Salome

"Well, I think stories about monkeys pulling watches to pieces and breaking tea-cups are rather stale. So are all stories, if you come to that – the same things told hundreds of times, just the names of the children changed."

Salome was silent, feeling rather disappointed at this douche of cold water over her schemes of authorship.

"But, Reg, if stories are to be like life, they must be the same things told over and over again, just as things do go on happening over and over again. For instance, all that is happening to us now has happened to thousands and thousands of other families, – may be happening at this very moment. The thing is," said Salome thoughtfully, "it is the way of telling a story which makes the difference. We see things differently, and then we put the old thing in a new light. That is why there is everything fresh every day, and nothing can be really stale, as you call it. All this beautiful view never can look quite the same, for there is certain to be a variety in the lights and shadows."

"Oh, well, I daresay; but then I am not sentimental or romantic, though I think you are awfully clever, and would beat Ada, or any of us, any day. I wonder how I shall get on at the college? It will be very different to Rugby. I must work hard and make the best of the year, for I am only to have a year more at school. Did not Uncle Loftus say so?"

"Yes; but perhaps it may turn out differently. You are sure to get on, whatever happens. It is about Raymond I am so afraid. I cannot imagine him in an office in Harstone. – How that girl is staring at me, Reginald, and the boy too. Is it at my hair?"

"Come along," said Reginald; "don't look at them."

He turned towards the low wall which skirts the side of the down where the high rocks, through which the river runs, rise to a considerable height on the Roxburgh side. Reginald leaned with folded arms against the wall, and Salome, uncomfortably conscious that her hair was floating over her back in most dire confusion, stood by him, never turning her head again. At last Salome heard a voice close to her say, —

"Yes, I am sure it is, Digby. Let me ask her."

"Nonsense. You can't be sure."

There was a moment's silence, and then Kate Wilton seized on her chance. Salome's pocket-handkerchief, as she turned at a sign from Reginald to walk away, fell from the pocket at the side of her dress.

"I think this is yours," said Kate, "your pocket-handkerchief; and I think you are my cousin. We – we came to see you at Maplestone two years ago."

The brightest colour rose to Salome's face, and she said, "Yes, I am Salome Wilton. Reginald!" – for Reginald had walked on, resolutely determined not to believe they had any kinship with the boy and girl who had stared at them – "Reginald," Salome said, overtaking him, "do stop;" adding in a lower voice, "It's so uncivil."

Reginald, thus appealed to, was obliged to turn his head, and in the very gruffest voice said, "How do you do?" to Digby, who advanced towards him.

"I am so glad we met you," Kate said. "I have been watching you for ever so long. Something made me sure you were our cousin. I was not so sure about your brother. I daresay he has very much grown in two years, but you are so little altered, and" – Kate paused and laughed – "I knew your hair; it is such wonderful hair. Don't you remember how you used to let it down at Maplestone, and make me guess which was your face and which was the back of your head? It was not so long then."

Salome felt more and more uncomfortable about her hair, and said, "I am quite ashamed of my untidiness; but I have lost all my pins, and my hair is such a dreadful bother."

"It is beautiful," said Kate. "I am sure I should not call it a bother. I wish you could give me some; but we have all scraggy rats' tails. We should like to walk with you, if we may," Kate continued. "Which way are you going?"

"Oh, no way in particular. Reginald and I came out for a walk. We have had such dreadful weather since we have been here."

"Yes; and Digby and I, like you and your brother, were tired of staying at home. It is so dull for the boys when they have bad weather in the holidays. I hope it is going to clear up now."

Salome hoped so too, and then there was silence. But Kate soon broke it with some trivial remark, and the girls made more rapid advances towards friendship than the boys. Kate was pleasant and good-tempered, and was easy to get on with. But Salome listened in vain for much conversation between the boys. All the talk came from Digby, and she felt vexed with her brother for his ungraciousness. But boys are generally more reticent than girls, and have not so many small subjects to discuss with each other on first acquaintance, till they get upon school life and games.

"I hope you will come home with us," Kate said, after a pause, during which she had been calculating the time of her mother and Louise's departure to luncheon at a friend's house in the neighbourhood. A glance at the clock of a church they passed reassured her. "They were certain to have started," she thought. "Aunt Betha would not mind if I took home half-a-dozen people to luncheon."

