Marshall Emma
Salome
"I remember him," said Miss Cox; "he used to take an hour to deliver the bread. Ah, Ruth, you should not have married such a boy."
"Shouldn't I? Then, Miss Cox, you and I don't agree there. If I am a bit older, Frank is the best husband that ever lived. – This way, ma'am."
Ruth opened a wooden gate and went up a narrow path to the door of a small house, built of old-fashioned brick, with a porch at the side, and a trellis covered with clematis.
"Quite like country, isn't it, ma'am? – Mother," Ruth called. And then from the back of the house Mrs. Pryor emerged, a thin, pale, respectable-looking woman, but with a sad expression on her face. "Here's a lady, mother, come to look at your apartments, for a family – Dr. Wilton's brother, you know, mother, where I lived when I first saw Frank."
"Ah! indeed; will you please to look round, ma'am? It is a tidy place; I do all I can to keep it neat and clean; and there's some good furniture in it, left me by my dear blessed mistress." And Mrs. Pryor raised her apron to her eyes, and spoke in a low voice, like one on the brink of tears.
"Well then, mother, when ladies come to be in their eighty-sevens, one can't wish or expect them to live. It is only natural; we can't all live to be a hundred."
"I don't like such flighty talk, Ruth," said Mrs. Pryor reprovingly. "It hurts me. – This way, ma'am."
Aunt Betha followed Mrs. Pryor into a sitting-room on the ground floor, square and very neat, – the table in the middle of the room, a large mahogany chiffonier, with a glass of wax flowers on it, and two old china cups. Miss Cox went to the square window and looked out. The ground sloped away from the strip of garden, and the hamlet of Elm Fields, consisting of the cottages and small houses where Frank now delivered his own bread, was seen from it. There was nothing offensive to the eye, and beyond was a line of hills. Harstone lay to the right. Another room of the same proportions, and four bed-rooms, all very neat, and in one, the pride of Mrs. Pryor's heart, a large four-post bed with carved posts and heavy curtains, the very chief of the dear mistress's gifts and legacies.
Aunt Betha felt it would do – that it must do; and there was a little room for the servant which Mrs. Pryor would throw in, and all for the prescribed two pounds a week.
"I will tell Dr. Wilton about it, and you shall hear this evening, or to-morrow morning at latest, and you will do your best to make them comfortable. They have had great sorrows. One thing I forgot to consider, – how far are we from the college?"
"Not a quarter of an hour by the Whitelands road," said Ruth eagerly. "I can walk it in that time; and young gentlemen, why they would do it in five minutes."
"How many young gentlemen are there?" Mrs. Pryor asked feebly, when they were in the passage.
"Two that will go to the college," said Ruth quickly. Then, with a glance at Miss Cox, she said in a lower voice, "I will make it right. Now, ma'am, you will catch the tram at the Three Stars if you make haste."
Poor Aunt Betha trudged off to the Three Stars, and stumbled into the tram just as it was starting.
She reached Edinburgh Crescent almost at the same moment as Dr. Wilton, who was returning from his first round.
"I have found a house which I think will answer for the poor people from Maplestone," she said. "I did not absolutely engage the rooms till I had consulted you and Anna."
Dr. Wilton gave a rapid glance to the white slate in the hall, and then said, "Come in here a minute, auntie," opening the door of his consulting-room. "Where are the lodgings?"
"In the neighbourhood you mentioned – by St. Luke's Church – in that new part by Whitelands called the Elm Fields. They are kept by a respectable woman, the mother of an old servant of ours – Ruth – and there is room for them all. Four bed-rooms, two sitting-rooms, and a little room for the servant."
"I'll take a look at the place this afternoon. I expect it is the very thing; and I have to see a patient in that direction. If I am satisfied, I will engage them from this day week. Guy is better to-day."
"Yes; he slept better," said Aunt Betha.
She was very tired, for she carried the weight of sixty-five years about with her on her errands of love and kindness. "I must go now and carve for Anna," she said. "It is past one o'clock."
Dr. Wilton always took his hasty luncheon in the consulting-room, – a glass of milk and a few biscuits. He did not encounter that long array of young faces in the dining-room in the middle of his hard day's work. Aunt Betha departed with her news, which was received with some satisfaction by Mrs. Wilton. At least, Elm Fields did not lie much in the way of Edinburgh Crescent. There was safety in distance. And Aunt Betha wisely forbore to make any reference to the baker's shop.
