Marshall Emma
Salome
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?"
"I don't know," said Reginald, "but I don't think things are all square with him. But, you see, Raymond and I have never had much to do with each other, going to different schools, and he has always looked down on me."
"I hope he has not bad friends," Salome said; "but I am certain he was with some one he did not care for you and me to see that evening when I had been up to the vicarage, the day it was fixed for Ada to go to Cannes."
"Yes; I remember. However, I don't see that we can do any good. We must just go on and leave it."
"I am sorry mother gave him a latch-key. I know she lies awake till she hears him come upstairs; and though I am glad to do anything for her, still I think it is a pity she let him have our room when Ada went away. When he slept in yours it was a check. I can't think where he gets money from," Salome went on. "That is a new ulster he has, and a new cigar-case, and I don't believe he has had any salary yet at Mr. Warde's. Reg," said Salome in a low voice, "do you think he is getting into debt?"
"You see, Sal," said Reginald, "I don't like to say anything I am not sure about, so don't ask me, though of course a fellow like Percival is to be trusted. Still, I don't think either you or I can do anything, so it is better to hold our tongues. Is that your story?" touching the roll of manuscript.
"Yes," said Salome sadly. "I thought you wouldn't mind just looking at my letter. I shall send it to Bardsley and Carrow. They have such a long list of stories for the young. Look, this is what I have said. Will it do, Reg?"
"How should I know, Sal? You can write a letter fifty times better than I can. It is a pity you cannot consult somebody else."
"I don't know who, unless it is Mrs. Atherton."
"Mr. Atherton," suggested Reg; "he is awfully clever."
"Yes; and I should feel so stupid and shy, I know. I think I will just try by myself; and if it is returned, I may pluck up courage to ask Mr. Atherton then."
"Yes; that will be the best way. And mind you put in the same number of stamps in the envelope that you put on the parcel, or you will never see the story again."
"Then you think it is safe to be rejected, Reg? Well," said Salome with a sigh, "never mind. I am going to begin another at once, so perhaps at last I shall succeed."
Reginald drew his chair to the table again, and opened a book, as if to show he had no more to say on the subject; and Salome returned to her mother, having first deposited her precious manuscript and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow in the drawer, where she had kept them since the day when Kate had so roughly handled the sheets.
"Are you going to write to Ada, Salome?" Mrs. Wilton asked.
"Not to-night, I think, mother."
"Hers is a delightful letter – dear child! I am sure I am thankful she is so happy; and Lady Monroe's little enclosure is so pleasant."
"I did not see that," Salome said. "Give it to me, mother;" and Salome read: —
"Your dear child is all, and more than all, I wished for a companion to my Eva. They are so happy together, and lessons are not forgotten. Ada is making rapid advances with her music. There are some very nice people in the hotel, and we have pleasant little drives, and picnics, and excursions in the sunshine and amongst the flowers."
Salome made no comment as she returned the letter to her mother, and the next minute Dr. Wilton's little short rap was heard, followed by Mrs. Pryor's footstep in the passage, eager to have the honour of admitting the doctor. "The only visitor she troubles herself about," Stevens always said.
"Uncle Loftus!" Salome exclaimed. "How late! It is past nine o'clock!"
"He must have been on a late round," Mrs. Wilton said. And then Mrs. Pryor, with her usual solemnity, announced, —
"Dr. Wilton."
"Well, my dear Salome? And how are you, Emily? You look warm and comfortable here. It is a wretched night. Where are the boys?"
"Reginald is working hard at the exams, and the little ones are in bed. Raymond is out. He is so closely confined in the office all day that I cannot keep him here all the evening. The change in our circumstances falls more heavily on him than on any of them. Life at Eton and life here are indeed two different things."
Dr. Wilton gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and looking at Salome, whose face was turned up to his with its wistful expression, he said, —
"I saw Mr. Warde to-day, and I am sorry to say that he did not give at all a good account of Raymond. He is very unpunctual in his attendance at the office, and very careless and idle when he is there. The senior clerk complains of him continually; and not only of this, but he gives himself such airs that he is most unpopular with the men in the same office."