"You are going out of your way, Salome," said Reginald. "We ought to turn up this way to Elm Fields."

"I want them to come home to luncheon, Digby. Do make them."

"Oh yes, pray, come," said Digby, "unless you have anything better to do."

"Oh no," said Salome simply. "Reginald and I were going to get some buns at a shop. We did not intend to go back till – "

A warning, not to say angry, glance from Reginald stopped Salome, and she added, —

"Perhaps we had better not come, thanks. Mamma and Ada and the children are coming this afternoon, and Reginald has to be at the station at five o'clock to meet them."

"Well, as it's not one o'clock yet," said Digby, "there's time, I should think, for both." He changed companions as he spoke, and, leaving Kate to Reginald, walked briskly on with Salome towards Edinburgh Crescent.

The bell was ringing for the "children's dinner" as the four cousins were admitted by the "boy in buttons" who answered the doctor's bell, and had in truth time for little else than swinging back that door on the hinges and receiving patients' notes, telegrams, and messages.

"You are late, Miss Kate," was Bean's greeting. By reason of his name poor Bean had a variety of sobriquets in the family. Of these "Stalky Jack" and "Vegetable" were amongst the most conspicuous.

"Is mamma gone?" Kate asked anxiously.

"Yes, miss, just turned the corner as you came up. Lady Monroe don't lunch till one-thirty: we lunch at one sharp."

Another ring, before the door had well closed, took Bean to it again, and Kate, saying, "It is all right, Salome, come upstairs," led the way to the room she shared with Louise, while Digby took Reginald into the dining-room.

An evening dress of blue and white lay on one of the little beds, and Kate dexterously covered it with a white shawl; for Salome's deep crape reminded her that neither she nor Louise was really wearing the proper mourning for her uncle.

"Just take the daisies out of your hats," her mother had said, "and wear your black cashmeres. It is really impossible to provide mourning for a family like this; and besides, so few people here will know much about it – so many are away; and by the time Roxburgh is full again, the six weeks' mourning for an uncle will be over. Still, as you two elder girls are seen with me, you must not be in colours; it is a fortunate thing I had just had that black silk made up."

The memory of her mother's words passed swiftly through Kate's mind, and she hoped Salome would not notice the blue dress. She need not have been afraid. Salome was fully occupied with plaiting up her hair and possessing herself of two or three stray hair-pins she saw on the dressing-table.

The room was not particularly tidy or attractive; very different to the bright sunny room at Maplestone, with its wreath of ivy round the windows and its decorations within, in which Ada delighted. The back of Edinburgh Crescent looked out on strips of dark gardens, shut in by red brick walls; and beyond, the backs of another row of houses.

"Louise and I are obliged to share a room," Kate said. "Though this house looks large, we fill it from top to bottom – we are such an enormous family. That's poor little Guy," she said, as a wailing, fretful cry was heard. "The nursery is next our room. Guy is our baby: he is very delicate, and I don't think papa has much hope that he will live. Now we must come down to luncheon. I hope you don't mind barley soup and treacle pudding. We are certain not to have anything better to-day, because mamma and Louise are out." She said this laughing as she ran down before Salome.

The long table with its row of young faces bewildered Salome. She felt shy and uncomfortable, and Aunt Betha, rising from her place at the head of the table, advanced kindly toward her.

"Come and sit next me, my dear. There are so many cousins; don't attempt to speak to them all. Will you have some hashed mutton or cold beef? – Go on with your dinners, Edith and Maude" – for the little girls had stopped short in eating to gaze curiously at their cousin. "Do you take beer, my dear? Only water! that is right. We are all better for taking water. – Now, Digby, send down the potatoes. – We wait on ourselves at luncheon. I hope you find your lodgings comfortable. Mrs. Pryor is a very superior person, rather gloomy, but Ruth laughs enough for a dozen. A giddy girl she was when she lived here. – You remember Ruth, Kate?"

"No, I don't," said Kate; "we have a tide of girls passing through the house. They are all alike."

