Salome

Lady Monroe herself had her misgivings. "Ada is so young, and ought to be going on with education and lessons," she said.

"But she can have lessons, mamma; and think how she will learn to speak French. And there are drawing-masters and music-masters at Cannes. Oh, do let us take her; she is so fond of me, mamma, and she is so lovely and so ladylike."

The feverish glow on Eva's face and the excited light in her eyes made her mother hesitate before she refused.

"I will consult Dr. Wilton," she said, "and her mother. I hardly know if it would be right to take her away from her mother; and yet it might be a relief in some ways. Still it would be an additional anxiety for me; and you might get tired of her, Eva."

"Tired of her, mamma! Oh no. Think of the many dull, lonely hours I have to spend, while other girls are playing tennis, and going to picnics, and dancing, and enjoying themselves. I know I have you, darling mother," Eva said tenderly; "but if I had a young companion, you would feel more free to leave me."

"We will see about it, Eva. I must not do anything rashly."

But Lady Monroe lost no time in consulting Dr. Wilton, who gave the plan unqualified approbation; and then it only remained to get Mrs. Wilton's leave.

Her note with the proposition came one afternoon when the day had been a troubled one – the children naughty, and Salome unable to manage them; Ada still less so; Stevens put out by the inveterate smoking of the chimney in the little boys' room, where she kept a fire and sat at her needle-work, and made the room look like the ghost of her old nursery. Then Mrs. Wilton had been vainly trying to look over accounts. Her head and eyes ached. The weekly bills when multiplied by fifty-two would amount to far more than her small income. Raymond had asked for a sovereign, and how could she refuse him? Reginald had begged for his football jersey and cap, for which the old Rugby colours were inadmissible. Rain poured without, and a cold wind penetrated through every crack and cranny of the house. In fact, the aspect of life was dark and gloomy; and Mrs. Wilton, fairly exhausted, was just losing herself in a day-dream by the fire when Ada tripped in with Lady Monroe's note.

"I expect I know what it is about, mamma; something very, very delightful for me."

"I can't see to read it till the lamp is brought in," Mrs. Wilton said.

"Let me get the lamp, mamma – or ring for it – or poke up a blaze," said Ada.

It was quite unusual for Ada to exert herself like this; and so Salome thought, who was reading to Hans and Carl in a low tone by the window, where the daylight was stronger than by the fire.

Mrs. Wilton yielded to Ada's impatience, and opened the envelope, holding it towards the bright blaze Ada had brought to life, and reading by it the large, clear handwriting.

"You know what is in this note, Ada?" Mrs. Wilton said when she had finished it, and turned back to the first sheet again to assure herself of the contents.

"I can guess, mother," Ada said, drawing nearer. "Do let me go."

"Go where?" asked Salome, leaving her post by the window and coming towards the fire, – "go where, Ada?"

Mrs. Wilton gave Lady Monroe's note into Salome's hand. She bent down, shading her forehead from the heat by her hand, and read: —

"Dear Mrs. Wilton, – I am writing to ask you a great favour. Will you lend your dear Ada to me for the winter? Eva has so set her heart on the plan, and has such a real affection for your Ada, that I hope you will consent. I need not say that she will be to me for the time as my own child, and that I am of course answerable for every expense; and I will see that she has advantages in the way of music lessons and any others that may be available at Cannes. My Eva's life will be brightened, and she will feel the privations of her delicate health less with a young companion whom she loves. Do not refuse me this request. I may add that Dr. Wilton encourages me to make it. Our friendship is not a new thing; and when I look at Ada, I see again the Emily Bruce of old times. – With kindest love, I am ever affectionately yours,

"Katharine Monroe."

"Do you wish to go, Ada?" Salome asked.

"Wish? Oh, I shall like it so much! I think it is delightful!"

"To you, no doubt," said Salome; "but it will put a great deal more on me. The children's lessons, and walking with them, and – But if mother likes it, there is nothing to be said."

"Well, it will be a great advantage to Ada," Mrs. Wilton sighed out; "and Lady Monroe will be a substantial friend. If your uncle approves it, I do not see how I can refuse."