Dr. Wilton had found great difficulty in beginning what he had to say, but when once in for it he went straight through. He saw with pity and compassion his sister-in-law's face grow whiter and whiter as he went on, and he saw Salome quietly move and, going behind her mother's chair, put her hand caressingly on her shoulder, bending down, and pressing her cheek against her mother's in silent sympathy.
"My dear Emily," Dr. Wilton said kindly, "I am extremely sorry to have to say this. The boy is young, and has been – well, a good deal indulged. Let us hope he will see the folly of throwing away his chance of earning his living. His head is stuffed full of nonsense, and even my own boys complain of his brag."
Mrs. Wilton rallied now. That the clerks in the office should complain of her son filled her with pain: but that his cousins (as she thought), plain, uninteresting, heavy boys, should dare to disparage her handsome, bright son, to whose faults she was blind, filled her with anger as well as pain.
"I do not think any of my children have seen much of yours in their own home, Loftus," she replied; "and if this is the way the one who is so constantly here has repaid our kindness, I shall take care he is not with us so much in future."
"O mother, Digby would never be unkind," Salome said warmly. "He would never speak evil of any one. Reg says – "
"I know Reginald is your favourite brother, Salome. Perhaps you might have done more for poor Raymond, if – "
Mrs. Wilton's voice faltered. The best mothers have what may be called "colour-blindness" as to their children's faults and failings. But there are some who will suffer any amount of personal trouble and anxiety that the children inflict, rather than that their faults should be canvassed by others. The discussion of them by ordinary people is resented; how much more when relations bring them roughly to light! It is not too much to say that Mrs. Wilton could have better borne a complaint of her boy coming direct from Mr. Warde to herself than to have that complaint brought by his uncle. Worse still that Raymond's cousins should be quoted.
I cannot say that I think Mrs. Wilton had any reason to think kindly of her husband's family. Although Dr. Wilton had been kind and attentive, his wife had taken no trouble to brighten the life of her relatives at Elm Cottage. This arose chiefly from her habit of never troubling herself about outside matters. She "never puts herself out of the way for any one. It is not in Anna to do it," Aunt Betha would say sometimes when even the maternal instinct was not strong enough to keep Mrs. Wilton from an "afternoon" or a dinner party when little Guy was in one of his worst fits of pain.
"I can do no good. It only hurts me to see him suffer, dear little man," she would say. "Auntie nurses him so much better than I can."
Thus it is not likely that a woman who could be thus unconcerned about her own children would be greatly interested in her husband's nieces and nephews. Hans and Carl had been twice to Edinburgh Crescent to tea, and had walked with Miss Scott, and Edith, and Maude. Salome had spent one day with Kate and Louise. But this was about all the hospitality which had been extended to them. Ada had been more sought after, because she was so pretty; every one asked who she was and admired her. But Ada was gone, and jealousy at Eva's preference for her was now the prominent feeling with both Louise and her mother.
"Well," Dr. Wilton said, "I think the boy ought to be seriously remonstrated with. If he leaves Warde's office, I don't know what on earth is to be done with him. If you can send him up to Edinburgh Crescent to-morrow evening to dinner, I'll make an opportunity of speaking to him. I am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news; but as I recommended Warde to take him, even go out of his way to help him, – for they don't, as a rule, take young men with any salary, – I can but feel some responsibility about it. – Can you say anything to your brother, Salome?" Dr. Wilton said in a gentle voice, – a voice which always recalled her father. "You are the best of sisters and daughters," he added, putting his arm kindly round Salome's slight figure.
"I will try, Uncle Loftus," was the answer in a low voice.
Then Dr. Wilton went away, saying, —
"Good-bye; we must hope for better things. Remember, tell Raymond seven o'clock to-morrow evening."
"The first time he has ever asked Raymond to dinner," said Mrs. Wilton. "O Salome, it is very hard to be treated in this way!"
"I think I am sure Uncle Loftus means to help us; he is very kind. And, dear mother, Raymond must be told he cannot go on like this. He ought not to stay out so late every night; and – " Salome stopped. Mrs. Wilton broke completely down, and cried bitterly.