That afternoon a telegram was handed in at Maplestone, which Salome opened for her mother with trembling fingers: —
"Dr. Wilton, Roxburgh, to Mrs. Wilton, Maplestone Court, near Fairchester.
"I have taken comfortable lodgings here for you from the twenty-third. I will write by post."
CHAPTER V
A JOURNEY
THAT last week at Maplestone was like a hurried dream to all the children, who had known no other home. Their neighbours and friends were very kind and full of sympathy, and Mrs. Wilton and the little boys were invited to spend the last two days with the De Brettes, who lived near, and it was arranged that they should stay there with Ada; and that Salome, and Stevens, and the two elder boys should precede them to Roxburgh. Miss Barnes had said she would come with them for a day or two to help them to arrange the rooms, and prepare everything for Mrs. Wilton; but she was called away to the sick-bed of her own mother, and Stevens and Salome went with Raymond and Reginald alone. The beautiful summer seemed over, and it was in a chill drizzling rain that Salome looked her last at Maplestone. She did not cry as the fly, laden with boxes, rumbled slowly down the drive. Stevens sobbed aloud, and Raymond and Reginald kept their heads well out of each window; but Salome sat pale and tearless. The coachman's wife at the lodge stood with her children round her at the large gate, and curtseyed; but she hid her face in her apron, and cried bitterly. The gardener had preceded them with the cart to the station, and the boxes were all labelled before the party in the fly arrived.
"Shall I take the tickets?" Raymond asked.
"Yes; let Master Raymond take them," exclaimed Stevens.
Salome had the purse intrusted to her by her mother to pay expenses.
"It is better you should begin your responsibilities," her mother had said sadly; "and Stevens will have so much to attend to."
Salome opened the purse and gave Raymond a sovereign.
"Another," he said, waiting.
"That is enough. Four tickets, third class."
"Third class. I am not going to travel third class, I assure you."
"We must, Raymond; we must," said Salome. "Raymond!"
But Raymond was gone, and Salome stood laden with small parcels, while poor Stevens was counting over the boxes.
The gardener had a beautiful basket of flowers ready, and had filled a hamper with the best fruit and vegetables from the Maplestone gardens.
"I have put up a melon, Miss Wilton, and a lot of grapes. Mind how the hamper is unpacked. You'll still have some more flowers soon, for I shall be coming up to Roxburgh."
"Perhaps we had better not, thank you, Thomas. They are not ours now, you know – nothing is ours;" and, as often happens, the sound of her own voice as she gave utterance to the sad truth was too much for her. She put her little hand into Thomas's, and said in a broken voice, "Here comes the train! Good-bye, Thomas; good-bye."
At this moment Reginald, who had been doing his utmost to help poor Stevens, came up.
"Now, dear Salome, make haste. Here's an empty carriage."
"Third class? Here you are. How many seats?" said a porter.
"This way, do you hear?" Raymond called. "This way. Stevens is to go there, and you must come with me. I've got the tickets."
"Hallo, Wilton!" said a pleasant voice, "where are you off to?"
"I am going to Roxburgh with my sister," said Raymond. "My sister – Mr. Henry St. Clair," said Raymond grandly. "Get in, Salome, or you will be left behind."
Raymond's friend took some parcels out of Salome's hand, and courteously helped her into the carriage, putting the umbrellas and cloaks up in the rack behind the seat, and settling the little parcels for her.
As the guard came to shut the door with the usual words, "Any more going on?" Raymond said, "Where's Reginald?" and, putting his head out, he called, "Hallo, Reginald; you'll be left behind."
"I am going with Stevens, third class," was the answer.
Raymond's brow grew dark, and he muttered something between his teeth. "What an idiot! I've got his ticket."
Salome, who had great difficulty in repressing the tears which the good-bye to Thomas had brought in a shower, said bravely, "We ought all to have gone with Stevens, Raymond."
Raymond turned away, hoping his friend would not hear, and then the two boys began to talk about Eton matters, and Salome was left to her own sad meditations. She could not help, however, hearing some of the conversation, and her surprise was unbounded when she heard Raymond say his return to Eton was uncertain, for since the "governor's" death their plans were all unsettled. They might go abroad for the winter; at present they had taken a house near Roxburgh!
Oh, how could Raymond talk like that? and what would become of him? Ashamed to go third class! ashamed to say they were poor! Oh, if only Reginald had been the eldest brother, what a difference it would have made.
