THE household at Elm Cottage were engrossed for the next ten days with preparations for Ada's departure. Mrs. Pryor's eyes filled with tears whenever it was mentioned.
"Going off to foreign parts, where my dear departed lady went years agone, to find a grave for her husband; no good ever comes from going to these outlandish places. However a widow lady can trust her child to go off like this passes my comprehension."
"These are old-fashioned notions in these days, mother," Ruth would interpose. "These foreign places are just English all over. I know a young person who went as maid to—to—not Cannes, but it's all the same; the name begins with a saint."
"Ah! I daresay," sighed Mrs. Pryor; "some Papist's place."
"Well, this young person told me," said Ruth, taking no notice of the interruption, "that at their hotel it was just like an English country house;everything goes like clock-work. In your lady's days, I daresay, sixty years ago, it might have been changed."
"Yes, itwasdifferent. And times are changed," said Mrs. Pryor. "The young set themselves up, and think it fine to scoff at their elders. If this pretty child—for she isbuta child—is laid in the burying-ground out there, hundreds of miles from her widowed mother, don't come to me to besurprised—that's all."
Ruth nodded at Stevens to say no more. But Stevens's own heart was heavy; and many were the sighs which were breathed over Ada's box, which stood ready, strapped and addressed, in the dull haze of the November morning.
Ada herself had kept up bravely till now; but as the wheels of the fly were heard which was to take her to the station, to meet Lady Monroe and Eva and their maid, her sobs broke forth.
"Oh, I wish I were not going!" she said. "O mother, mother!"
"Don't upset mamma, Ada," Salome whispered. "Dear Ada, please don't."
But Ada threw herself into her mother's arms, and could only sob out, "Oh, I wish I were not going!"
Mrs. Wilton strove to be calm; and Stevens wisely hastened box, and neat little bundle of rugs, andulster, and umbrella into the fly. Hans and Carl, who, with Stevens, were to see Ada off, stood bewildered to see their generally calm, self-possessed sister crying so bitterly.
"I thought she wanted to go to France," Carl said, puckering up his mouth.
"Yes; I thought Stevens said Ada was crazy to go," echoed Hans.
"She will be all right when she is once off, my dears," said Ruth. "You run and get in. There's good little boys; get into the fly. Look! I declare there is Puck, knowing as well as possible that Miss Ada is going."
At last Ada was gone, clinging to the last to her mother and to Salome, and saying, "Give Raymond and Reg my love; don't forget."
Ada was not the first to find that the longed-for pleasure is not all that imagination pictured; and well might Ruth say, as she turned back into her little shop,—
"There, I didn't think she had so much heart, that I didn't."
"Everybody's heart ain't always in their mouths, Ruth," was Frank's rejoinder. "Still waters run deep, my dear."
"Then you are one of the deepest I ever saw, Frank; you never waste a word. I do believe if Ihadn't helped you, you never would have come to the point with me."
"That's an old story now, my dear," said Frank, rubbing his floury face with his hand. "Don't be offended, my dear," he continued. "I don't say it wasn't a good story, formeanyhow, that Ididcome to the point."
After Ada's departure Salome made a great effort to settle down into a fixed routine. She wrote out a list of the lessons with her little brothers, and with Reginald's help got over the formidable arithmetic better than might have been expected. Irksome as this routine was to a girl of her dreamy and imaginative temperament, she bravely struggled to take each day as it came, and do the best with it. Stevens, who did all the needle-work and small washing of the family, could not always walk with her children, but she clung to this habit of a past life; and soon after the one o'clock dinner in the short winter days Hans and Carl would set off on a shopping expedition with Stevens, or for a walk over the downs. And while Mrs. Wilton rested quietly for an hour, Salome would sit down to her story, and forget the present in the society of the imaginary children of whom she wrote. Unconsciously she reproduced the dear old home of her happy childhood,—the stately trees, the emerald turf, the little lakewith the rustic bridge. Her children were the idealized children of her own experience, and the circumstances in which she placed them and the adventures which befell them were, like the "monkey stories," for the most part reproductions of incidents which lay treasured in the storehouse of her memory. Thanks to Miss Barnes's admirable teaching, Salome was guiltless of slips of grammar, and wrote a fair hand. This "thinking on paper" has a peculiar fascination in it for the young; and no one could have grudged Salome these hours she spent over her manuscript, full of hope and even belief that by her hand the weight of care might be lifted from her mother.
Christmas drew on, and Reginald was full of his examinations—so full, that he sat up late at night with his papers, and had but little time to give to the consideration of Salome's tale.
It was one evening when Mrs. Wilton was occupied in answering a long letter from Ada, filled with glowing descriptions of Cannes and the happy life she was leading there, that Salome went into the dining-room where Reginald was at work. The finished manuscript was in her hand, and she said, "Reg, where do you advise me to send my story? I have finished it, every word."
Reginald was absorbed in his Euclid, and held up his hand, as if to beg her to stop.
"Are you very busy?" she said. "Then I won't trouble you."
Still there was the thought in her heart, "How nice it would be if somebody cared." But she waited patiently, and at last Reginald pushed the books away, and giving a prolonged yawn, said,—
"It is awfully cold here with no fire. What do you want, Sal?"
"Reg, do come and work in the drawing-room. The children are gone to bed, and mother and I are as quiet as mice."
"Raymond is not there, of course."
"No," said Salome, "and I can't think what he does every evening. He goes off directly after tea, and he is so late every night now. Reg, do you know where he goes?"
"I don'tknow," said Reginald, "but I don't think things are all square with him. But, you see, Raymond and I have never had much to do with each other, going to different schools, and he has always looked down on me."
"I hope he has not bad friends," Salome said; "but I am certain he was with some one he did not care for you and me to see that evening when I had been up to the vicarage, the day it was fixed for Ada to go to Cannes."
"Yes; I remember. However, I don't see thatwe can do any good. We must just go on and leave it."
"I am sorry mother gave him a latch-key. I know she lies awake till she hears him come upstairs; and though I am glad to do anything for her, still I think it is a pity she let him have our room when Ada went away. When he slept in yours it was a check. I can't think where he gets money from," Salome went on. "That is a new ulster he has, and a new cigar-case, and I don't believe he has had any salary yet at Mr. Warde's. Reg," said Salome in a low voice, "doyou think he is getting into debt?"