Ada sprang up. She was but a child, and the idea of a journey to the south of France was full of untold delight. Then to escape from the tiresome lessons, the dull way of life, the bother about money, the fidgets about keeping two fires burning, looked most attractive.

"Thank you, darling mother," she exclaimed with unusual enthusiasm, throwing her arms round her mother. "I shall come back ever so much brighter, and able to do heaps more things."

"It is very easy to settle things in that way," said Salome. "You are exactly like Raymond —intensely selfish."

"Don't be jealous, Salome," Ada exclaimed. "You knew the Monroes first, and if Eva had taken a fancy to you, you would have been only too pleased; but you see Eva happens to like me best."

"Oh, my dear children, do not let there be any uncomfortable feeling. Though we are poor, let us be loving."

Salome's heart was full, and rising hastily, she dropped Lady Monroe's letter, and left the room. Poor child, it did seem to her, as to many another, that effort for others was in vain; that those who keep self and selfish interests well to the front are, after all, those who succeed best, not only in getting what they wish, and escaping disagreeables and worries, but in winning affection and admiration from every one.

"I have done my very best ever since dear father died. I have tried to do everything, and yet Ada is the most cared for. I believe mother does really love her best. Father – father —he cared for me, and now he is gone."

"Why, Sal, what is the matter?" It was Reginald's voice, as he came into the dining-room, where, in an arm-chair, by the dying embers of the fire, which was not allowed to burn up, Salome was sobbing out her trouble. "Why, old Sal, what is it?"

"Ada is going off to Cannes with Lady Monroe, and never thinks about me. I shall have twice as much to do – the children always on my hand; and I shall never be able to finish my story. I have not minded leaving mother with Ada; but now – and she is so selfish, Reginald."

"So is half the world, it seems to me, Sal. Cheer up. I am glad, for one, you are not going to the south of France. I tell you that. I cannot get on without you, nor any one else either; so that is very certain. Come, Sal, don't be down-hearted. It will make one less here, and Ada is not cut out for our present life. You and I do very well; and I know I have got the best of it at school, and have no time to sit and mope."

"I don't mope," said poor Salome, half-offended. "To-day, I have – " Tears were just beginning to fall again, when Reginald caught sight of a book on the floor.

"Is not this Mrs. Atherton's paper you promised to send back this morning, Salome? I say, she said she must have it to post to a friend. Shall I run over with it to the vicarage?"

"Oh dear, how careless I am," Salome sighed. "I should like to go with it myself, Reginald. It is not quite dark, not nearly dark out of doors. Will you come for me in half an hour? I do feel as if the run, and seeing Mrs. Atherton, would do me good."

"All right," said Reginald good-naturedly; "only, be quick, for I want tea over early this evening. I have no end of work to get through."

Salome raced upstairs, and snatching up her jacket and hat, and thrusting her hands into a muff, with the newspaper crushed up mercilessly, she was out of the house in no time, and was very soon at the vicarage.

If she could only find Mrs. Atherton at home, she thought, and alone. She stood in awe of Mr. Atherton, the grave, dignified man, who looked as much older for his years as his mother looked younger, and by reason of this had led to much confusion in the parish when he and Mrs. Atherton first came to St. Luke's.

Yes, Susan thought Mrs. Atherton was at home. Would Miss Wilton walk in?

Salome was shown into the drawing-room, which was empty; and Susan, after throwing a log on the fire, and remarking that "it was quite wintry weather," left her.

That bright, cheerful room, full of the signs of the life of those who inhabited it, always gave Salome a sense of home. Books on all sides; a little picture on an easel in one corner; needle-work; a carefully-arranged writing-table in one recess by the fire, a work-table in the other. Nothing fine or grand, no aspirations after "high art," though a few old china plates were hung against the wall, and the large square of crimson carpet was surrounded by polished dark boards. A room used and loved already, though the vicarage was a new house, and there was not the charm of association with the past to make it dear.

Salome had waited for a few minutes, lost in a day-dream by the fire, and forgetting her vexation and trouble, when the door opened and Mr. Atherton came in.

"I have brought back this newspaper Mrs. Atherton lent me," she began hurriedly, "to read a review. I hope it is not too late for the post."