Raymond got out at the junction, where they had to wait for the up-train, to smoke a cigar. His friend did not accompany him, and he and Salome were left together. With ready tact he saw that she would prefer silence to conversation, and he only asked her if she would like the window quite closed, as it was so damp, picked up a flower which had fallen from Thomas's basket, and then unfolded a newspaper.
The next minute a young man looked in at the window and said, "I thought I saw you at Fairchester. How are you, old fellow?"
"All right. Where are you bound for?"
"I am going down into Cornwall till term begins. I say, there's Wilton! As much side on as ever, I suppose. Bragging as usual, eh?"
Henry St. Clair tried to make it evident by a sign that remarks about Raymond were to be stopped.
"Never was such a fellow for brag. I have been staying near Fairchester, and I heard the other day that the whole family were left without a farthing and heaps of debts. Is it true?"
"I don't know," said Henry St. Clair. "Have you seen Barnard lately?"
"No. What makes you ask? I say, St. Clair, what's up?"
"The up-train. Now we are off. Here comes Wilton."
Raymond came sauntering up, and knocking the ashes from his cigar, threw it away.
"You extravagant fellow!" St. Clair exclaimed.
"Well, I can't smoke here, can I?"
"You ought not to smoke at all, according to Eton rules," exclaimed the other boy, as he ran away to take his place in another part of the train.
"Where did Harrington come from?"
"He has been staying near Fairchester, he says," St. Clair replied carelessly, and then he began to read his paper.
"Near Fairchester!" thought Raymond; "then he will have heard all about us. Whom can he have been staying with, I wonder? How stupid Salome is sitting there like a dummy when she might talk, as she can talk sometimes, and be agreeable. One can't go about the world airing one's pauperism; it's such nonsense."
The rest of the journey passed without much conversation. The Wiltons were to get out at a small station where there was a junction of two miles to Roxburgh. Henry St. Clair was going on to Harstone. He helped Salome, and even said to Raymond, "Here, take your sister's bag and umbrella, Wilton."
Reginald and Stevens were behind at the van watching the piles of boxes turned out, and Stevens was nervously counting them.
Henry St. Clair bid Salome a pleasant good-bye, and she felt his kind attentions in contrast to Raymond's indifference.
"What a nice little thing that sister of Wilton's is!" Henry St. Clair thought, as the train moved off and he caught sight of Salome's slight figure standing by Stevens and the luggage which was to be carried across to another platform for the Roxburgh train. "A nice little thing! And what a selfish brute Wilton is; such a cad, too, with his big talk – while she is so different. I wonder whether it is true what Harrington has heard. I will ask Barnard. He comes from those parts, and is sure to know. I'll ask him."
The drizzling rain had turned into a regular down-pour, when at last Stevens and her boxes were safely stowed away in the omnibus, and Salome and her brothers filled a cab, with small parcels, baskets, and rugs at the Roxburgh station.
"Where shall I drive, sir?" asked the cabman as he prepared to mount to his seat.
"What's the name of the house?" said Raymond. "Salome, where are we to drive?"
"I – I – don't quite know," said poor Salome. "How stupid of me! – Reginald, can you remember?"
"It's by a church, and the name is Friar, or Pryor, or – "
"There's a lot of churches," said the cabman; "and this ain't exactly the weather to stand here while you put on your considering cap, with the water pouring off one's hat enough to blind one."
"It's St. Luke's Church. Yes, I am sure it's close to St. Luke's," Salome exclaimed. "But Stevens will know – our nurse, who is in the omnibus."
"You want a nurse, you do," said the cabman, "to guide you? Come now, I can't wait here all night."
And now a shout was heard from the omnibus.
"The old lady wants to speak to you," said the conductor. And Salome, looking out at the cab window, saw Stevens frantically making signals and trying to make her voice reach the cab.
"Oh, Stevens knows, Stevens knows the address," and before more could be said, Reginald had jumped out and was soon climbing the steps of the omnibus to hear what Stevens said. He was back in a minute drenched with rain, and saying, —
"Close to St. Luke's Church – Elm Fields – Elm Cottage – Mrs. Pryor."
"All right," said the cabman. "I know – Pryor the baker; I pass down by there from Whitelands often enough." Then he climbed to his seat, the rain still falling in one continuous rush, and they were off.
"How idiotic of you, Salome, not to know the address," said Raymond; "and I do wish you would keep your hair tight. Look here!" And he gave one of the thick plaits a somewhat rough pull as it lay like a line of light upon Salome's black jacket. "I saw St. Clair looking at it. You didn't take in who he was."
"Some Eton swell, I suppose," said Reginald.