"You see, Sal," said Reginald, "I don't like to say anything I am not sure about, so don't ask me, though of course a fellow like Percival is to be trusted. Still, I don't think either you or I can do anything, so it is better to hold our tongues. Is that your story?" touching the roll of manuscript.
"Yes," said Salome sadly. "I thought you wouldn't mind just looking at my letter. I shall send it to Bardsley and Carrow. They have such a long list of stories for the young. Look, this is what I have said. Will it do, Reg?"
"How should I know, Sal? You can write a letter fifty times better than I can. It is a pity you cannot consult somebody else."
"I don't know who, unless it is Mrs. Atherton."
"Mr. Atherton," suggested Reg; "he is awfully clever."
"Yes; and I should feel so stupid and shy, I know. I think I will just try by myself; and if it is returned, I may pluck up courage to ask Mr. Atherton then."
"Yes; that will be the best way. And mind you put in the same number of stamps in the envelope that you put on the parcel, or you will never see the story again."
"Then you think it is safe to be rejected, Reg? Well," said Salome with a sigh, "never mind. I am going to begin another at once, so perhaps at last I shall succeed."
Reginald drew his chair to the table again, and opened a book, as if to show he had no more to say on the subject; and Salome returned to her mother, having first deposited her precious manuscript and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow in the drawer, where she had kept them since the day when Kate had so roughly handled the sheets.
"Are you going to write to Ada, Salome?" Mrs. Wilton asked.
"Not to-night, I think, mother."
"Hers is a delightful letter—dear child! I am sure I am thankful she is so happy; and Lady Monroe's little enclosure is so pleasant."
"I did not see that," Salome said. "Give it to me, mother;" and Salome read:—
"Your dear child is all, and more than all, I wished for a companion to my Eva. They are so happy together, and lessons are not forgotten. Ada is making rapid advances with her music. There are some very nice people in the hotel, and we have pleasant little drives, and picnics, and excursions in the sunshine and amongst the flowers."
Salome made no comment as she returned the letter to her mother, and the next minute Dr. Wilton's little short rap was heard, followed by Mrs. Pryor's footstep in the passage, eager to have the honour of admitting the doctor. "The only visitor she troubles herself about," Stevens always said.
"Uncle Loftus!" Salome exclaimed. "How late! It is past nine o'clock!"
"He must have been on a late round," Mrs. Wilton said. And then Mrs. Pryor, with her usual solemnity, announced,—
"Dr. Wilton."
"Well, my dear Salome? And how are you, Emily? You look warm and comfortable here. Itisa wretched night. Where are the boys?"
"Reginald is working hard at the exams, and the little ones are in bed. Raymond is out. He is so closely confined in the office all day that I cannotkeep him here all the evening. The change in our circumstances falls more heavily on him than on any of them. Life at Eton and life here are indeed two different things."
Dr. Wilton gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and looking at Salome, whose face was turned up to his with its wistful expression, he said,—
"I saw Mr. Warde to-day, and I am sorry to say that he did not give at all a good account of Raymond. He is very unpunctual in his attendance at the office, and very careless and idle when he is there. The senior clerk complains of him continually; and not only of this, but he gives himself such airs that he is most unpopular with the men in the same office."
Dr. Wilton had found great difficulty in beginning what he had to say, but when once in for it he went straight through. He saw with pity and compassion his sister-in-law's face grow whiter and whiter as he went on, and he saw Salome quietly move and, going behind her mother's chair, put her hand caressingly on her shoulder, bending down, and pressing her cheek against her mother's in silent sympathy.
"My dear Emily," Dr. Wilton said kindly, "I am extremely sorry to have to say this. The boy is young, and has been—well, a good deal indulged. Let us hope he will see the folly of throwing awayhis chance of earning his living. His head is stuffed full of nonsense, and even my own boys complain of his brag."
Mrs. Wilton rallied now. That the clerks in the office should complain of her son filled her with pain: but that his cousins (as she thought), plain, uninteresting, heavy boys, should dare to disparage her handsome, bright son, to whose faults she was blind, filled her with anger as well as pain.
"I do not think any of my children have seen much of yours in their own home, Loftus," she replied; "and ifthisis the way the one who is so constantly here has repaid our kindness, I shall take care he is not with us so much in future."
"O mother, Digby would never be unkind," Salome said warmly. "He would never speak evil of any one. Reg says—"
"I know Reginald is your favourite brother, Salome. Perhaps you might have done more for poor Raymond, if—"
Mrs. Wilton's voice faltered. The best mothers have what may be called "colour-blindness" as to their children's faults and failings. But there are some who will suffer any amount of personal trouble and anxiety that the children inflict, rather than that their faults should be canvassed by others. The discussion of them by ordinary people is resented; howmuch more when relations bring them roughly to light! It is not too much to say that Mrs. Wilton could have better borne a complaint of her boy coming direct from Mr. Warde to herself than to have that complaint brought by his uncle. Worse still that Raymond's cousins should be quoted.
I cannot say that I think Mrs. Wilton had any reason to think kindly of her husband's family. Although Dr. Wilton had been kind and attentive, his wife had taken no trouble to brighten the life of her relatives at Elm Cottage. This arose chiefly from her habit of never troubling herself about outside matters. She "never puts herself out of the way for any one. It is notinAnna to do it," Aunt Betha would say sometimes when even the maternal instinct was not strong enough to keep Mrs. Wilton from an "afternoon" or a dinner party when little Guy was in one of his worst fits of pain.
"I can do no good. It only hurts me to see him suffer, dear little man," she would say. "Auntie nurses him so much better than I can."
Thus it is not likely that a woman who could be thus unconcerned about her own children would be greatly interested in her husband's nieces and nephews. Hans and Carl had been twice to Edinburgh Crescent to tea, and had walked with MissScott, and Edith, and Maude. Salome had spent one day with Kate and Louise. But this was about all the hospitality which had been extended to them. Ada had been more sought after, because she was so pretty; every one asked who she was and admired her. But Ada was gone, and jealousy at Eva's preference for her was now the prominent feeling with both Louise and her mother.
