Salome

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.

CHAPTER XVI

THE CONSEQUENCE

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 in the 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't give 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 sunshine glowing 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 we shall lose 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 loved all unto 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, and coming 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.

CHAPTER XVII

A DREAM

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 attacked them 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 the Daily News on the particular place on the floor where the sun lay.

Mrs. Pryor had just completed this arrangement when 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 says I 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. It is a 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 my book; and – has Mr. Darte sent the money? because you know it is yours, 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 you can wait."

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."

"Yours rather, 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 book would come out one day. He did not tell me you had 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 then there 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.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAST

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 of construction; 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, of whom 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.