"My mother is gone to see a child who is ill; but sit down, and let me have the benefit of a talk in her place." Mr. Atherton saw the look of disappointment in Salome's face, and added, "If you can wait, my mother will be home before long."

Salome stood irresolute, and then, fearing to be ungracious, she said, —

"I can come again to-morrow, thank you. I daresay you are busy now."

"No; I was only reading for half an hour's recreation. I may as well take it by talking with you, unless you really would rather go away."

In spite of her shyness, a bright smile flashed over Salome's face.

"I could not say so," she said, "as you ask me to stay, without – "

"Being uncivil," he said laughing. "Now I think we have had enough of preliminaries. I was thinking of you just before you came. I have a little class at the Sunday school ready for you, if you would like to take it, and one for your sister also."

"My sister is going away for the winter with Lady Monroe," Salome said. "I wanted to tell Mrs. Atherton about it. It is not quite decided; that is to say, mother had not written the answer to the note when I came away; but I feel sure she will go, and as I shall be left alone with mother and the children and the boys, I don't think I shall be able to leave them on Sunday afternoons."

"Then I would not urge you; our first duties lie at home."

"I shall have to teach the children altogether now. Ada helped with arithmetic and music. I am so stupid at both, especially arithmetic."

Mr. Atherton saw that Salome was troubled, and yet he did not press her for confidence, but quietly said, —

"Well, we are not all born to be mathematicians or musicians. God gives us all different powers. It is wholesome, however, to grind a little at what we dislike sometimes. The old story of the two roads, you know."

"I don't know," said Salome, her eyes glistening with interest; "unless you mean the narrow and the broad road," she added simply.

"Yes; I was thinking of Lord Bacon's rendering of the same idea. If two roads seem to lie before the Christian – one smooth and pleasant, the other rough and thorny – let him choose the rough one, and in spite of pricks and wounds he will gather flowers there, and fruit too, if he perseveres. Those may not be the precise words, but it is the meaning."

"I don't think I have two roads before me to choose from," Salome said. "When I look back on our dear, happy home at Maplestone, and compare that time with this, it does seem hard enough."

"Do not look back, my dear child, nor onward too much; just take the day, and live it, as far as you can, in the fear of God, taking everything – joy and sorrow – from Him."

"Oh, it's not so much the big things," said Salome. "Even the greatest trouble of all – dear father's death – is not so hard in the way I mean; though I would give – oh, I would give anything to get him back and to see him happy. Still, I can think he is at rest, and that God took him from what would have broken his heart. But I mean little worries – crossness, ill-temper, fidgets about money, and, above all, feeling that I am getting so disagreeable – worse every day."

"You do not think you are alone in these feelings, do you? My dear child, it is a very common experience. Take these little pricking thorns, and the wounds they make, yes, and the poison they sometimes leave behind, to the loving hand of the Great Healer. Would you not think it strange if people only sent to your uncle, Dr. Loftus Wilton, for great and dangerous ailments? His patients go to him with the small ones also, and often by skill the small ones are prevented from growing into large ones. Be patient, and watchful, and hopeful, and cheerful, and leave the rest to God. There is a deep meaning in those words we were using last Sunday: 'Cheerfully accomplish those things that thou wouldest have done.'"

Salome felt in much better spirits when she left the vicarage than when she entered. She raced down the garden to the gate, where Reginald was waiting for her, and then she saw Mrs. Atherton tripping lightly up the road with a basket in her hand.

It would have been dark by this time, except for the light of a bright young moon which was hanging like a silver bow over the church spire; Jupiter, a little in advance of the moon, in a clear blue sky.

"I am sorry I missed you, my dear," Mrs. Atherton said. "Come to-morrow, if you can, about four o'clock. I have been to see a dear little boy who is suffering great pain from a burn. I have dressed it for him, and he is better."

"I brought back the paper you lent me," Salome said.

"It is too late for the north post to-day; but never mind. Good-bye," and Mrs. Atherton's alert steps were soon out of hearing as she walked quickly up the garden to the house.

"Reginald, let us go round by the upper road and down at the back of Elm Cottage; it is so fine and bright, and I feel in a better temper."

"Make haste then," said Reginald; "for Digby said something about coming to tea. He had to go home first."