"Well," Dr. Wilton said, "I think the boy ought to be seriously remonstrated with. If he leaves Warde's office, I don't know what on earth is to be done with him. If you can send him up to Edinburgh Crescent to-morrow evening to dinner, I'll make an opportunity of speaking to him. I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news; but as I recommended Warde to take him, even go out of his way to help him,—for they don't, as a rule, take young men with any salary,—I can but feel some responsibility about it.—Can you say anything to your brother, Salome?" Dr. Wilton said in a gentle voice,—a voice which always recalled her father. "You are the best of sisters and daughters," he added, putting his arm kindly round Salome's slight figure.
"I will try, Uncle Loftus," was the answer in a low voice.
Then Dr. Wilton went away, saying,—
"Good-bye; we must hope for better things. Remember,tell Raymond seven o'clock to-morrow evening."
"The first time he has ever asked Raymond to dinner," said Mrs. Wilton. "O Salome, it is very hard to be treated in this way!"
"I think I am sure Uncle Loftus means to help us; he is very kind. And, dear mother, Raymond must be told he cannot go on like this. He ought not to stay out so late every night; and—" Salome stopped. Mrs. Wilton broke completely down, and cried bitterly.
"Don't speak sharply to him, Salome," she sobbed. "I will try what I can do. He does love me. I shall wait up for him to-night, and you can go to bed. Let us have prayers now."
To the surprise of his mother and Salome, though scarcely more than half-past nine, Raymond's key was heard in the door, and he came in, throwing his ulster on a chair and his hat on it.
"Is it raining, Raymond?" his mother asked.
"No," was the short answer; and then there was silence till Stevens came in with the Bible, and Reginald, with a rough, shaggy head of hair, and ink on his fingers, followed her into the room.
SALOME did not know what passed between Raymond and her mother, but when she came up to her room, she heard her speaking cheerfully to Stevens, who always came to attend on her mistress, as in old days. Salome had slept in a small iron bedstead in a corner of her mother's room since Ada had left home, in order that Raymond might have the one she had shared with her sister to himself. Salome, however, still kept her property in her old room, and her manuscript and heaps of books and scribbles were in the drawer there, so that she often went into it.
The next morning Salome got up early, with the intention of posting her roll and the letter at the nearest Elm Fields post-office before breakfast. It seemed that Raymond had changed his habits, for Salome met him ready dressed in the passage, as she softly left her mother's room.
"Where are you off to, Salome?" he asked.
"I was going to post a letter. O Ray, I am so glad you are up early; and I will get the coffee made directly.—Be quiet, children," she said, as two little figures came dancing down the passage in their nightgowns. "Run back and be quiet, or you will wake mamma."
Stevens was busy in the dining-room, where the fire was burning cheerfully, and the light of the December morning struggling to gain ascendency over the Harstone fogs.
"Wonders never cease!" exclaimed Stevens. "Master Raymond will be in time at the office for once!" Stevens spoke with the freedom of an old servant, and to Salome's surprise her brother did not resent it. He was quiet and subdued, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts.
"You are never going out in the cold and fog, Miss Salome? What are you going for?" Stevens asked.
Salome was all this time hoping the manuscript and letter, stuffed in the pocket of her black ulster, would escape notice.
"I like to warm my feet before breakfast, Stevens. Do go and call Reginald. He will be late for school. He was so tired last night with his work."
Stevens was gone at last, and brother and sister were left together. Salome's heart beat fast. She did so much wish to say the right thing, and to avoidirritating her brother. She was apparently intent on watching the boiling of the little "Hecla" which made the coffee, but in reality she was thinking how she should begin what she longed to say. She was spared the effort. Raymond suddenly said,—
"I am in a great bother, Salome. I wish you would help me. I—"
"How can I help you, Ray? Oh, I am so sorry for you and for mother! I do trust Mr. Warde will let you stay at the office."
"Mr. Warde! the arrogant cad—it is not about him I am bothered. Sneak! to complain of me to my uncle. Why did he not say it to me? It is only that fellow Browne, the head clerk, has a spite at me!" This was an old story. In days gone by, Raymond's bad school reports had always been "the result of spite." "But, Salome," he went on, "you know I did not like to be for ever begging of poor mother, so hard up as I know she is, so I borrowed some money of a fellow, who said I need not think of paying him for ever so long; and now he is turned rusty, and we have had a blow-up, and he says if I don't pay him to-day, he shall come here to my mother, or to my uncle, for he will have the money by hook or by crook."
"O Raymond!" Salome exclaimed; "how much is it?"
"A mere trifle; only my term's allowance at Eton—five and twenty pounds. Do you think, Salome, you could get it for me in any way? You never wear that gold thing with emeralds mother gave you that belonged to grandmamma. Could you let me have it to raise money on it?"
"I don't know. I don't think it would be right. The necklet is in mother's dressing-case. I never have kept it myself. Of course, it is mine, as grannie left it to me, or it would have been sold. Still I don't think it would be right. O Raymond, I wish I could ask some one about it."
"If you do that you will ruin me. If I can get the money quietly, I will promise not to borrow again."
"Did you use it for—for that ulster and pin, and—" Salome was alarmed at her own boldness; and Raymond answered,—
"No; I did not."
"And you are in debt for those things also?"
"Yes; but that does not matter—tradesmen will wait. It's this fellow Percival."
"Oh, is it Percival, the brother of Reg's friend? Digby knows him; he is very good and nice. I thought you despised him."
"I said he wore a coat out of elbows in the office; but he is a gentleman for all that, I find."
"I should think so," said Salome indignantly; "as if a coat made any difference. But I can't imagine how it was he had money to lend you."
"He is a miser, you see," said Raymond. "He is saving up, and grinding and pinching, that the brother at the college may get to Oxford. They say he will get a scholarship; but that would not keep him, and so this fellow is saving up. I'll tell you how it was I borrowed the money. I told him a cram, and said it was to keep my mother and all of you."
"O Raymond! how could you be so mean and deceitful?"