Aunt Betha's kindly chatter was a great help to Salome, and she began to feel less oppressed by the presence of her cousins. Such an army of boys and girls it seemed to her! and the home picture so widely different to that which she had known at Maplestone. "Children's dinner," with neither father nor mother present, at Dr. Wilton's was of the plainest, and Mrs. Wilton expended her ornamental taste on her drawing-room, where she had many afternoon teas and "at homes." Dinner parties or even luncheon parties were rare, and the dining-room was therefore generally bare and commonplace in its arrangements. A dusty fern, which looked unhappy and gas-stricken, drooped rather than lived in a china pot in the middle of the table; but beyond this there were no signs of flower or of leaf.

Yet it was home, and Salome felt by force of contrast homeless and sad. The boys were going to see a cricket match, and Digby wanted Reginald to come with them.

"I shall not have time, thank you. We ought to be going back now, Salome."

But Kate overruled this, and Reginald was obliged to consent, and went off with his cousins till four o'clock, when he was to return to pick up his sister and take her to Elm Fields before going to the station.

"We will have a cozy talk in the school-room, and I will get Aunt Betha to let us have some tea. The children are all going out, and mamma and Louise will not be back yet, so we shall have peace." Kate said this as, with her arm in Salome's, she led the way to the school-room, – a very bare, untidy room in the wing built out at the back of the house, and over Dr. Wilton's consulting-room. Two battered leather chairs, which had seen years of service, were on either side of the fireplace; and there was a long bookcase, taking up the wall on one side, where school books for every age and degree were arranged in brown paper covers. A writing-desk standing on the table, with a cover over it, and an inkstand with pen and pencil, all belonging to Miss Scott, the daily governess, was the only really tidy spot in the whole room. The walls were covered with maps and pictures cut from the Illustrated News– two or three of these in frames – conspicuous amongst them the familiar child in the big sun bonnet tying up her stocking on the way to school, and another sitting on a snowy slope, apparently in a most uncomfortable position, but smiling nevertheless serenely on the world generally.

"This is our school-room, and I am glad I have nearly done with it. That cracked piano is enough to drive one wild. It is good enough for the 'little ones' to drum on. Do you care for music?"

"Yes, I care for it, but I don't play much. Ada plays beautifully."

"Ada is very pretty, isn't she? I remember one of you was very pretty."

"Yes, Ada is thought lovely. She is not in the least like me."

"Well, I hope we shall be good friends. I am sorry you are out in that poky part of Roxburgh; but Digby and I shall come very often, and you must come here whenever you can."

"It is so odd," Kate went on, "that only a year ago we used to call you our grand relations, who were too stuck-up to care for us – "

"Oh! please, don't talk so," said Salome, with a sudden earnestness of appeal. "Pray don't talk so. I can't bear it."

"I did not mean to hurt you, I am sure," said Kate eagerly. "Don't cry, Salome." For Salome had covered her face with her hands to hide her tears. "How stupid of me! Do forgive me," said Kate, really distressed. "But I am always doing things of this kind – saying the wrong thing, or the right thing at the wrong time."

Salome made a great effort to recover herself, and soon was amused at Kate's lively description of the ways and doings at Edinburgh Crescent. Kate could describe things well, and delighted in having a listener, especially one like Salome, who was sure not to break in with – "You told me that before;" or, "I have heard that story a hundred times."

But though Salome was amused, she was secretly surprised at Kate's free discussion of the faults and failings of her brothers and sisters. Salome would never have dreamed of talking of Raymond's selfishness and arrogance to outside people, nor of Ada's serene contentment with herself, which was passive rather than active, but was trying enough at times. Salome's loyalty in this respect is worth considering; for the inner circle of home ought to be sacred, and the veil should not be lifted to curious eyes to make public faults, and troubles which too often arise from those faults and darken with cold shadows the sky of home.

The boys did not return by four o'clock, and Salome, afraid that she should not be at Elm Fields in time to receive her mother, set out to walk there alone. Just as she was leaving the house, her aunt and Louise arrived in a carriage, and were saying good-bye to two ladies, who had evidently driven them back from the luncheon party.

As the little black figure glided past, Kate, who was standing in the hall, called out —

"Mamma! that is Salome. Mamma! – "

Mrs. Wilton took no notice of the exclamation; and Louise said, "Pray, do go back, Kate."

But Lady Monroe had turned her head, and was looking earnestly after Salome's retreating figure.

"Is not that Salome Wilton, Eva," she asked of her daughter, – "poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's child? I should so much like to speak with her. I was at Maplestone last year. – Stop by that young lady," she said to the footman, as he closed the carriage-door – "the young lady in black."

