"But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring—The human heart with all its dreams and sighs,Thou that bring'st back so many a buried thing,Restorer of forgotten harmonies?Sweet sounds and scents break forth where'er thou art;What wakest thou in the heart?"Too much, ah! there too much,We know not well wherefore it should be so;But roused by thee,What strange, fond yearnings from the soul's deep cell,Gush for the faces we no more may see;How are we haunted in thy wind's low toneBy voices that are gone!"Looks of familiar love, which never more,Never on earth our aching eyes shall greet,Sweet words of welcome to the household door,And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet.Spring, 'midst the wakening of thy flowers and beesWhy—why awakest thou these?"
"But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring—The human heart with all its dreams and sighs,Thou that bring'st back so many a buried thing,Restorer of forgotten harmonies?Sweet sounds and scents break forth where'er thou art;What wakest thou in the heart?
"Too much, ah! there too much,We know not well wherefore it should be so;But roused by thee,What strange, fond yearnings from the soul's deep cell,Gush for the faces we no more may see;How are we haunted in thy wind's low toneBy voices that are gone!
"Looks of familiar love, which never more,Never on earth our aching eyes shall greet,Sweet words of welcome to the household door,And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet.Spring, 'midst the wakening of thy flowers and beesWhy—why awakest thou these?"
It seemed so long to her since the last spring, as if she had left behind her childhood and its dreams and happiness and come into the cares of womanhood. But youth was strong within her for all that; and when her cousins, the trio of dear little sisters, came rushing out to meet her as Bean threw open the door, and Kate danced downstairs to giveher a prolonged hug, Salome felt ready for anything her cousins might propose.
"The boys are going to be so condescending as to walk with us," Kate said. "We are all going to Stoke Canon to get daffodils. I thought you would like that, as you have an eye for beauty, as Aunt Betha says. Digby is to bring Reginald home to luncheon, and we are to start at two o'clock. But come upstairs now. I have got a new hat, and I want your advice about it."
"May we come and get daffodils, Katie?" pleaded Edith's little voice.
"Certainly not; run away, children."
"Let Edith come, Katie, Edith and Maude," Salome said.
"Oh no, they will only be a bother; besides, we are going too far for them."
"You must come to tea with Hans and Carl next Saturday," Salome said, "if Aunt Anna will allow you."
"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed the children. "Now, do come and see Guy and Aunt Betha."
Poor little Guy lay extended on his sofa, while Aunt Betha was busy with some new table-linen, which she was marking in the old-fashioned way with red marking thread.
Guy's pale face beamed with delight as Salomecame into the room. Poor suffering little one! he had not much variety in his life, and Salome's visits were always hailed by him as a great event. She told him a story sometimes, every detail of which he would drink in with hungry eagerness. Salome was a favourite with Aunt Betha as well as with little Guy, and she turned to her with a bright smile of welcome on her pleasant old face, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her eyes.
"I am getting past this fine marking," she said, "though I don't think that dinner napkin is amiss," holding it up for admiration.
"I wonder you take the trouble, auntie," Katie said. "Every one writes on linen now-a-days. Mamma says it is quite old-fashioned. Do give it up."
"No, my dear," said Aunt Betha half sadly. "I am an old-fashioned person, and I could never bear to see beautiful linen inked all over with blotted scrawls. No new fashion would make me believe that this is not the best plan. That mark will last long after I am in my grave. I am not ashamed of my handiwork, I can tell you."
Salome had taken up the table-napkin and was admiring the three well-shaped letters L. E. W. and the neat figures beneath, the number and the year, when Guy's little voice was raised in appeal.
"Cousin 'Lome,"—his nearest approach to Salome's name—"docome and talk to Guy; tell about when you were a little girl, at your big house—tell about the bridge."
"A little girl!" thought Aunt Betha, as she saw Salome's slight, almost child-like figure bending over Guy. "She is but a child now, so young and delicate-looking, and not one to breast many of the storms of this troublesome world."
The boys came in to dinner in good time; and about two o'clock the happy party of four cousins set off for the Stoke Canon Woods.
Digby and Reginald were now fast friends; and Kate held to her first affection for Salome. Salome enjoyed Kate for a time, her sharp speeches and rippling fun were amusing at intervals; but she often thought that she would not care always to live with Kate, or skim over the surface of everything as she did.
The daffodils were in their full glory in a field and orchard beyond Stoke Canon Woods. Many poets of every age have sung their praises; but who can really convey any idea of their loveliness as they bend their beautiful heads to the crisp breeze as it passes over them, and catch the sunlight on their pale golden cups?
"Oh, take them gently!" Salome exclaimed, asthe boys rushed upon them, eager to fill the girls' baskets for them. "Take them gently; don't break one off too short," she said, bending down and gathering the flowers with a tender hand. "Look at the fringe on this one; and oh, Kate, just see how deep it is, and how perfect the leaves are."
"Oh yes; but I like primroses better when they are gathered, and bluebells. The Stoke Woods are filled with bluebells in May."
"Hallo!" exclaimed Digby, "there's Percival and his elder brother. When he was at the college they used to be called—"
"You shouldn't tell school nicknames; it is not fair," Reginald exclaimed. "Come down here, Percival," he shouted, for the field and orchard lay a little below the level of the road. "Come down and speak to us, Percival."
Percival obeyed, and his brother remained standing on the bank above.
Salome gave him one quick glance, and all the bright colour left her face. He saw and understood, and, following his younger brother, came down and said,—
"Introduce me to your friends, Robert."