Raymond took his sister's plain speaking very quietly, because he looked upon her as his only hope. "Percival found out that I had spent the money in billiards, and—well you know, in 'The Queen's,' with Barington while he was here; and—"
"I think it is dreadful," Salome interrupted. "I could not have believed it of you."
"Well, look here, Sal, will you save me from a frightful row with Uncle Loftus by seeing Percival, and trying to make him wait for his money? I expect he would believe you; and I really don't want to—to vex my poor mother. It was bad enough last night about old Warde; and I promised to do better at the office, and that I would go to Edinburgh Crescent to-night just to please her, for I detest it.If there is a row with Percival, it will make her ill."
"You should have thought of that before," was on Salome's lips, but she refrained from saying so.
"Reg will be here directly; may I tell him?"
"No; on no account. I will tell Percival to come up here this afternoon, just at dusk, and you must manage to meet him."
"O Raymond, I don't think that will do; you don't consider what people might say if they saw me."
"It is nearly dark at four; that is not late. That old quarry place then."
"Where I saw you with some one some time ago?"
"Yes; that's it. I will be close at hand. Do pray let me tell Percival."
Salome had only time to say "Yes," when Reginald came down. It was so new to her to hear the grand, magnificent Raymond pleading for a favour at her hands. It was a cowardly proceeding on his part; but such boys as Raymond Wilton are cowards. It would have been better for him if he had not so often been helped out of school scrapes by too indulgent parents. His was one of those natures which need discipline and firmness as well as love. He had not been taught that in self-denial there is nobleness which brings peace after the pain. To choose thethorny path of which Mr. Atherton had spoken to his sister, had never even occurred to him. He had always looked for the smoothness and pleasantness of life as his by right as well as choice, and thus of all the family who had suffered these sharp reverses he was the least able to meet them.
As Reginald came into the room Raymond left it; and Stevens and the children next appeared—Stevens with a tray for her mistress's breakfast, and two bowls of oatmeal porridge for Hans and Carl.
"I am just going to walk a little way with Raymond," she said; "I shall not be five minutes."
Salome was off like lightning, and soon overtook her brother.
"Raymond, may—may I tell Reginald? may he come with me this afternoon?"
"No," said Raymond; "what made you race like that? Tell no one, and I am certain Percival will listen to you. In the quarry at four o'clock, or soon after."
Salome fell back breathless behind her brother, and turned up the road to the post-office. She dropped the precious manuscript into the box and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow, and then ran home.
"Good morning, miss," said Ruth, who was washing the step of the shop, while Puck sat by watchingthe operation. "It is a fine winter's morning, isn't it? just enough frost to make it pleasant. Puck is looking his best, isn't he? the beauty! I washed him last evening."
"It is very kind of you," said Salome; "he is beginning to like you, Ruth, as well as he does us."
"Oh no; he isn't one to forsake old friends," said Ruth. "See now—" for Puck had darted towards Reginald with delight expressed in a series of twists and twirls and low sounds of affection, as he ran hither and thither round Reginald.
Salome ran to her brother. "I have posted my story, Reg." How she longed to say more; how perplexed was her loyal heart as to what was right and best to do.
She seemed suddenly drawn into a secret meeting with a stranger, and with what shame she would have to beg him to wait for the debt her brother had so dishonestly contracted. Salome watched Reginald's figure as he ran with amazing speed down the road, and then turned slowly and sadly into the house.
Mrs. Wilton came down about eleven o'clock looking much brighter and better. When the little boys had put away their books and slates, and had gone out with their hoops, she said: "I feel so much happier about dear Raymond, Salome. He was so affectionate to me last evening, and has promised todo better. I have written a line to your Uncle Loftus, to ask him to deal gently with him, and to remember how greatly indulged he was in your dear father's lifetime. He has been little prepared for such a life as the one he is now leading. But we must be patient with him, poor dear fellow. I always think I am not half patient enough."
"O mother, you are only too kind to Raymond, and, indeed, to us all. You spoil us all."
"Not you, Salome," her mother said tenderly; "I fear you have too much on your young shoulders. If I were a strong woman, like your Aunt Anna for instance, I could do more to help you; but I am so useless. No one can feel that more than I do."
"You are of great use, mother dear," Salome said, "and ornamental too. You always remind me of somebody in a story as you sit by your work-table. Quite as pretty a picture as that one of you when you were a girl, whatever Mrs. Pryor may say. When shall we know about our affairs, mother?" Salome asked after a pause.
"I cannot tell; there is so much to settle. I believe the furniture realized a great deal, and the wines, and—"
"Don't let us talk of it, mother. I was only thinking of those jewels of grannie's—the set of emeralds that she left me."
"They are all secure, my dear; they are my personal property, which is mine under settlement. But I often think I shall sell some of them. Indeed, I shall have to do so, I expect."
"It would not be wrong, would it, mother? I mean nothing that is yours ought to go to the creditors?"
"No, certainly not, my dear. It is sad to think you should have to talk of such things at your age. Only a few months ago, and I was consulting Miss Barnes about your going to Paris to finish, and now here is your education stopped."
"Oh no, mamma," said Salome cheerfully; "I learn a great deal by teaching Hans and Carl. I am beginning Latin with Reginald, and you know I read German and French for my own pleasure. I daresay I am finishing my education just as well as if I had gone to Paris."
Salome's words had more truth in them than she knew. She was indeed under training in the school where the Lord gives His children many lessons, learned, perhaps, more easily in youth than in after years.
Many times in the course of that day Salome tried to recall all Mr. Atherton had said in his sermon on the Sunday before. He had been speaking of those who sought themselves and their own pleasure, andhad quoted the well-known words of Thomas à Kempis:—"My son, if thou seekest thyself, thou shalt find thyself, but to thy own punishment." The thing eagerly coveted and sought after, nay, even prayed for, is granted; but it comes after all in the guise of a foe rather than of a friend.
"I am not seeking myself," Salome thought. "I am trying to serve Raymond, and to save mother from pain; but, oh! I wish I could have had Reginald with me when I go up the road. He knows already something, I am certain, from the Percival who is at the college; but I could not break my word to Raymond, I must go through with it now."