"How very odd!" exclaimed Louise, as the carriage drove off. "Lady Monroe never said she knew the Maplestone people. Why, Salome is getting into the carriage. How absurd! Mamma, I do believe they will drive her home – next door to the baker's shop. Just fancy!"

"Do not stand on the pavement making such loud remarks, Louise," said Mrs. Wilton.

"I am glad," exclaimed Kate, "that Lady Monroe is so kind. And how could you and mamma cut Salome like that?"

"How should I know who she was?" said Louise sharply. "I did not go to Maplestone with you."

"Well, mamma must have known her anyhow," said Kate. "She is the nicest girl I have seen for a long time. I shall make a friend of her, I can tell you."

CHAPTER VIII

ARRIVALS

"I SHALL be so glad to drive you home, my dear," Lady Monroe said, as Salome seated herself in the carriage. "I have the pleasure of knowing your mother; and Eva and I spent a very pleasant day at Maplestone last year, when I renewed an old acquaintance. How long have you been in Roxburgh? I wish Dr. Wilton had told me you were here."

"We only came the other day," Salome said; "indeed, mother and the children are not here yet. We expect them at five o'clock, and that is why I am so anxious to get back. We have lodgings at Elm Fields."

"You must direct us when we get nearer the place. Have you been spending the day at your uncle's?"

"Reginald and I met Kate and Digby on the down, and we went back to dinner. I have not seen Aunt Anna yet. Uncle Loftus came to see me."

Then fearing she might have left a wrong impression she added —

"Uncle Loftus is very kind to us."

"He is kind to everybody," said Eva Monroe earnestly. "He is the best doctor in the world – except for sending me to Cannes for the winter."

"He has done that for the best, Eva;" and Lady Monroe sighed. "It only shows how conscientious he is."

Salome was becoming nervous about the right turn to Elm Cottage; and her wrong glove began to worry her as she looked at Eva Monroe's slender fingers in their neatly-shaped four-button black kid gloves.

"It is up there, I think," Salome said. "Yes; I know it is." Then, as the crimson rushed into her face, she said, "Elm Cottage is at the end of this road, next to a baker's shop."

"It is a pleasant, airy situation," Lady Monroe said. "You must tell your mother I shall call upon her very soon; and perhaps she will let me take her for a drive."

"Oh! it is near St. Luke's Church, mamma – Mr. Atherton's church. Why, it is the very house the Athertons lodged in till the vicarage was ready."

"So it is. You will find the Athertons pleasant neighbours," Lady Monroe said. "They will be nice friends for you, I hope; and the church is a very nice one. I daresay Mr. Atherton will be glad of your help in the Sunday school."

The carriage drew up as she was speaking, and the footman looked down from his seat doubtfully.

"Yes; this is right," said Lady Monroe. "Good-bye, my dear. I am so glad I met you."

"A sweet, gentle girl," Lady Monroe said, as Salome, having expressed her thanks, disappeared behind the little wooden gate. "It is very sad for them all. What a change from that lovely place, Maplestone Court, where I saw poor Emily Wilton last year!"

"Yes," said Eva; "to lose their father and money and position."

"Not position, Eva. A gentlewoman can never really lose position in the eyes of right-thinking people. I feel a great interest in the Wiltons; for their mother is, I should think, but little fitted to struggle with adversity; she was never strong."

"I wish we were not going to Cannes, mother, and then we could often go and see them. Oh! I do not want to go away; my cough is quite well. It is so hard to go. Think how tired we were of the life there last year." And a cloud of discontent came over the fair face of the delicately nurtured girl, who had all that loving care could suggest to brighten her life and soften the privations which delicate health brings with it to the young.

It must strike us all, old and young, when we look round upon the lives of others, that there is a crook in every lot, and that God will have us all learn the lesson of "patience," – patience which can make the crooked places straight and the rough places smooth.

Salome found Stevens had set out tea on a little table in the dining-room. The tea-pot had a cosy over it; and a plate of thin bread and butter, cut from one of Ruth's fancy loaves, looked inviting.

"This is the mistress's time for afternoon tea," Stevens said. "She could not sit down to a table at this time, just off a journey too. I have got some buns for the children. Now, Miss Salome, do go and get yourself tidy, to look home-like. Where are the young gentlemen? Master Reginald went out with you."