"I thought he was very nice and kind," said Salome.
"Nice and kind! He is Lord Felthorpe's son, and in the same house as I am at Eton. Old Birch always manages to get the right sort of fellows! How could you be such an ass, Reginald, as to travel third class when I had taken a first class ticket for you?"
"We ought all to have travelled third class," said Reginald stoutly. "Mother said second; but there is no second on the Midland Railway, so I went third."
"Well, just as you please," said Raymond. "I say, what a neighbourhood this is! not a good house to be seen," and he wiped the window of the cab with his coat-sleeve.
Salome looked out from her window also.
"I don't remember this part of Roxburgh. It cannot be near Uncle Loftus's house, I think."
"Oh no," said Reginald; "that is the swell part – Edinburgh Crescent and Maniston Square and the Quadrant. This is more like a part of Harstone. Hallo!"
The cab had stopped at last.
"What are we stopping for?" exclaimed Salome.
"I expect this is the place," said Reginald, "for there is a baker's shop, and Pryor over it."
"Nonsense," said Raymond. But the cabman got down and tapped at the blurred glass, signing to Raymond to let it down, and saying, "Now then, sir, look sharp!"
"This can't be the place, – it's impossible, – it's a mistake."
But now a cheerful voice was heard, and, with a large cotton umbrella held over her, Ruth appeared.
"It's all right! This way, sir, round by the gate. I am sorry you have such a day, that I am; it makes everything look so dismal. Frank will come and help with the luggage."
Salome followed Ruth to the trellised porch, where the clematis was hanging limp and damp, with drops from every tendril. Just within the porch stood Mrs. Pryor. Smiles were not in her way at all. She looked as sad and melancholy as the day, and when the creaking omnibus was heard coming up the road and stopping at the gate, she held up her hands.
"All those boxes! it's ridic'lous to think of getting 'em in."
"Nonsense, mother; Frank will manage that in no time. There's lots of room, and a family must have things to use."
"You walk in, miss," said Ruth to Salome; "tea is all set in the parlour. We thought you would like to have one room kept for meals and one for company."
"Company! what company! Who would ever come near them in that obscure quarter of Roxburgh," Salome thought. And now Raymond made it worse by coming in to declare he should not allow his mother to stay in a hole like this, and that he should go out and look for lodgings the very next day. Whoever took them must be mad, and he should not put up with it. Even Reginald's good temper was tried to the utmost, and he and Raymond began a fierce wrangle about the cab and omnibus fare; while Stevens, wet and tired and miserable, sat down on one of her big boxes, and seemed as if all exertion were over for her.
"I am wore out," she said. "I have not slept for three nights. I am wore out."
Of course, Mrs. Pryor was too much affronted at Raymond's remarks on her house – the house, with all the highly-polished furniture, which was at once her pride and joy – to volunteer any consolation; but quietly addressing Salome, she said, —
"You have not seen the bed-rooms yet; will you walk up, Miss Wilton?"
Salome followed, saying, as she passed Raymond and Reginald, —
"Please do not say any more. I daresay we shall be very comfortable. – And do come up with me, Stevens, and see the rooms."
The gentle, sweet voice softened Mrs. Pryor somewhat. Stevens was pleased to see the bed-rooms neatly furnished, and that not a speck of dust was to be seen; from these upper windows, too, there would be, on clear days, a nice open view; and altogether her spirits rose, and she said "with a few things put here and there she thought she might soon get a bed-room fit for her mistress."
"I am glad mother did not come with us," said Salome. "It will be all settled before Monday. If only Raymond would make the best of it."
CHAPTER VI
LOSSES AND GAINS
ONE really sunny, good-tempered person has a wonderful effect in a household. Ruth Pryor was the sunny element in the two days of rain outside, and discomforts of unpacking inside the house, which followed the arrival of the first instalment of the party from Maplestone. She smoothed down difficulties; she laughed at her mother-in-law's melancholy forebodings that "the party was too grand for her," and that she, who had lived for so many years with a lady of title – her dear, departed mistress – was not going to put up with "airs" from a young man like Mr. Raymond.
"It takes a time to get used to everything," Ruth said; "they'll settle down right enough, and so Mrs. Stevens thinks. She says her mistress, poor thing, is too broken down to grumble; and I am sure Miss Wilton is a little angel."
"Very untidy, very careless – dropping things here and there; and she has spilled some ink on the tablecloth."
"A mere speck," said Ruth; "you'd need to put on your spectacles to see it; and a green and black cloth does not show spots."