The brother and sister walked fast; and Reginald told Salome a long and rather involved history of a football match, and said he hoped soon to work up into the first fifteen. The road at the back of Elm Cottage took a sudden dip down towards an excavation from which stone for building had been taken some years before; but the particular vein had been exhausted, and the quarry was deserted, and made a circular outlet from the road of some thirty feet, overhung with brambles and ivy. As Reginald and Salome passed this quarry they heard voices. Something familiar in the tone of one speaker made Salome slacken her pace.

"Reginald, I am sure that was Raymond speaking. Look back. Who is it?"

Reginald turned, and distinctly saw two figures at the entrance of the quarry – two men or boys.

"I don't think it is Raymond."

"I am certain it is," Salome said. "Whom can he be talking with?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Reginald. "I daresay it is not he."

"I wish I knew how Raymond is really getting on," said Salome. "The worst of it is, one never feels quite sure that he is telling the truth."

Reginald was silent.

"Does Percival's brother ever say anything to you about Raymond?"

"No; at least, not much."

"Reg, if you do know anything about Raymond, tell me. It's not like telling tales. I think I ought to know, for there seems no one to look after him, and, though I hate to say so, he does deceive mother."

But Reginald was not to be drawn into the discussion further. Digby Wilton arrived at Elm Cottage at the same moment as Reginald and Salome, and he was always a cheerful and welcome visitor. The two families seemed to leave any intimacy that existed between them to the two pairs of brothers and sisters.

Louise's affection for Ada was short-lived, and a certain jealousy possessed her when she saw that Eva Monroe had taken an affection for her. Louise would have liked very much to be the elected companion of Eva to Cannes, and was lost in astonishment that a child of fifteen should be preferred before her, when the plan was announced.

"It is done as an act of charity, my dear Louise," her mother said. "Be thankful that your education and social position and advantages have been secured by me without the help of strangers. Poor Emily! it must be hard for her to receive so much from her friends. My proud spirit could never be brought to do so. And she is not an economical woman. I notice she has had the crape on her dress renewed already. And I hear from Aunt Betha that they deal with the tradesmen about Elm Fields and Whitelands Road. It would be far cheaper if they sent down into Harstone, and really Stevens might do this. It seems extravagant for poor people in lodgings to keep a maid."

"I don't believe Stevens would leave Aunt Emily if she begged and prayed her to go," said Kate with indiscreet heat. "Really I do think it hard to talk of Aunt Emily like that, mamma."

"My dear Kate," said Mrs. Wilton, "will you ask Aunt Betha to come and speak with me? I must send a note to the Quadrant this evening."

These were Mrs. Wilton's favourite tactics. She seldom argued a point with her children, and she was right in the principle. If the differences of opinion were likely to be very decided, she would ignore them by turning quietly to another subject.

CHAPTER XI

ADA'S DEPARTURE

THE household at Elm Cottage were engrossed for the next ten days with preparations for Ada's departure. Mrs. Pryor's eyes filled with tears whenever it was mentioned.

"Going off to foreign parts, where my dear departed lady went years agone, to find a grave for her husband; no good ever comes from going to these outlandish places. However a widow lady can trust her child to go off like this passes my comprehension."

"These are old-fashioned notions in these days, mother," Ruth would interpose. "These foreign places are just English all over. I know a young person who went as maid to – to – not Cannes, but it's all the same; the name begins with a saint."

"Ah! I daresay," sighed Mrs. Pryor; "some Papist's place."

"Well, this young person told me," said Ruth, taking no notice of the interruption, "that at their hotel it was just like an English country house; everything goes like clock-work. In your lady's days, I daresay, sixty years ago, it might have been changed."

"Yes, it was different. And times are changed," said Mrs. Pryor. "The young set themselves up, and think it fine to scoff at their elders. If this pretty child – for she is but a child – is laid in the burying-ground out there, hundreds of miles from her widowed mother, don't come to me to be surprised– that's all."

Ruth nodded at Stevens to say no more. But Stevens's own heart was heavy; and many were the sighs which were breathed over Ada's box, which stood ready, strapped and addressed, in the dull haze of the November morning.