"Oh, I forgot you did not know them, Phil. Miss Wilton and Miss Salome Wilton."
Philip Percival bowed with a pleasant smile, andstooped to gather some of the flowers almost as gently as Salome herself.
"I must take some to my father," he said. "They will please him; he has a craving for bright colours, and daffodils more than any flower seem to fill the house with light."
"Yes," Salome said; "I do love them so much; they are like bits of spring sunshine."
Then, as the party all walked on together, Philip talked of many things; and Kate seemed to amuse him as much as she did Salome, for he often laughed merrily at her sharp sallies.
The Percivals returned with the Wiltons, and they had what Aunt Betha always liked to prepare for them—a school-room tea: a glass dish of jam, a pile of hot cakes and—a departure from the usual order—of Dorset butter. Fresh white butter was a luxury not known every day in Mrs. Wilton's school-room or nursery.
"This is jolly," said Kate, "if only there are chairs enough to hold us all.—No, don't sit on that, Mr. Percival; it has long been shaky on one leg.—Run, Edith, and get some more chairs. And you three little ones may all come, only you must not make yourselves 'jammy,' or what will Aunt Betha say?"
"I think I shall go and have my tea with Guy, ifyou don't mind very much," Salome said. "Poor little boy, he must wish he could come here."
"Nonsense, Salome! Pray don't be so silly," Kate said. "Let Edith take him some hot cake, and he will be content."
But Salome went off, little Edith following her; and Guy's delighted welcome was a sufficient reward.
"Oh, Cousin 'Lome, if only you could live with me! Do tell me another story."
Aunt Betha took the opportunity of Salome's presence to slip downstairs to watch some operations in the kitchen, and Salome and Guy were left together. She fed him with little bits of cake, and repeated to him some verses which fascinated the sick child, and he made her say them over and over again;—the story of the two little birds told by Mrs. Fowler in her beautiful book called "Our Children's Story,"—a story in its sweet musical rhythm which has touched many hearts besides little Guy Wilton's.
Salome wished she could have one word with Philip Percival—one word to say that the ten pounds would be so soon in her possession. But the opportunity was not forthcoming. Salome tripped gaily home with Reginald in the soft spring twilight, her basket of daffodils in her hand, and a feeling of joyin her heart, which beamed in her sweet face as she went into the drawing-room at Elm Cottage.
"Look, mother! look, Hans and Carl—"
But the joy faded out of her face and changed to anxious foreboding as Mrs. Wilton said, brokenly,—
"I am so glad you are come. Send the children away; don't let Reginald come. I want to speak to you alone."
"SEND the children away!" The words recalled that first day of sorrow—eight months before.
"Salome, I have lost the necklet set with emeralds, which really belongs to you. When we first settled in here, I looked over all my personal jewels, and everything was right. This afternoon, when I came in from the vicarage, I opened my large dressing-case to look for a ring I thought I would sell, and the necklet was gone! Salome, do you,canyou imagine the Pryors are dishonest?" Salome looked bewildered for a moment, and then the terrible suspicion, which was almost a certainty, flashed upon her. "Salome, do you think the Pryors can have been dishonest? Do you think we are living in a den of thieves? There is no one but Stevens and the Pryors who ever go about the house. It must lie between them."
"Mother!" exclaimed Salome, "Stevens! How can you say so?"
"WhatamI to say or think, Salome? The necklet is old-fashioned, but it is very valuable. They are fine emeralds, and, I daresay, worth sixty or seventy pounds. I was very foolish to keep it here; I ought to have sent it to your Uncle Loftus to put in his plate-chest, or to the bank. Salome, have you nothing to advise or to say? Shall I question Stevens?"
Salome was taking the daffodils one by one from the basket, and did not speak for a moment.
"No, mother; do not question anybody yet; let us wait. It is so dreadful to suspect innocent people. Are you quite sure the necklet was in that large dressing-case? Have you looked through the little one?"
"Yes, over and over again. I know I am not mistaken. I was thinking of a ring which belonged to an uncle of mine which I do not value; and I thought if I sold it I might get a few pounds for the boys. Reginald would like to go to Westmoreland this Easter, and it is so hard to have no spare money. Raymond, too, wants five pounds,—so much, though I fear he is very extravagant."
Salome started as her mother was speaking, for Raymond came in. It was Thursday, the day for the early closing of the offices in Harstone, and Mrs. Wilton said,—
"This has been a lovely afternoon. Where have you been?"
"I came in here about three o'clock and found everybody out, so I went off again. I thought you might have liked a drive, mother, and I could have hired a little trap for a trifle. Where had you flown to?"
"Only to the vicarage. How kind of you to think of me. Look at Salome's daffodils! But I have had a most unpleasant loss, Raymond,—do not mention it to the little ones or to Reginald. I have missed something of value out of my large jewel-box—that old gold necklet set with emeralds."
"I thought that was Salome's," Raymond said, taking up the newspaper, and sitting down with it on the sofa, soon appeared to be absorbed in it.
Salome went on quietly arranging her daffodils, and then as quietly left the room. She went upstairs to her mother's room, and then, after much thought and prayer, determined to speak at once to Raymond. For how could she doubt that he had taken the necklet? A shudder of pity and deep pain at this deed of her brother's thrilled through her. But it seemed all clear. The necklet was hers, and he had talked to her about it; and she had said, when he asked if it could be sold, "I do not know if it would be right." Then there arose before her thepast six months, and the pains she had taken to cover her brother's sin. Had she been right to do this? Would it not have been better to have gone direct to her Uncle Loftus and confided in him?