"Not to your eyes, Ruth; you are far too easy. It's a good thing you have no family."
"There now, mother, don't say that," said Ruth, a shadow coming over her round, rosy face. "You know how I fretted when I lost my baby; and Frank, he fretted enough."
"Well, well, you may have a baby yet, only you would find you'd have to be more particular as to bits and pieces strewed everywhere," and Mrs. Pryor stooped to pick up some leaves which Salome had dropped as she filled the two stiff white vases with the Maplestone flowers.
Mrs. Wilton and the boys were expected that evening. Raymond and Reginald were to meet them at the station; and Salome had been following Stevens about the house, giving finishing touches here and there, and trying to hope her mother would be pleased. The "parlour," now called the drawing-room, was wonderfully improved by pushing the table back against the wall, and covering it with books and a little flower-basket from the old home. Then there was a "nest" of small tables, which Salome and Stevens separated, and covered two of them with some bits of scarlet cloth, round which some lace was run by Stevens. On these tables some photographs were set in little frames, and two brackets were nailed up with a book-shelf. Salome looked round with some satisfaction as the sun struggled through the clouds and seemed to smile on her efforts. Reginald enjoyed all the wrenching of nails from boxes and running out on messages; and altogether things assumed a brighter aspect.
Raymond had been out the greater part of the two days, and only came in to meals. He was moody and disagreeable: selfish and discontented in the days of prosperity, he naturally made no effort to sweeten the days of adversity.
"Have you got any money, Salome?" he asked his sister, as she sat down in the dining-room with ink and pens before her and a large blotting-case, which had once been a music portfolio, and was now filled with a great variety of scribbled paper, the beginnings of many stories which had been read to her little brothers by the nursery fire at Maplestone, and were considered, by them at least, the "jolliest tales that were ever told – much jollier than printed books."
Out of this chaotic heap Salome thought of forming a story for children, of which visions floated before her, bound in olive green, and embossed with gold, and illustrated with pictures, and advertised in the papers! Only Reginald was to be in the secret. And then the joy of giving her mother the money she should get for her book. The little heap of gold was already rising from ten to twenty, nay, to thirty sovereigns, when Raymond's question broke in on her dream, —
"I say, Salome, have you got any money?"
"Money! No, Raymond, only a few shillings; but mother will have some this afternoon."
"Well, you see, I spent nearly a pound of my own for the tickets, and the omnibus, and cab, and porters."
"Not for the omnibus and cab. I gave Reginald seven shillings for them. And as to the tickets, you ought not to have taken first class tickets. One was a waste, because Reginald did not use it."
"A lucky thing I had the sense to take first class tickets. Fancy St. Clair finding me in a third class carriage – and you, worse still! If Reginald was such a fool, I can't help it, it was not my concern; but I have a right to look after you, and I know my father would never have allowed you or Ada to travel third class with a lot of half-tipsy navvies, for all I could tell."
Raymond said this with a grandly magnanimous air, as if he were to be commended for brotherly attention.
Salome bit the end of her pen-holder, and could scarcely repress a smile, but she only said, —
"What do you want money for, Raymond?"
"What do I want it for? That's my business. I am not going into Roxburgh without a penny in my pocket. It's not likely."
"Well," Salome said, "I hope you will not tease mother for money. I hope you will spare her as much as you can. I believe I have some money of my own, – ten or twelve shillings, – and I can let you have it, or some of it." Salome put her hand in her pocket to get out her purse. Alas! no purse was there. "I must have left it upstairs," she said.
And Raymond exclaimed, —
"A nice hand you'll make of keeping money for the family."
"Stevens," Salome said, rushing up to Stevens, "have you seen my purse?"
"No; you've never lost it?"
"I can't have lost it. – Reginald, – I say, Reginald, have you seen my purse? I thought it was in my pocket."
Reginald called out from his mother's bed-room, where he was fastening up a bracket for her little clock, —
"What do you say you've lost?"
"Oh, my purse, Reginald! what shall I do?" and Salome wildly turned out a drawer in the room which she was to share with Ada, and left it in dire confusion.
"Dear me, Miss Salome, pray don't make work like that," said Stevens. "I do wish you would learn to take care of your own things at least. You never was fit to look after money."
Salome was in despair, when Reginald came out of his mother's room holding the lost purse on high.
"O Reginald, where did you find it? You might have told me before. It was a shame. Where did you find it?"
"Under the table in the dining-room last evening," and he tossed the purse to her, saying, "It's not very heavy. But you should be careful, Salome; you are awfully careless."