Ada herself had kept up bravely till now; but as the wheels of the fly were heard which was to take her to the station, to meet Lady Monroe and Eva and their maid, her sobs broke forth.

"Oh, I wish I were not going!" she said. "O mother, mother!"

"Don't upset mamma, Ada," Salome whispered. "Dear Ada, please don't."

But Ada threw herself into her mother's arms, and could only sob out, "Oh, I wish I were not going!"

Mrs. Wilton strove to be calm; and Stevens wisely hastened box, and neat little bundle of rugs, and ulster, and umbrella into the fly. Hans and Carl, who, with Stevens, were to see Ada off, stood bewildered to see their generally calm, self-possessed sister crying so bitterly.

"I thought she wanted to go to France," Carl said, puckering up his mouth.

"Yes; I thought Stevens said Ada was crazy to go," echoed Hans.

"She will be all right when she is once off, my dears," said Ruth. "You run and get in. There's good little boys; get into the fly. Look! I declare there is Puck, knowing as well as possible that Miss Ada is going."

At last Ada was gone, clinging to the last to her mother and to Salome, and saying, "Give Raymond and Reg my love; don't forget."

Ada was not the first to find that the longed-for pleasure is not all that imagination pictured; and well might Ruth say, as she turned back into her little shop, —

"There, I didn't think she had so much heart, that I didn't."

"Everybody's heart ain't always in their mouths, Ruth," was Frank's rejoinder. "Still waters run deep, my dear."

"Then you are one of the deepest I ever saw, Frank; you never waste a word. I do believe if I hadn't helped you, you never would have come to the point with me."

"That's an old story now, my dear," said Frank, rubbing his floury face with his hand. "Don't be offended, my dear," he continued. "I don't say it wasn't a good story, for me anyhow, that I did come to the point."

After Ada's departure Salome made a great effort to settle down into a fixed routine. She wrote out a list of the lessons with her little brothers, and with Reginald's help got over the formidable arithmetic better than might have been expected. Irksome as this routine was to a girl of her dreamy and imaginative temperament, she bravely struggled to take each day as it came, and do the best with it. Stevens, who did all the needle-work and small washing of the family, could not always walk with her children, but she clung to this habit of a past life; and soon after the one o'clock dinner in the short winter days Hans and Carl would set off on a shopping expedition with Stevens, or for a walk over the downs. And while Mrs. Wilton rested quietly for an hour, Salome would sit down to her story, and forget the present in the society of the imaginary children of whom she wrote. Unconsciously she reproduced the dear old home of her happy childhood, – the stately trees, the emerald turf, the little lake with the rustic bridge. Her children were the idealized children of her own experience, and the circumstances in which she placed them and the adventures which befell them were, like the "monkey stories," for the most part reproductions of incidents which lay treasured in the storehouse of her memory. Thanks to Miss Barnes's admirable teaching, Salome was guiltless of slips of grammar, and wrote a fair hand. This "thinking on paper" has a peculiar fascination in it for the young; and no one could have grudged Salome these hours she spent over her manuscript, full of hope and even belief that by her hand the weight of care might be lifted from her mother.

Christmas drew on, and Reginald was full of his examinations – so full, that he sat up late at night with his papers, and had but little time to give to the consideration of Salome's tale.

It was one evening when Mrs. Wilton was occupied in answering a long letter from Ada, filled with glowing descriptions of Cannes and the happy life she was leading there, that Salome went into the dining-room where Reginald was at work. The finished manuscript was in her hand, and she said, "Reg, where do you advise me to send my story? I have finished it, every word."

Reginald was absorbed in his Euclid, and held up his hand, as if to beg her to stop.

"Are you very busy?" she said. "Then I won't trouble you."

Still there was the thought in her heart, "How nice it would be if somebody cared." But she waited patiently, and at last Reginald pushed the books away, and giving a prolonged yawn, said, —

"It is awfully cold here with no fire. What do you want, Sal?"

"Reg, do come and work in the drawing-room. The children are gone to bed, and mother and I are as quiet as mice."

"Raymond is not there, of course."

"No," said Salome, "and I can't think what he does every evening. He goes off directly after tea, and he is so late every night now. Reg, do you know where he goes?"