"I expect they are both gone down to the station. Reg and I have been to dinner at Uncle Loftus's. Oh! here is the carriage. Here are mother and Ada!"

Salome went swiftly out to meet her mother and sister, and tried to greet them with a smile. "Mother," she exclaimed; "I am so glad you have come."

Mrs. Wilton made an effort to respond to Salome cheerfully; but Ada did not even try to smile.

"Now, then," said Dr. Wilton, "I must not stay. Reginald is walking up with the little boys and my Digby. The luggage will follow in the omnibus."

"Won't you have a cup of tea, Uncle Loftus?" said Salome. "We have it all ready."

"No, thanks, my dear, I cannot stay. I have a consultation at half-past five. Really you have made the best of this room; it looks quite pretty; and it is quiet here. I hope you will be comfortable."

While he was speaking, Mrs. Pryor appeared, with a courtesy so profound that Dr. Wilton had to hurry away to hide a smile.

"I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Mrs. Pryor; "and I hope, I am sure, you will mention anything I can do for you, and I will try in my poor way to do it. It's a world of trouble, ma'am, and you have had your share, as I have had mine; and I know how hard it must be for you, ma'am, in the evening of your days, to have a change like this – from riches to – "

"Here are the little ones," exclaimed Salome, as the sound of the children's voices was heard in the porch.

Hans and Carl were in the highest spirits. They had chattered all the way from the station, and were ready to be pleased with everything.

They brought with them a relic of the old home, in the person of a little white fluffy dog, named Puck, which came bustling in at their heels, flying up at every one in expectation of a welcome, and regardless of Salome's —

"Mother, what will Mrs. Pryor say to a dog? I thought Puck was to be given to the De Brettes."

"The children begged so hard to bring him," Mrs. Wilton said. "Puck is a dog no one can object to."

Salome looked doubtful, and said —

"I am sure Mrs. Pryor won't let him get on the chairs," as Puck seated himself on one of them. "Get down, Puck."

"I thought it was a mistake to bring Puck," Ada said; "but the children would have their own way."

"He is a very well-behaved dog in general," said Stevens, anxious to make peace and avoid discussion with Mrs. Pryor; "and if he forgets his manners, we must teach him, that is all."

"Where is the nursery?" Carl asked, "and the school-room? Are we to have tea there?"

"You shall all have tea together this evening," Stevens said; "but I will show you your room, my dears. Come upstairs."

"Where is Raymond?" Mrs. Wilton asked.

"Raymond!" exclaimed Salome. "He said he would go to the station. Did you not see him?"

"No," Reginald said. "Digby Wilton and I walked down together from the cricket match. Digby is not so bad after all."

"I think him very nice, and I like Kate. I had quite an adventure, mamma. Lady Monroe, who says she knew you years and years ago, brought me from Edinburgh Crescent in her carriage, and was so kind. Do you remember her, mother? She came to Maplestone last year."

Poor Mrs. Wilton, who had been trying to keep back her tears, found the very mention of her old home too much at this moment. A sob was the only answer; and Ada said —

"Mamma had better go and take off her things and rest a little. Show us the way, Salome." Reginald followed, and tried not to be disappointed that his mother did not notice the book-shelves and several little contrivances in her room. And Salome wished Ada would not say, "How dreadfully small the house is; and how this huge ugly bed fills up the room," – the four-post bed which was Mrs. Pryor's glory.

She had come up behind the party, and hearing her most valued possession thus slighted, took her revenge forthwith.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; I don't wish to intrude; but I do not take dawgs. No dawgs or cats are allowed in my house. I don't take children as a rule – never; but a dawg I cannot put up with. It would wear my spirits out. I hope," looking round, "you are satisfied, ma'am!"

"Oh, it is all very clean and neat, thank you," Mrs. Wilton faltered out; "it will do very nicely, and – and I will see about Puck: if he is troublesome, he must be sent away."

Alas! the very spirit of mischief, whose name he bore, seemed to have suddenly possessed Puck. A great bustling and low growling was heard on the staircase, and Hans and Carl laughing and saying, "At it, Puck – good Puck." In another moment Puck appeared shaking something soft frantically, and tearing wildly about with it in his mouth, letting off the spirits which had been pent up on his journey from Fairchester.