Happily for Salome, Kate and one of her little sisters came to see them soon after dinner on this bright winter day, and Salome and Hans and Carl walked towards Roxburgh with them. Kate was as good-tempered and kind as ever, and infected Salome with her bright spirits.
Reginald was sure to stand marvellously well in the examination, Digby said so. Ralph and Cyril were going to sing at the school concert. It was such a pity Salome could not be there. Everybody always went, and it was such fun. Kate wanted Salome to go round by the college ground, where a football match was on; but as the sun set and the winter's fog gathered, Salome knew her hour wasdrawing near, towards which she was looking with nervous dread.
The boys ran into the house, and clattered upstairs as soon as they reached home. Salome lingered in the porch a moment irresolute; then started off past the shop, where the gas was already lighted, up the road towards the quarry. The hedges were higher as she advanced, and, indeed, the road was cut out of the rock.
It was dusk, almost dark, and Salome felt lonely and frightened. She had not long to wait in suspense. A tall figure advanced towards her from the overhanging rocks of the old quarry.
"Miss Wilton?" asked a voice, so pleasant and gentleman-like in its tones that Salome was reassured. "I was coming to call on Mrs. Wilton. I am Philip Percival. At your brother's entreaty, and not wishing to press too hardly on him, I consented to see you first, as he tells me his mother is in such delicate health that excitement might hurt her. Is that true?"
"Yes, quite true," Salome said; but she was shivering with nervousness, and her voice trembled.
"We had better walk up or down the road," Philip Percival said; "you will take cold. It is a most unpleasant business, Miss Wilton; but I honestly think the only hope of saving your brother is to dealopenly with you. He has deceived me so grossly, and you cannot wonder that I am indignant. He represented to me that his mother and sisters were in great difficulty, and that if I lent him the money for a month he could repay it with interest. It was foolish of me to be taken in. Iwascompletely taken in. He has a winning, plausible manner; and he is treated so roughly by some of the clerks who resent the airs he gives himself, that I tried the more to befriend him. I have had a nice reward!"
"I am so sorry," Salome said. "I want to beg you to wait a little while, and perhaps I shall be able to pay you. Mother has no money, I know, just now; and it is not only on that account I do not like to ask her, but because it will grieve her so much to hear of Raymond's deceit. She loves him so dearly, and it would be such a shock to her. Do you think youcouldwait?"
Philip Percival looked down on the little slight figure in its sombre dress with very different feelings to what he had expected. "My eldest sister will make it all right, if you will see her," had conveyed to his mind the idea of a woman of mature years—not of a young girl, who ought to have been sheltered by Raymond's care, not exposed by him to this painful revelation.
"Could you wait?" Salome repeated; and as shespoke two people coming down the road passed her and Philip Percival.
"Salome, is that you?" It was Mrs. Atherton's voice. "Good-night;" and then, as Salome scarcely responded to the greeting, Mr. and Mrs. Atherton passed on.
"Whom could Salome Wilton be talking to so earnestly?" Mrs. Atherton said as they walked away. "It was not one of her brothers."
"No; I think not. You had better speak to her about it. It is far too late for her to be walking here alone with a young man."
"It is very strange. I cannot understand it," Mrs. Atherton said. "Yes; I will speak to her to-morrow. She is such a quiet child, every day I know her and watch her I love her better. I cannot understand it," Mrs. Atherton repeated.
"Yes; I will wait till Christmas for your sake," Philip said. "I see how painful your position is, and I feel indignant with your brother for placing you in it. He ought never to have sent me here. But lest you should think I love money for its own sake, I want to tell you that we are very poor. My father is paralyzed, and my mother gives lessons in music. I have been working hard to save enough money to help my brother to live on his scholarship at Oxford, if, as we hope, he takes one. Also, I amable, by strict economy, to get a few things which brighten my mother's life a little. I don't say this to make you think it is wonderful or praiseworthy. I hope you will not misunderstand me."
"No indeed," Salome said earnestly, looking up at the face she could but dimly see,—"no indeed. I think you are brave and good; and, please, do not give up poor Raymond. Perhaps he may get wiser and more used to this great change in his life."
"Let us hope so, for your sake as well as his own. And now, shall I see you home?"
"Oh no, no; it is quite near—at the end of the road. Good-bye, and thank you very, very much."
Philip Percival stood watching the retreating figure as it went swiftly down the road and was soon lost to sight in the gathering darkness.
"His sister, his eldest sister," he said—"a mere child; but what a world of resolution in her face!"
It would not have been Salome had she not dropped something in her flight. Philip saw something white on the road, and picking it up, found it was Salome's pocket-handkerchief. He was irresolute for a moment whether to follow her with it or keep it. He decided on keeping it; and putting it into his coat pocket, walked quickly away in the opposite direction to Elm Cottage.
RAYMOND WILTON came back from dining with his uncle in a very amiable mood; and when he could get a word with Salome, and found that he was relieved from the immediate pressure of debt, he seemed as unconcerned as if he had never been in debt at all. He did not ask many questions about the interview with Philip Percival, catching at the most important part as Salome said,—
"Yes; he promised to wait till Christmas. That is not long, Raymond."
"Oh, well, something will turn up by then, and Uncle Loftus says it is possible there may be a little money coming in. The creditors are going to accept seven shillings in the pound; and if it were not for that hateful bank and its cheating, we should do. Anyhow, I am easy for the present, thanks to you, Sal; I shall not forget it, I can tell you."
"Raymond," Salome said in a low voice, "I wishyou would go to church on Sunday mornings, and try to think more of what God wishes us to do."
"All right, Salome; but you know I am not fond of preaching."
"Dear Ray," said Salome earnestly, "I am sure I am not fit to preach to you or any one, only I do feel sure that if we ask God to keep us safe, He hears us, and will not forsake us, if we arereallysorry, and determined to try to please Him."
"These are old-fashioned notions, Sal," said Raymond carelessly; "but you are a good little thing, and I daresay it would be better for me if I were more like you."
That was all Salome could get out of Raymond; and, chilled and disappointed, she felt, as many of us have felt, that it was no use trying to help people like Raymond, still less to expect anything from them.