"Don't speak sharply to him, Salome," she sobbed. "I will try what I can do. He does love me. I shall wait up for him to-night, and you can go to bed. Let us have prayers now."
To the surprise of his mother and Salome, though scarcely more than half-past nine, Raymond's key was heard in the door, and he came in, throwing his ulster on a chair and his hat on it.
"Is it raining, Raymond?" his mother asked.
"No," was the short answer; and then there was silence till Stevens came in with the Bible, and Reginald, with a rough, shaggy head of hair, and ink on his fingers, followed her into the room.
CHAPTER XII
CONFIDENCES
SALOME did not know what passed between Raymond and her mother, but when she came up to her room, she heard her speaking cheerfully to Stevens, who always came to attend on her mistress, as in old days. Salome had slept in a small iron bedstead in a corner of her mother's room since Ada had left home, in order that Raymond might have the one she had shared with her sister to himself. Salome, however, still kept her property in her old room, and her manuscript and heaps of books and scribbles were in the drawer there, so that she often went into it.
The next morning Salome got up early, with the intention of posting her roll and the letter at the nearest Elm Fields post-office before breakfast. It seemed that Raymond had changed his habits, for Salome met him ready dressed in the passage, as she softly left her mother's room.
"Where are you off to, Salome?" he asked.
"I was going to post a letter. O Ray, I am so glad you are up early; and I will get the coffee made directly. – Be quiet, children," she said, as two little figures came dancing down the passage in their nightgowns. "Run back and be quiet, or you will wake mamma."
Stevens was busy in the dining-room, where the fire was burning cheerfully, and the light of the December morning struggling to gain ascendency over the Harstone fogs.
"Wonders never cease!" exclaimed Stevens. "Master Raymond will be in time at the office for once!" Stevens spoke with the freedom of an old servant, and to Salome's surprise her brother did not resent it. He was quiet and subdued, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts.
"You are never going out in the cold and fog, Miss Salome? What are you going for?" Stevens asked.
Salome was all this time hoping the manuscript and letter, stuffed in the pocket of her black ulster, would escape notice.
"I like to warm my feet before breakfast, Stevens. Do go and call Reginald. He will be late for school. He was so tired last night with his work."
Stevens was gone at last, and brother and sister were left together. Salome's heart beat fast. She did so much wish to say the right thing, and to avoid irritating her brother. She was apparently intent on watching the boiling of the little "Hecla" which made the coffee, but in reality she was thinking how she should begin what she longed to say. She was spared the effort. Raymond suddenly said, —
"I am in a great bother, Salome. I wish you would help me. I – "
"How can I help you, Ray? Oh, I am so sorry for you and for mother! I do trust Mr. Warde will let you stay at the office."
"Mr. Warde! the arrogant cad – it is not about him I am bothered. Sneak! to complain of me to my uncle. Why did he not say it to me? It is only that fellow Browne, the head clerk, has a spite at me!" This was an old story. In days gone by, Raymond's bad school reports had always been "the result of spite." "But, Salome," he went on, "you know I did not like to be for ever begging of poor mother, so hard up as I know she is, so I borrowed some money of a fellow, who said I need not think of paying him for ever so long; and now he is turned rusty, and we have had a blow-up, and he says if I don't pay him to-day, he shall come here to my mother, or to my uncle, for he will have the money by hook or by crook."
"O Raymond!" Salome exclaimed; "how much is it?"
"A mere trifle; only my term's allowance at Eton – five and twenty pounds. Do you think, Salome, you could get it for me in any way? You never wear that gold thing with emeralds mother gave you that belonged to grandmamma. Could you let me have it to raise money on it?"
"I don't know. I don't think it would be right. The necklet is in mother's dressing-case. I never have kept it myself. Of course, it is mine, as grannie left it to me, or it would have been sold. Still I don't think it would be right. O Raymond, I wish I could ask some one about it."
"If you do that you will ruin me. If I can get the money quietly, I will promise not to borrow again."