Poor Salome! The same doubts and fears have at times beset us all; and the question is a hard one to answer. Desire to shield those we love from exposure may not be the truest kindness to them, and yet loving hearts shrink from inflicting pain, especially when, as in Salome's case, the frank avowal of Raymond's sin must bring sorrow on his mother, already so heavily tried and burdened with grief and trouble.
But Salome was now determined to be brave, as far as Raymond himself was concerned; and that night, when her mother and Reginald had both gone to their rooms, she tapped gently at Raymond's door, and said,—
"Please let me in. I want to speak to you."
The door was opened at once, and Raymond, looking straight at his sister, said,—
"Well, what is the matter?"
"Raymond," Salome said, closing the door behind her and clasping her little hands tightly together, "I am come to speak to you about my necklet set with emeralds."
"You had better have up Pryor, and—"
He faltered, for Salome's clear, steadfast eyes were fixed on his face as if she could read his thoughts.
"Raymond, I believe you have taken my necklet out of mother's large dressing-case! Why did you do so by stealth and like a thief?"
"Come now, Salome—no insults. How dare you speak like that?"
"Raymond," the brave girl went on, "I am certain you took the necklet; and you must tell mother to-morrow morning, and not allow innocent people to be accused. What have you done with the money? Have you paid Mr. Percival? Raymond, I mean to be answered, and I shall wait here till you speak."
"You may wait all night, then; and"—putting on a great Inverness cape over his coat and seating himself coolly in a chair—"you will find it very cold here in this horrid little room."
"I shall go to Uncle Loftus early to-morrow morning and tell him everything from first to last. I have been wrong to conceal it all this time, and I mean now to tell Uncle Loftus everything. If father were alive,hewould be told; and Uncle Loftus is our guardian, and has been very kind to you."
"Kind! nonsense," Raymond said. "I don't see his kindness."
"Well, Raymond, I shall tell him everything to-morrow—aboutyour debts, and all the trouble you have caused, and—"
"That I stole your necklet, and made a fortune by it. Just like you, to jump at conclusions."
This was grateful, after all that she had done for him. But natures like Raymond's are almost incapable of gratitude.
"Where is my necklet? tell me that, Raymond."
"Well, if you must know, I did take it to Moore's in St. Michael's Green to-day to have it valued. I found mother's keys on her dressing-table, and took a look into the box. You know I asked you about the necklet, and so don't put on that surprised face."
"I shall go to Moore's to-morrow and bring back the necklet," said Salome decidedly; "and I shall tell mother about it. It is only fair and right. Suspicion has fallen on the Pryors, and I must do it. I know I am right," she said confidently. "I shall get up very early to-morrow and go down into Harstone."
"What stuff! I will bring the thing back. Moore won't give it up to you; besides, the shops are not open till past eight. Don't be foolish, Salome."
"Raymond," she said, "please listen to me, and make a full confession of everything to mother and Uncle Loftus. Make a new beginning. O Raymond!think of our father—think of bringing dishonour on his name! Dear Raymond," she said, breaking down into tears, "I am so miserable about you; you might be such a comfort to mother and to me, and—"
Raymond was touched at last. He put his arm round his sister and said,—
"Don't cry, Salome. You see a fellow has heaps of things to do with his money that you know nothing of, and—still I will try to get out of Harstone. I shall never do any good in that hateful office. Come, don't cry. I will go down with you to-morrow and get that wretched necklet. I wish I had never heard of it."
She saw she could do no more that night, and left him, to creep into her mother's room, stifling her sobs, after exacting from Raymond a promise to be ready to go down to Harstone with her at half-past seven the next morning.
"I think Raymond's room is very cold," she said, as she lay down on her little bed by her mother, who was sleeping quietly; "I am shivering so. I hope I shall not wake mother."
The shivering was followed by heat and restlessness, and then Salome heard the clock of St. Luke's Church strike twelve, then one—two—three. She could not sleep. About five o'clock the wind began to rise and moan, then splashes of rain came againstthe window, and the March morning broke in storm and flood. Salome got up noiselessly as soon as it was light, and with eyes heavy from sleeplessness, and a heart heavier with shame and anxiety, dressed, and went softly down the passage to Raymond's room. She was anxious to avoid all observation, and to her great relief Raymond appeared, in answer to her tap at his door, in his ulster.
"It's an awful morning, Salome; you had better let me go alone."
"Oh no, no," she said eagerly.
"Well, it is so early; and look how it is pouring cats and dogs! We had better give up such a wild-goose chase. I'll bring back the thing all right. Can't you trust me?"
"No; I can't, I can't," said Salome. "Besides, mother will begin to examine the Pryors and Stevens, and that will only make it worse for every one. Make haste, Raymond. I hear Stevens.Docome!"
In another moment they were out in the wild, stormy morning. Could it be the same world, Salome felt ready to ask herself—the smiling, sunny world of yesterday, when she had set out so happily to Edinburgh Crescent? Then her head ached dreadfully, and her back too, and her cheeks were hot. It was almost a relief to feel the cold drops of rainwhich came against them every time a great blast came and hurled her umbrella on one side.
"The trams will be running when we come back," Raymond said. "Had not you better go back, Sal? It is making such a fuss; and you will get cold."
Salome only said, "I must come with you," and struggled on.
It was past eight when they reached Mr. Moore's shop. The shutters were taken down, and the shop was being dusted and swept.