But for the present there was a calm. Raymond went off in good time to Harstone. He spent the evening at home; and his mother was quite cheered about him, saying several times to Salome, "I thought, for my sake, Raymond would turn over a new leaf."
Meantime Reginald worked hard at his papers, and was steadfast in his work, fighting his way in the form, step by step, always a hard matter at a new school for the first term.
Salome saw him going on diligently and steadily, and longed for a word of praise for him. But it often happens that there is more joy in the mother's heart over signs of amendment in one child who has given her trouble and anxiety than in the persistent well-doing of those who never cause her uneasiness. This is nothing new. Was it not so in the days when divine lips told the story of the lost piece of silver and of the wandering sheep? Will it not be so to the end of time?
Salome lived for the next few days in constant excitement about the postman. Every time his knock was heard her heart would give an answering thump, and she would go out into the passage to take the letters. But Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow made no sign. A week passed; and one afternoon, when she went out to meet the postman, and eagerly took the letters from his hand, she came suddenly on Mrs. Atherton.
The rosy flush and the excitement of her manner were not lost on Mrs. Atherton, nor that she hastily thrust one letter into her pocket, and answered Mrs. Atherton's question as to whether she would like to see theReviewshe had brought in a confused manner, not even asking her to come in, and standing with Ada's foreign letter in her hand, twisting it nervously in her fingers.
"Shall I come in and see Mrs. Wilton?" Mrs. Atherton asked.
"Oh yes; please come in," was the reply; "but mamma is not downstairs to-day, so we have no fire in the drawing-room. I sit in the dining-room when mother is not well. She has a bad cold and head-ache. Please come in, Mrs. Atherton."
Salome preceded Mrs. Atherton into the dining-room, which Hans and Carl had combined to make very untidy by cutting up newspapers for the tail of a kite bigger than themselves, which Frank Pryor had in leisure moments made for them, with the assurance that "he" would carry a tail that would reach pretty near as far as Harstone Abbey Church. All these untidy scraps were on the floor, and one end of the table was even in a worse condition. Papers, books, pens, and ink were in a state of confusion impossible to describe. By the papers, and engulfed by them as they surged on every side, was a little work-basket, stuffed so full that the lid refused to think of closing, and out of which peeped a curious medley of articles too numerous and varied to mention.
"I am sorry to bring you in here," Salome began. "The children have nowhere else to play. They are gone now to help Ruth to make some tea-cakes. Please sit down."
Mrs. Atherton subsided into a chair, and then laughing, said,—
"I am sitting on some property, I think," and rising, she drew from under her a box of tools, from which Hans had been using the hammer.
"How dreadfully careless and naughty of the children!" Salome exclaimed. "I am so sorry. I do wish I were neat and tidy like Ada, who never left anything in the wrong place in her life."
"It is never too late to mend," said Mrs. Atherton with a smile. "I have not seen you for a week, except in church. I have been so busy; and every week and every day we get nearer to Christmas, the pressure grows greater. I wanted to ask you if you would come over to the vicarage and help me with some work."
"I work so badly," Salome said, "but I will do all I can."
"It is very easy, humble sort of work," Mrs. Atherton said,—"sewing strings on skirts, and buttons on aprons and pinafores, for Christmas presents in the parish, you know. Will you come in to-morrow afternoon for an hour or two?"
Salome promised; and then conversation seemed to flag, as it always does when something is on the mind of one of those who are trying to keep it up without alluding to that "something."
At last Mrs. Atherton rose to go away, when, taking Salome's hand in hers, she held it for a moment, and said,—
"My dear child, I have not seen you since we met you on the Whitelands Road. It was very late for you to be out alone, and with a stranger."
Salome's colour rushed to her face, and was of course misunderstood.
"You are so young, my dear," Mrs. Atherton said; "and I daresay, living in the country, you have often been out late in your own grounds and village. But here it is different. And you were talking and walking with a gentleman. Was he an old friend?"
"No," said Salome, "oh no; I had never seen him before. Oh, please do not ask me any more questions."
The look of distress on Salome's face touched Mrs. Atherton.
"My dear child," she said tenderly, "if you were my own daughter, I should say what I now say. Do not think that I interfere unduly, but let me earnestly advise you not to place yourself in the same position again. Will you promise?"
Salome was silent. How could she promise, when once more she must meet Philip Percival and tell him if she had succeeded in getting the moneyor not? Perhaps she might write to him, but somehow she felt it would be better to see him.
Mrs. Atherton waited, as if for an answer; and as none came, she dropped Salome's hand, and turned away.
"Do kiss me again," Salome said. "And do trust me. I thought, and I still think, I was doing right that evening."
"Well, my dear child," said Mrs. Atherton, kissing her affectionately, "I hope it will prove so. Give my love to your mother. I will come in again very soon."
Salome ran upstairs with Ada's letter, and hastily putting it on the table by her mother's side, went down again to read her own letter. It was from Bardsley and Carrow. Her hands trembled with excitement as she tore open the envelope and read:—
"Dear Madam,—We return the manuscript of 'Under the Cedars,' with thanks for allowing us to peruse it. We regret that it is not suited for publication in our series of stories for the young.—We remain your obedient servants,"J. A. Bardsley and Carrow."
"Dear Madam,—We return the manuscript of 'Under the Cedars,' with thanks for allowing us to peruse it. We regret that it is not suited for publication in our series of stories for the young.—We remain your obedient servants,
"J. A. Bardsley and Carrow."
"Everything is a disappointment! Everythingfails!" exclaimed Salome. "It is no use trying to do anything. Mrs. Atherton suspects me of I don't know what; and I was only trying to save mother from pain. But Raymond may go his own way now. I can do nothing for him. Why should my life be so different to other girls? Ada is happy at Cannes, having all she can wish for. Then there are the girls at Edinburgh Crescent going out to-night to a fancy-dress dance, and to-morrow to some other party, and next week to the school concert; and here am I, trying to be of use, and yet I cannot even succeed in that, and everything is so wretched and miserable. I saw Mrs. Atherton looking round on this untidy room. The children are really the greatest bother;" and Salome snatched up the tail of the kite, newspapers and all, with no gentle hand; and by so doing, the string, which was twisted in one of the corners of her old writing-folio, brought the whole down—cloth, work-basket, and all.