"Don't be rude, Reginald; it's not for you to take me to task. Mind your own business, please."
"Hallo! there's a carriage. It's Uncle Loftus; yes, that it is," exclaimed Reginald. "He has not hurried himself to look after us, I must say."
Salome felt a nervous fear of her uncle, and stood irresolute at the top of the narrow stairs.
"Come down with me, Reginald," she said; "do come."
"Oh no, you'll get on better alone," Reginald said; "and Raymond is downstairs."
"The doctor, Miss Wilton," said Mrs. Pryor, in a tone which seemed to imply that some one was very ill. "The doctor," she repeated, looking up from the narrow hall at Salome.
Salome went down slowly, and her heart beat so loud she could almost hear it. Her Uncle Loftus brought back the memory of her father so vividly. He resembled him, as brothers do often resemble each other – a family likeness, which starts out always more forcibly when one of that family is gone.
"Well, my dear child," Dr. Wilton said, advancing to Salome when at last she opened the door, "how are you getting on? You are quite comfortable here, I hope. It really looks very nice and home-like. It was the best we could do for you. I heard from your mother yesterday, and she says she is coming this afternoon with the children and – and – " (Dr. Wilton could not fit the sister with a name) "your sister. I will try to meet your mother, and bring her up in the carriage. I have to be at the hospital in Harstone at four o'clock, and I think I can just manage to get to the Elm Fields Station at five. The boys must meet the train too, and they and the children and the luggage can come up in the omnibus."
"Thank you, Uncle Loftus," Salome said gently. "I am very glad mamma should drive up in the carriage."
"What a quiet, demure little thing she is," thought Dr. Wilton. "Where are your brothers?" he asked.
"I thought Raymond was here," Salome said, rising as if to call him.
"No; do not call him now. I wanted to tell you that I have, I hope, succeeded in getting him into a merchant's office in Harstone. It really is a most difficult thing to provide for boys in these days, as I shall find. All professions need so much outlay to begin with – articles for the law, and so on. But Mr. Warde, out of respect to your poor father's memory, says he will take your brother on, at a nominal salary of twenty pounds, just to keep him in clothes; and considering the calamity at Fairchester, I think it is better the boy should start clear here. Reginald must have another year at school, I suppose, and I will speak to Dr. Stracey about it. The term does not begin till the middle of September. The little boys you and Ada can manage between you, I daresay."
"Oh yes," Salome said; "I can do their lessons at present."
"That's right. You know your poor father's affairs are in such a fearful mess that it is impossible to tell yet how things stand. The liquidation of the Central Bank will go on for years. A heavy overdraft there is the ugliest part of the matter."
"An overdraft!" poor Salome exclaimed; "I don't understand!"
"No, my dear, you can't understand, I daresay. But, as I told you, your poor mother's income is secure, and on that you must all make up your minds to live till better times. It is just three hundred a year."
Three hundred a year conveyed a very hazy idea to Salome.
"How much had we a year at Maplestone, Uncle Loftus?"
"How much? – my dear, your father was living at the rate of four or five thousand a year!"
"Four thousand!" This at least was a help to a clear understanding. Four thousand did stand out in sharp contrast to three hundred. Salome was speechless.
"Your Aunt Anna will be calling on your mother to-morrow, and she will settle about your coming to see your cousins. You must be about Kate's age – seventeen."
"I am not quite sixteen," Salome said. "Ada is just fifteen, and Raymond seventeen. Reginald is nearly fourteen."
"Only a year between each of you, then!"
"The little ones are much younger. Carl is nine, and Hans eight. They were born on the same day of the month."
Family records of births and ages were not in Dr. Wilton's line. He looked at his watch, and said, —
"Well, I must be off. I will speak to your mother about the situation for Raymond, and other matters, as we drive up from the station. Good-bye, my dear." And Dr. Wilton was gone, leaving Salome standing in the middle of the room. She would have liked to kiss him, to cry a little, and be comforted. But there was something in her uncle's professional manner, kind though it was, which threw her back. He would do his duty, she felt; he would not give up his brother's children; but he would do it as shortly as possible, and waste neither time nor words over it.
He had smiled, and looked kind; he had spoken pleasantly and cheerfully; he had even put his arm round her when she first went into the room, and there was real feeling in the words, "Well, my dear child," as he kissed her forehead; but for all that, Salome felt like a sensitive plant, touched by the gentlest hand, which draws in, and cannot unfold in response.