Mr. Moore was an old-fashioned tradesman, but of good repute; and though his shop was small, he dealt only in the very best jewellery and plate. A young man with light hair was behind the counter, and looked with surprise at these early customers as Raymond advanced to the counter, all dripping as he was, with the little shivering figure by his side.
"I left a case here yesterday. I want to take it away again. Where is Mr. Moore?"
"Mr. Moore is not come into town yet," said the young man. "He will not be here till ten o'clock."
"You can let me have the necklet, I suppose? Old gold filigree, set in emeralds. I left it here to be valued."
The young man went to a book, and ran his finger down the last page—"'Mr. Stephens—necklet, set with emeralds.'—Yes; here it is."
"That is not right," said Salome. "That can't be yours."
"Be quiet," said Raymond, in an angry whisper.—"Yes; that is it. I will take it, if you please."
There was still a little hesitation in the man's manner. "Mr. Stephens—is that right?" There was a scarcely perceptible glance at Salome as he spoke.
He produced the case, and opening it, said, "They are very fine emeralds. The value would be from sixty to eighty pounds."
Raymond took the case up, closed the spring, and, saying "Good morning," was leaving the shop; but the shopman followed him.
"I think it would be more satisfactory, sir, if you signed your name in this book, and address."
Raymond was perplexed for a moment, but only for a moment.
"The necklet is this young lady's property," he said.—"Sign your name, Salome."
The girl took the pen into her trembling fingers and wrote:—"Salome Mary Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, near Harstone."
"A relation of Dr. Wilton's, I presume?"
"Yes," said Salome. "Dr. Wilton is my uncle."
The man's manner became instantly very respectful.
"It is a very wet morning, Miss Wilton. Shall I call a cab?"
"Oh no, no, thank you," Salome said, hurrying away. But Raymond was frightened at her pale face; it haunted him for many and many a day.
"Yes; we must take a cab. You can't possibly walk back."
"The tram," Salome said,—"the tram; it will be cheaper."
She was very wet, and shivering perceptibly.
At last the corner was reached from whence the tram started. Raymond was thankful to put his sister into the tram; and if ever he repented what he had done, it was at that moment.
"O Raymond, Raymond! how could you say your name was Stephens?"
Raymond felt ashamed of himself as those pure, truthful eyes met his.
"My name is Stephen, isn't it, Salome? Don't make me out worse than I am. I am awfully sorry, and I shall go and see Uncle Loftus for your sake. O Sal, I hope you have not got cold, you look so horridly white."
Poor Salome struggled to keep calm; and was received by Stevens at the door with exclamations of angry surprise,—
"Going out in a storm like this, getting your death of cold! I have no sort of patience with you, that I haven't."
"Oh! don't, don't scold me, Stevens. It is all right now;" and running upstairs, she went into her mother's room, laid the case on the table, and said, "There is the necklet; it was not stolen—it was not. Put it back in the box; and, dear mother, will you please say no more till—"
The sentence was unfinished, and poor Salome fell forward on the bed where her mother was lying—fainting, for the first time in her life. Her mother rang the bell, and Stevens came hurrying in, raised her head, and took off her wet cloak, and her hat, which loosened all the thick masses of hair falling over her like a cloud.
"What is it? What can be the matter?" said Mrs. Wilton. "O Stevens, send for Dr. Wilton. Call Reg."
"She is faint with galloping off before breakfast, I don't know what for, I am sure. She is a slave to other people, and that is the truth. It was to please Master Raymond she went out in all the rain and storm, you may depend."
Salome soon recovered consciousness, and looking up at her mother's anxious face, which was bending over her, she said,—
"I think it will all come right now, mother; I do indeed. Put the necklet away, and Ray will tell you all about it. I wish—I wish I did not feel so giddy," she said, as she tried to rise.
"Don't try to get up, my darling—my dear child," her mother said. "O Salome! what should I do without you? Stevens is gone for a cup of hot coffee, and you must lie still."
"Put the necklet back into the dressing-case, mother," Salome repeated. "No one but you and I need ever know. Is it not odd I tremble so? I suppose I must lie quiet to-day."
They undressed her and put her to bed; and there, at twelve o'clock, her uncle found her—with her temperature very high, her head aching, and every sign of coming illness, of what nature Dr. Wilton could not then determine.
SALOME'S illness proved to be rheumatic fever. She was in great pain, and often delirious—wandering in thought to her old home and her childhood, and talking incessantly of the emerald necklet and money and debts, and the troubles which had by her brother's selfishness shadowed her young life, and weighed her down prematurely with the sorrows of older people.
Her mother understood but little of these feverish wanderings. But there was one in that house in whose ear his sister's voice rang with a pain which he never felt before.
Reginald was miserable and lonely. The little ones—whom in a bad day of restlessness and fever Dr. Wilton had hurried off in his carriage to Aunt Betha, who begged to be allowed to have them, saying she would be answerable they were in nobody's way—were continually asking when Salome would be well. Mrs. Wilton sat hour after hour inthe sick room, almost paralyzed with the fear of losing this precious child. Stevens, dear faithful Stevens would go away to hide her grief when the moans of pain were more grievous, or when Salome would talk as if she were in the old nursery at Maplestone, and address Ada or her father as if present. All these tender and loving hearts were wrung with sorrow and distress; but Raymond's pain was far greater than any of these. Mrs. Atherton and her son were unable to reach him with a word of comfort. He went sullenly off to the office, and returned with a look of utter misery on his face every afternoon, only to hear the same report—"She is no better."