"What a horrid fire! andwhata mess! Really this isn't very inviting," said Reginald, as he came in from football, and, covered with mud and scratches, threw himself into the chair Mrs. Atherton had occupied.
"Where's mother?" he asked. "Is her cold worse? I say, Salome, I was chosen to play in the second fifteen instead of a fellow who is ill. I havehad a glorious run for once. Sal, what's the matter?"
Salome was fairly crying now.
"It is all so miserable and uncomfortable, Reg; and look here."
She handed him the letter as she spoke.
"What a jolly hand!" Reginald exclaimed. "Who is it from?"
"It's about my story. Of course it is returned."
"Oh, well, try somebody else. There's heaps of other publishers; or, if that doesn't do, write another tale."
"It's very easy to talk like that, Reg. You don't seem to care."
"Yes; I do care very much. Where's the manuscript?"
Then it flashed across Salome for the first time that the manuscript had not arrived with the letter.
"Why, the manuscript is not come after all. Perhaps it is lost. I daresay it is lost. It does not matter."
The entrance of Stevens settled this matter. "The postman came back with this parcel, Miss Salome. He forgot to deliver it. What is it?"
"Oh, it is mine. It is all right. Give it to me, Stevens."
"What a state the room is in! Well, for yourown comfort's sake, I think you might keep it tidier, Miss Salome. You would be ever so much more comfortable.—O Master Reg, what boots! Well, I don't know how the mud is to be got off. You must remember there's no one but me to do everything, except the old lady, who is not one to put herself out of the way to help anybody—not she."
"Well, I'll clean my own boots, if that's all," said Reginald. "I don't care what I do. I'll clean the knives too, and learn to make you a gown, if it will please you, Stevie." And Reginald sprang up, took Stevens round the waist, made her pirouette round the table with him, and then, having left dabs of clay and mud off his boots all over Mrs. Pryor's red drugget, vanished.
Stevens straightened her cap, and pulled down her white apron, and said breathlessly,—
"What a boy it is! But I would sooner, fifty times over, have a bright happy nature like his, than one that can only mope and look miserable."
"Iammiserable," said poor Salome, "so I can't help looking miserable."
"Well, there's many that are worse off than you, my dear. Ruth Pryor has been telling me of a family of little children left without father or mother. The Pryors supply them with bread; and this morning, when Frank went with the loaves, he found theeldest child, scarce twelve years old, with the little ones all crying round her, and her mother only buried a month ago; and now the father was taken in a fit, and went off before the doctor could get to him."
It was the reverse of the picture to that over which Salome had been brooding,—her cousins' gaieties; Ada's happiness amongst flowers, and music, and sunshine; the lives of her old neighbours at Maplestone—the De Brettes, and the Fergusons, and many others—riding, dancing, and enjoying themselves. Stevens's words were of use. The old message seemed to be whispered to her soul: "Let patience have her perfect work." "Trust in the Lord, and be doing good ... verily thou shalt be fed."
It is not the perfect work of patience when trials are fretted at, and, as it were,resented; not the perfect work of patience when we tell ourselves we have borne a great deal, and are wonderfully brave, and that no one half appreciates us or all we do and endure. Ah no! The stuff of which the hidden saints of God are made is different to this. Theirs is the patience of Christ's faithful ones who can smile under the smart, and be tender and gentle to others even while the sword is piercing their own souls.
The child of whom I write was very young, and no wonder that she failed at times. The burdenlaid on her was heavy; and I cannot be surprised that Mrs. Atherton's misapprehension was hard to bear, and that the honest and pure desire to save her mother and her brother should be the cause of her kind friend thinking less highly of her than before made it doubly bitter. Then the story, on which she had built so many hopes, copied so carefully, kept free from blot or stain,—it was hard to see it again, the familiar words looking up at her as she scanned them with tear-dimmed eyes; the headings to the chapters, the little bits of verse or hymn, so carefully chosen. All in vain all her trouble, all her pains. And if no one took her story, and paid her for it, how should she be able to satisfy Philip Percival at Christmas?
The tangle of her life looked more bewildering than ever, and the child-heart within her was sick and sore with disappointment—a form of trial which the young find harder to meet than the old, because they have not the experience of past disappointments to guide them, and do not know how the sting is often taken away, as we live to say and to feel,"It was far better as it was, though I could not see it at the time."
Mrs. Wilton's cold proved a severe one, and she had to keep her bed for several days, and Salome did not find time to go over to the vicarage. Mrs.Wilton needed a great deal of attention, and Dr. Wilton came every day to see her.
The holidays began. It was getting near Christmas, and there was an ever-increasing dread in Salome's mind about the money. It seemed strange to her that Raymond did not appear to concern himself about it. He was in excellent spirits, and altogether more agreeable than before the revelation about his debts. They hung like a fetter round his sister. And there was no news of "Under the Cedars," which had gone forth again to try its fate—this time with far different feelings, and with very little hope of success, instead of a great deal.
"Something must be said to Mr. Percival, Raymond, about the money. He said he would wait till Christmas, but not longer. Shall I write to him?"
"Oh no; don't remind him of it. I see him every day, and he can ask me if he chooses."
But Salome was not to be satisfied. "As I promised to do something about it by Christmas, I must tell him how it is."
"How what is?"
"Why, Raymond, I thought, I hoped I might get something for some work I did, and then I could have paid Mr. Percival half perhaps."
"Work! what sort of work?"
"Oh, you must not ask. I will tell you some day perhaps."
"Don't bother yourself, Sal. Percival can wait. He is all right now with me, and I think he is a good fellow after all. I want awfully to get to St. Clair's for Christmas. He has asked me, which is awfully kind of him. You remember he was the fellow who travelled with us on that wretched journey."
"Yes, I remember; but I don't think you can go, Raymond. It is such a long journey for two days."
"I shall ask for an extra day. Old Warde is very civil to me now. It is better to keep up with friends worth having, like St. Clair. Mother thinks so."
Salome was silent. She thought it wiser to say nothing.
