but I don't play much. Ada plays beautifully."
"Ada is very pretty, isn't she? I remember one of you was very pretty."
"Yes, Ada is thought lovely. She is not in the least like me."
"Well, I hope we shall be good friends. I am sorry you are out in that poky part of Roxburgh; but Digby and I shall come very often, and you must come here whenever you can."
"It is so odd," Kate went on, "that only a year ago we used to call you our grand relations, who were too stuck-up to care for us—"
"Oh! please, don't talk so," said Salome, with a sudden earnestness of appeal. "Pray don't talk so. I can't bear it."
"I did not mean to hurt you, I am sure," said Kate eagerly. "Don't cry, Salome." For Salome had covered her face with her hands to hide her tears. "How stupid of me! Do forgive me," said Kate, really distressed. "But I am always doing things of this kind—saying the wrong thing, or the right thing at the wrong time."
Salome made a great effort to recover herself, and soon was amused at Kate's lively description of the ways and doings at Edinburgh Crescent. Kate could describe things well, and delighted in having a listener, especially one like Salome, who was sure not to break in with—"You told me that before;" or, "I have heard that story a hundred times."