One Sunday morning he was up and dressed in time, and Reginald walked with him to church. The two brothers had been so much separated since early childhood that there was little sympathy between them. But this grief about Salome seemed to draw them together.
"How is your sister? How is the young lady?" Ruth asked, as they passed her door.
"No better, thank you," Reginald replied.
"What's the use of asking?" Frank Pryor said. "Mother says she is taken for death, and you know it."
"I don't know it," said Ruth impatiently. "I don'tgive up hope. It is not my way. I leave that despairing about everybody and everything to your mother and you. There, Frank, I don't mean to be cross, but I feel as if I should break my heart if that child died;" and Ruth burst into tears. Puck sprang to her, whining and crying, and showing by every possible sign that he sympathized with the general sorrow for Salome.
The two brothers walked on to church, and when their sister's name was read in the list of those for whom their prayers were desired, it was not lost on them that Mr. Atherton added, "who is dangerously ill." The name, with the significant words, came as a sort of spoken declaration of the fear in both boys' hearts, and a deep sob from Raymond was heard by a man kneeling behind him, and understood. That man was Philip Percival. He waited at the door of the church after service, and gave the hand of both brothers a fervent pressure.
To his surprise Raymond said, "I want to speak with you, Percival. Will you come in?"
The two young men were going into the desolate sitting-room, where the daffodils, gathered ten days before, were hanging their pretty heads, all shrivelled and forlorn.
"The flower fadeth," thought Philip Percival, as he recalled the bright afternoon and the sunshineglowing on the daffodils and on the plaits of hair gathered round the small shapely head, as it bent over the treasures in the basket.
Reginald was following his brother and Philip Percival, when Raymond turned quickly towards him.
"Wait a few minutes, Reg, if you don't mind. I want to speak to Percival alone."
Reginald obeyed without a word, and sitting down on a stool in the passage, buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the sound of the ringing voice above, as it called, "Yes, father; I am coming. Oh! look at the chestnut tree, all in flower, not buds, as I thought."
Then the door above was closed, and Stevens came down, in her hand a large paper parcel. She was crying bitterly.
"I have just cut it all off," she said. "Did you ever see such hair? Oh! the pretty darling. I can remember it when she was three years old—how the people would turn round to look at it when she walked down the village. O Master Reg, my dear, my heart will break if we lose her! And weshalllose her, I believe."
Reginald did not speak. After one look at the great mass of golden brown hair, he turned almost impatiently away, and went upstairs to his own room.
I cannot write what passed between Philip Percival and Raymond; but when Stevens came to call him to dinner, he seemed not to hear her. Philip Percival was standing by the empty fire-place, and, rousing himself, went up to Raymond, saying,—
"Good-bye; I am going now."
"Wait and see Reginald. You must wait and dine with us."
"You can tell Reginald alone; it will be less painful."
"No," Raymond said; "I would rather you were present."
Reginald, whom Stevens had summoned, now came down, and Raymond said,—
"Reginald, I have borrowed money from Percival I had no means of repaying. I was so cowardly as to let her—Salome—bear the whole burden of it. She met him and asked him to spare me exposure; and he did, for her sake. It might have been better if he had come down on me then. But it is no use looking back. I am going to see Uncle Loftus and tell him the whole truth, and perhaps he will help me out of the difficulty. But, Reginald, the worst part is yet to come. I caused Salome's illness by dragging her down into Harstone to get a necklet of hers on which I was trying to raise money. If she dies, it will lie at my door. Forgive me, Reginald."
Reginald turned away. He felt as if he could not look at his brother. But Philip Percival said,—
"Your sister would be the first to say 'Forgive him.' You know it. Shake hands with your brother, and let us, you and I, do our best to help him to keep his good resolutions."
Reginald came back and held out his hand. Neither he nor Raymond could speak, but the brothers were friends at last.
A roll lying on the table now attracted Reginald. It was addressed to "Miss Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, Harstone."
"What is that?" Raymond asked.
Reginald looked for a moment, and then exclaimed:
"I think I know. Yes—oh! poor Salome! it is her story."
"Her story?"
"I forgot no one knew but me. I don't understand this, though. It has come back, after all, and I thought she said it was accepted. But this is her writing."
Reginald unrolled the parcel, and the little kernel, so familiar to authors, of the proof-sheets enclosed in the husk of the manuscript fell out.
Philip Percival picked them up. "Take care of them," he said; "it is all right. These are the first proofs, sent for correction with the manuscript.Take care of them; and you ought to write to the publisher and tell him they are received, and will be corrected."
"Corrected!" exclaimed Reginald. "I do not know how to correct them. What do you mean?"
"I have had some little experience in this way," said Philip Percival; "and if you will trust me, I will go over them and do my best till—till your sister is well enough to do it herself."
"Thank you," said Reginald. "I don't think Salome would mind your having them; indeed, I don't see what else is to be done."
Philip rolled up the manuscript and sheets, and, putting them in his pocket, said "Good-bye," and was gone.
"He is the best fellow that ever lived," Reginald said; "and he is awfully fond of her. Oh! how long is this to go on?" he exclaimed, as the sound of Salome's voice reached them from the room above, in the rapid, unnatural tones so full of painful foreboding to the ears of those who have to listen to them hour after hour, with no respite but the occasional lull of heavy, unrefreshing slumber.
Dr. Wilton was surprised that same Sunday afternoon to see Raymond ushered into his consulting-room.