There was a bright service in St. Luke's Church every Wednesday evening; and on the Wednesday before Christmas, as Salome was coming out of the church, scarcely two hundred yards from Elm Cottage, she heard a voice near her say,—
"Miss Wilton."
She started, and turning quickly, said,—
"I wanted to see you, Mr. Percival. I cannot do what I promised, and I—I hardly like to ask it, butcouldyou wait till Easter?"
"Yes," was the reply. "I can and will wait. I came here on purpose to say so."
"How kind of you! Mr. Percival, is—do you think my brother is getting on better at the office?"
"I hope so," was the answer.
"He is there in better time of a morning, isn't he?" asked Salome anxiously.
Again the answer came guardedly,—
"I think so."
"Mother has been so ill lately, and quite confined to her room. Raymond has been much more attentive to her lately."
"I am very glad to hear it. I hope you will be at rest about the money. Good-night."
Then he was gone. And Salome ran quickly across the road to the gate of Elm Cottage, saying to herself, "Surely Taylor and Darte will take my story, they are so long in replying, and that is a good sign. Bardsley and Carrow were only a week. Oh, perhaps by Easter it will be all right, and I shall be able to repay Mr. Percival. How kind he is! I do like him."
THE Christmas season, so different to any the Wiltons had ever passed, came and went. Raymond managed to attain his wish, as he generally did; and instead of returning punctually to the office after the two days above and beyond the bank holiday which Mr. Warde kindly and considerately granted him, he sent an excuse to him, and a telegram to his mother, which alarmed her very much, to say he had a severe cold, and was not allowed to travel.
It ought to be a warning to all those who are tempted to make false excuses or deceive, that when once it is done, every one's faith is weakened in their assertions. It takes years of truthfulness and sincerity to restore the confidence which one falsehood has shaken.
Reginald must be excused, therefore, if he said, as he read the telegram,—
"Humbug!"
Salome gave him a quick glance, for she saw her mother's distressed and anxious face.
"I do hope he is not very ill. What do you think, Salome?"
"I hope not, mother. He only says, 'A severe cold;' and you see he sends the telegram himself."
"Would you advise me to send a telegram for a paid answer?"
"Certainly not, mother," said Reginald. "Don't disturb yourself; he is all right."
Mrs. Wilton was silenced; but when Reginald left the room she said to Salome, "I cannot understand how it is that Reginald is so unfeeling about Ray. It is not like the love of brothers."
All this anxiety at Elm Cottage might have been spared had it been possible to show Mrs. Wilton the comfortable dining-room at Rose Court, the St. Clairs' home, Raymond talking and laughing with one of Henry St. Clair's sisters at a pleasant dinner-party, and quite forgetting the sore throat and little cough which had seemed to Mrs. St. Clair in her kindness a sufficient reason for Raymond to prolong his visit. Sympathy for the boy's altered position had made her doubly kind to him, though she secretly wished he would talk less of himself, his old Eton days and friends, and would have liked it better if he had been quieter and less self-asserting.
"It was a kindness to invite him, poor boy," she said to her husband. "They had a very pretty nice place, with every comfort, and Henry paid them a visit during the Easter holidays. Think what a change it is! I am glad to be kind to him; though he is not exactly the friend I would choose for Henry."
"A conceited, shallow-pated young fellow," was the reply. "Handsome enough, no doubt; but I, for one, shall not be sorry to see him start for Harstone."
Poor Raymond! How little did he think that this was the impression left upon his host at Rose Court. He went home with a fresh edition of discontent at his lot, and relapsed a good deal into his former habits.
So the winter passed, and the days lengthened, and the bright spring-time drew on.
One radiant March morning Salome set out early to spend a day at Edinburgh Crescent. A holiday was proclaimed for the children, and an expedition with Ruth Pryor to see a menagerie which was stationed in a large field not far off. Mrs. Wilton had been unusually well of late, and was quite happy to be left for the day, to write letters, and perhaps walk over to the vicarage at three o'clock to see Mrs. Atherton. Salome's step was light andelastic as she walked away towards Edinburgh Crescent. She had the spring of youth in her, which responded to the spring of nature; and something delightful had happened which was to mark that day with a red letter, as she thought, to her. "Under the Cedars," after three unsuccessful journeys, and three new title-pages, had been accepted, and she had in her pocket a letter offering to publish the story and give her ten guineas for it. If the proposal was agreeable to her, the cheque would be sent at once. Only those who have earned money that is needed for some express purpose can understand the joy in Salome's heart. It was only ten guineas. Fifteen more would be required to meet what was wanted. But another story was rapidly approaching its conclusion, and very soon she might earn the rest.
These few months had been times of steady progress with Salome. She had set herself earnestly to learn the lesson of her life; and no one, old or young will, if they seek God's help, do this in vain. Just as one who sweeps a room from this cause makes it and the action fine, so did Salome, by striving against her desultory, untidy habits and her dreamy indolence, when what she had to do was uncongenial, and, above all, when her effort to struggle against discontented repining for what wasdenied her of luxury and pleasantness in everyday life, make the way "finer" and brighter for others and for herself. Child as she was, her influence was felt. Stevens acknowledged it, and her brothers could not fail to be affected by it. All unconsciously to herself she was fulfilling the command of One who lays no burden on us too heavy to bear, who tells us to let our lightsoshine that our Father in heaven may be glorified.
I think Salome's little light was shining, and I also think that had it not been for the surrounding gloom of sorrow and loss which, as it were, encompassed her, it would not have been so bright nor so steady in its radiance.
How she longed to tell Reginald the good news about "Under the Cedars." How she wished the letter had come by the first instead of the second delivery. It would be nice to meet Reginald, and hear him say, "How jolly it is!" "I shall be obliged to let him know, when I have the money, what I am going to do with it. But that time is not come yet. I must take the days one by one. And oh, what a lovely day this is! Such a sky; and how those horse-chestnut buds are shining in the sun. I remember one day last spring how I was riding with father, and he told me to look at the big chestnut tree by the lodge, how the buds were glistening."
The wakened memory of her father sent a thrill of pain through the young heart, and a hungry longing for him, which is so well expressed by the poetess of love and natural affection in her own especial strain without a rival:—