"Is there any change since the morning? I am coming in at seven o'clock. What is it?"
"No; Salome is just the same. I am come, Uncle Loftus, to tell you how ashamed I am of myself. I daresay you will cut me for ever, but I am so miserable that I hope you won't be hard on me."
He did indeed look miserable; it was difficult to recognize him for the self-sufficient, handsome young man whom Dr. Wilton had often felt too provoked with to speak patiently to him.
The whole sad story was told. It was a step in the right direction; it was a hopeful sign; and Dr. Wilton felt it to be so.
"I don't think I shall ever get straight in Harstone, Uncle Loftus. If I could go away and begin fresh."
"Your debts must be paid. I must consult the other guardians and trustees. Perhaps there may be some arrangement. But, Raymond my boy, change of place won't effect a cure in itself. Only yesterday Warde told me he did not wish to keep you in the office; he did not care to treat you harshly, for your father's sake, but he says you simply do nothing, and it is a bad example to the other clerks. It is very sad, Raymond; you ought to have been a comfort to your poor mother and sister."
Raymond faltered out, "I will do anything you think best now, Uncle Loftus. Do you think Salome will get well?"
"I cannot say, my boy. Such cases do sometimes pull through; but the poor child is very ill—dangerously ill. I am going to take Mr. Masters to see her this evening. Still we must keep up heart and hope. Come and see your brothers and your Aunt Anna and your cousins."
"No, thanks, not now," Raymond said; "I must go back."
As Raymond was going towards Elm Fields he met one of those idle young men whose society had been so unwholesome for him.
"Come and have a pipe and a glass of brandy and soda. You look awfully down in the mouth, Wilton."
But Raymond passed on, saying, "Not to-day, thanks."
"Oh, I say, are you in a great scrape? Don't be sulky, old fellow. Come along."
"No," Raymond said more decidedly; "my sister is very ill, and I am going home."
"Sister—which sister? the pretty one at Cannes?"
"No; my eldest sister. This is my way," he said, glad to escape from what was, now at least, most uncongenial company.
When he reached Elm Cottage, Stevens met him.
"She is herself now, and she keeps asking for you."
"I can't see her; it will kill me."
"Don't talk like that, Master Raymond. Go to the dear lamb at once; she is asking for you every minute."
Ah, what a sore pain is remorse! Raymond Wilton will never forget the sight of his sister as she lay before him, her hair—that beautiful, luxuriant hair—all gone, her large, pathetic, wistful eyes turned to him as he came in.
"Raymond, dear Raymond," she whispered, "I wanted to tell you how I love you."
He expected to hear something very different to this,—entreaty to be good; to begin life afresh; to give up all his selfish indulgence. But no; Salome had not strength for this; she could repeat only,—
"Dear Raymond, I love you; and the Lord Jesus loves you, and is quite ready to forgive all. Please ask him. Kiss me, Raymond, and let me see you kiss mother."
He obeyed; and then, as he held his poor mother in a close embrace, Salome whispered,—
"I am happy now. Good-bye, Raymond; I can't talk any more."
Who shall say what this love of the stricken child did for the wayward, sinning brother? It seemed to him the very reflection of the highest and greatest love of the all-loving One who lovedallunto death.
Raymond slowly left the room, walked as if in a dream to the silent, deserted sitting-room, and with sobs and tears prayed for forgiveness to Him who is ever pitiful and full of mercy—who welcomes back the wanderer with the fulness of forgiveness, seeing him even while yet a great way off, andcoming out to meet him. I think He went forth to meet the poor sinful boy in the quiet of the spring evening; and He will lead him, blind as he is, by a way that he knows not.
Patient continuance in well-doing: how sure is the reward. If it tarry, wait for it. If the hope is deferred, and the heart sick, yet shall the faithful and patient ones know at last that the granted desire is as the tree of life.
SUMMER was in its first fresh beauty, and lilacs and hawthorns were filling the air with their fragrance. Laburnums waved their golden tassels in the soft breeze, and the blue skies of early June were like those which Lady Monroe said they had left behind them in the Riviera. She had returned with Eva and Ada; and Mrs. Wilton had the pleasure of hearing from her that the plan had fully answered. Ada had been everything that Eva wanted as a companion, and Lady Monroe begged to keep her for the present till Salome was quite well again.
Dear little Salome! She had struggled through fever and pain, and was lying on this lovely afternoon by the open window of the little sitting-room at Elm Cottage,—a pale, faint, shadow-like Salome indeed, but with returning light in her beautiful eyes and a tinge of colour on her cheeks. Her legs were as yet all but useless; the cruel rheumatism had attackedthem with terrible force; but it was easy for Stevens and Ruth to carry that little light figure downstairs, and every day now she came into the sitting-room, which was filled with flowers brought continually from Lady Monroe's conservatory by Eva and Ada.
On this particular June afternoon Salome was alone. Her mother had gone for a drive with Lady Monroe and Eva, while Ada was spending the day with Louise and Kate Wilton. Hans and Carl were now sent to a school for little boys in the neighbourhood, and were on this afternoon gone to watch the cricket at the college ground, where Reginald was distinguishing himself and proving himself worthy of his Rugby training. Salome was very happy; a sweet, peaceful calm seemed to surround her. Everything was so lovely; that little piece of sky above the laburnum at the gate, how beautiful she thought it was; and how kind of Ruth Pryor to bring in such a dainty little afternoon tea. Even Mrs. Pryor tried to look a little more cheerful to suit the summer radiance, and did not shake her head and sigh as she came in to see if the sun was shining on the carpet; but when Salome said, "I love the sunshine, Mrs. Pryor," she forbore to shut it out, and only laid down a sheet of theDaily Newson the particular place on the floor where the sun lay.
Mrs. Pryor had just completed this arrangementwhen a knock at the door made her toddle off to open it. In another minute she returned.
"Here is a gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Wilton."
"Mr. Atherton? oh! ask him to come in."
"No, Miss Wilton, it's not Mr. Atherton. He has been here often enough, I should have shown him in; but this is the gentleman who, regular as clock-work, all the time you were so bad, came at half-past eight every morning, and walked down to Harstone with Mr. Raymond, and always the last thing at night would come to the shop and hear how you was."
Salome in vain tried to stop Mrs. Pryor's long speech. Mrs. Pryor was, when once unwound, like an alarum, obliged to run off.
"It must be Mr. Percival. Yes; ask him to come in, Mrs. Pryor, please."
Salome had another moment's suspense, and then Philip Percival came in, quietly and to all appearance unconcerned, though his heart was beating so that he could almost hear it, and his emotion at the sight of that sweet pale face and large wistful eyes turned up to him was hard to conceal.
"I am so glad to see you downstairs, Miss Wilton," he began; "so very glad."
"I daresay you hardly know me," she said with a smile. "I have cut all my hair, and Mrs. Pryor saysI look like a starved robin. But I am getting well now, and Uncle Loftus says I shall be able to walk soon, though my legs are still very stiff."
"I have brought you a book," Philip Percival said. "I thought I should like to give it to you myself." And he unfastened a neat parcel, and displayed a pretty book in a red and gilt cover.
"Thank you," Salome said. "What is the title? 'Under the Cedars, by S. M. W.' My book! Oh, I don't understand. How has it been done?"
"When you were ill—very ill—last March, I happened to be here when the first sheets came from the publishers. Your brothers could not correct them, and as I have had a little experience with printers, I asked leave to possess myself of them. I told Mr. Darte you were ill, and unable to attend to them yourself, and that I was to act for you. I hope you do not mind," he said half anxiously.
"Mind! Oh, I am so grateful to you. Itisa pretty book outside!" she exclaimed with almost childish delight.
"It is prettier inside than outside," Philip Percival said. "I feel as if all the children were my particular friends; and as to the cedars, I have sat under them, and know the two ring-doves that come and sing their song to little Pamela."
"Oh, you can't think how glad I am you like mybook; and—has Mr. Darte sent the money? because you know it isyours, and I hope when I get well to write another story better than this, and you shall have the rest of the money then if youcanwait."
Philip Percival felt a choking sensation in his throat, and he could not speak. And Salome, her face flushing rosy red, went on,—
"I know it is a great deal to ask, and you have been so good and kind to Raymond. He says, if ever he is worth anything it will be your doing."
"Yoursrather, I should say," Philip murmured.
"I feel as if I could never, never repay you for all you have done," Salome went on; "but you know I am grateful. We are all of us so grateful to you. Raymond is quite different since he had you for a friend, and he will do well now, I think."
"I had something to say about Raymond. I am not tiring you, am I?" he asked anxiously, for the bright colour had left her face and she laid her head back on the cushions.
"No, oh no; only pleasure is somehow as hard to bear as pain, in a different way. I have so longed for the day when I could show mother and the boys my book, and here it is. Only Reginald knew about it, and since I have been better I have asked him if he had heard anything of the publisher, and he has always said it was all right, he thought, and the bookwould come out one day. He did not tell meyouhad done all this for me."
"Reginald can keep a secret," Philip said, "or he is not the boy I take him for. Now, if you can listen without being too tired, I want to tell you something about Raymond and me. Mr. Warde wishes to send me out to a West India station in Barbadoes, to look after the business there and superintend some change in the sugar-planting. He offers me a very good salary, and I am to have a clerk, of course. Raymond thinks he should like to go with me in that capacity, and I believe Dr. Wilton quite approves the plan. Will Mrs. Wilton, and will you, approve also?"
"I think it will be the very best thing for Raymond. I do not know what poor mother will say about it, she is so fond of Raymond. Still, she would bring herself in time to it. When would you go?"
"The first week in July,—this day month."
"Shall I tell mother about it when she comes in, or will you tell her?"
"I think I shall ask you to tell Mrs. Wilton," he said, rising to leave her. "Good-bye."
"You will come and see me again very soon, won't you?"
"If you wish it."
"I do wish it very much," she said. "And thenthere is the money. Mr. Darte will send it to me now, I suppose, if I write to him. Will you come for it some day?"
"No," he said, "I shall never come for that. If you wish to please me, you will not mention that subject again; it hurts me and pains me. Let us never speak of it again." He spoke vehemently, almost roughly, and taking one of the little white thin hands in his, he said, "Give me one of the books, and write my name in it; and do not forget me."
The next minute he was gone, and Salome was left in a maze of delight, surprise, and happiness, through which there seemed to run a golden thread, bright and shining, as she repeated softly to herself, "So good, so noble, so brave! And I think he cares for me, and I think—"
What Salome thought I shall not write here, but leave her to her book and her dream, while the sun, nearing the west, comes in at the open window and touches the little short curls which cluster over her head till they shine like the aureola round the foreheads of Fra Angelico's maidens in the old pictures of a bygone time.
THE surprise and delight which the sight of "Under the Cedars" caused in Elm Cottage I cannot describe. However many thousands of books are written year by year, however many thousands are launched on the stream to win popular favour, there is always a special charm and interest in the first book written by one we love. It raises the person for the time to an important place in the family; and though the poor little book may soon be engulfed in this stream of which I speak, and lost to sight, or beaten down by the lash of reviewers, or, worse still, left to die the natural death of utter indifference, the author's position amongst her own immediate friends is not altered by it.
"Under the Cedars" was fresh and bright, full of imagination and that subtle power which touches the commonplace with interest. It had many faults—faults of youthful exuberance of fancy—faults ofconstruction; but it deserved the praise of the local newspapers, which said it was perfectly simple and pure in its style, and the descriptions of child-life and nature alike true and unaffected. Then "Under the Cedars" had the advantage of being well revised and corrected by an able hand. It was well printed and well illustrated, and Hans and Carl danced about with excited delight as they recognized their own portraits in two knickerbockered boys of their own age.
Ada laughed at this. "All little boys look alike," she said. "You don't suppose the man who did the pictures knew anything about you or Salome."
But Ada was none the less delighted to take back a copy to Eva Monroe on the day when twelve presentation copies arrived from London. And Dr. Wilton was pleased to show one to his wife.
"That child has done something to be proud of though she is so unpretending."
All the cousins admired and applauded, and Digby was triumphant.
"Did I not always tell you that Salome was awfully clever? Not one of us could ever come up to her."
Even Aunt Anna was pleased when a lady, ofwhom she thought a great deal, said, "I have bought a charming story for children, called 'Under the Cedars.' Have you seen it?"
It was something to take it from her writing-table and to say, "It is written by a niece of mine, a very clever girl of seventeen. So young, and so full of talent."
Thus did dear little Salome win praise, and in her simple heart this was all as nothing to the joy of feeling that she had helped to lift the burden of care from those she loved.
Raymond sailed with Philip Percival, and was full of spirit and pleasure at the change. It was grief to his mother to lose him, but when she saw how happy he was in the prospect, she was comforted.
Raymond was improved and daily improving, but naturally selfish people do not suddenly become unselfish, and the whole complexion of a life is not changed with one sudden impulse. But he had really awakened to some sense of responsibility, and the continually good influence of Philip Percival kept up the impression of the past which might have otherwise died out.
When the parting was over, and the letters from Barbadoes came regularly, Mrs. Wilton began to feel the relief of knowing that Raymond was out oftemptation and happy in the change of scene and people.
A bright prospect opened out to Philip Percival. He settled the affairs on the sugar-plantation with great skill, and returned in the spring with an account of what he had done so satisfactory to the partners in the large concern, that he had a permanent appointment with a large salary, and Raymond was to remain with him for another year.
"Then I shall come back," Philip said to Salome, "and ask you a question."
They were walking together from Roxburgh one beautiful May evening. Salome had been to spend the day with his mother, his last day in England, at his special request.
"The question has been on my lips many times," he said, "since the night—so long ago now—when I picked up this, which a careless person dropped in the road." He took out of his pocket a large case which held his letters, and drew from it a handkerchief. "Look," he said, "whose property is this?"
"My handkerchief! I remember I dropped it that afternoon, and how Stevens scolded me and said I should lose my head next."
"Well," Philip said, "I lost my heart then, and kept the handkerchief as a compensation. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said.
"And if I asked the question now, could you answer it, Salome?"
"I think I could," she replied.
"I have loved you ever since that evening when you looked up at me, your face so dimly seen in the twilight," he went on; "the little brave sister coming out to meet a stranger to save her brother from disgrace and her mother pain. Every month, nay, every day I have lived since then, I have loved you more. Can you love me, and, when I come back next time, be my wife?"
"Yes," was the simple answer. Then, as if to strengthen it, she repeated, "Oh yes; let us go home and tell mother."
How happy they were as they walked to Elm Cottage together, and how bright and joyous were all the inhabitants of the little home that evening. The next morning, Puck, after an extra washing, had a piece of red ribbon tied round his neck, which was a long established custom on birthdays, and Salome said, as she tied it on between smiles and tears, for she had just parted with Philip for a whole year,—
"Ah, Puck, this is a grand day, not a birthday, but such a happy day to me; and, Puck, my new story is to be called 'Under the Quarry!'"
"A very poor prospect for Salome," Aunt Anna said; "still, it is something that the Percivals are a good old family."
"A greater comfort still," rejoined Dr. Wilton, "is that Percival is one of the best and noblest of men. May our daughters be equally fortunate."
So we leave Salome standing on the threshold of her great happiness. Patience has had her perfect work in the days of her girlhood. Will she need it no more in the womanhood which is dawning upon her with the soft, sweet radiance of a faithful heart on which she may rest?
Yes; Patience, that fair and beautiful angel, with its calm, sedate presence, will be needed for Salome as for us all through every stage of the journey. When the gates of love open for us, and we enter into what seems an Eden, we know that there are thorns amongst the flowers, rough places to tread, sharp angles to meet. Salome will take Patience with her, nor leave her gentle guidance till she comes to the Paradise of God. Forthereare no crosses to bear and no imperfect work to mourn, no sin to be hid in secret places, no sorrow, nor any more pain. The former things have passed away, and Patience, having had her perfect work, is exchanged for the rest of those who have fought the good fight, and bear the palms of victory in theirhands through Him who has redeemed us to God by His death, and given to His faithful ones the life everlasting.