"Did you use it for – for that ulster and pin, and – " Salome was alarmed at her own boldness; and Raymond answered, —
"No; I did not."
"And you are in debt for those things also?"
"Yes; but that does not matter – tradesmen will wait. It's this fellow Percival."
"Oh, is it Percival, the brother of Reg's friend? Digby knows him; he is very good and nice. I thought you despised him."
"I said he wore a coat out of elbows in the office; but he is a gentleman for all that, I find."
"I should think so," said Salome indignantly; "as if a coat made any difference. But I can't imagine how it was he had money to lend you."
"He is a miser, you see," said Raymond. "He is saving up, and grinding and pinching, that the brother at the college may get to Oxford. They say he will get a scholarship; but that would not keep him, and so this fellow is saving up. I'll tell you how it was I borrowed the money. I told him a cram, and said it was to keep my mother and all of you."
"O Raymond! how could you be so mean and deceitful?"
Raymond took his sister's plain speaking very quietly, because he looked upon her as his only hope. "Percival found out that I had spent the money in billiards, and – well you know, in 'The Queen's,' with Barington while he was here; and – "
"I think it is dreadful," Salome interrupted. "I could not have believed it of you."
"Well, look here, Sal, will you save me from a frightful row with Uncle Loftus by seeing Percival, and trying to make him wait for his money? I expect he would believe you; and I really don't want to – to vex my poor mother. It was bad enough last night about old Warde; and I promised to do better at the office, and that I would go to Edinburgh Crescent to-night just to please her, for I detest it. If there is a row with Percival, it will make her ill."
"You should have thought of that before," was on Salome's lips, but she refrained from saying so.
"Reg will be here directly; may I tell him?"
"No; on no account. I will tell Percival to come up here this afternoon, just at dusk, and you must manage to meet him."
"O Raymond, I don't think that will do; you don't consider what people might say if they saw me."
"It is nearly dark at four; that is not late. That old quarry place then."
"Where I saw you with some one some time ago?"
"Yes; that's it. I will be close at hand. Do pray let me tell Percival."
Salome had only time to say "Yes," when Reginald came down. It was so new to her to hear the grand, magnificent Raymond pleading for a favour at her hands. It was a cowardly proceeding on his part; but such boys as Raymond Wilton are cowards. It would have been better for him if he had not so often been helped out of school scrapes by too indulgent parents. His was one of those natures which need discipline and firmness as well as love. He had not been taught that in self-denial there is nobleness which brings peace after the pain. To choose the thorny path of which Mr. Atherton had spoken to his sister, had never even occurred to him. He had always looked for the smoothness and pleasantness of life as his by right as well as choice, and thus of all the family who had suffered these sharp reverses he was the least able to meet them.
As Reginald came into the room Raymond left it; and Stevens and the children next appeared – Stevens with a tray for her mistress's breakfast, and two bowls of oatmeal porridge for Hans and Carl.
"I am just going to walk a little way with Raymond," she said; "I shall not be five minutes."
Salome was off like lightning, and soon overtook her brother.
"Raymond, may – may I tell Reginald? may he come with me this afternoon?"
"No," said Raymond; "what made you race like that? Tell no one, and I am certain Percival will listen to you. In the quarry at four o'clock, or soon after."
Salome fell back breathless behind her brother, and turned up the road to the post-office. She dropped the precious manuscript into the box and the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow, and then ran home.
"Good morning, miss," said Ruth, who was washing the step of the shop, while Puck sat by watching the operation. "It is a fine winter's morning, isn't it? just enough frost to make it pleasant. Puck is looking his best, isn't he? the beauty! I washed him last evening."
"It is very kind of you," said Salome; "he is beginning to like you, Ruth, as well as he does us."
"Oh no; he isn't one to forsake old friends," said Ruth. "See now – " for Puck had darted towards Reginald with delight expressed in a series of twists and twirls and low sounds of affection, as he ran hither and thither round Reginald.
Salome ran to her brother. "I have posted my story, Reg." How she longed to say more; how perplexed was her loyal heart as to what was right and best to do.
She seemed suddenly drawn into a secret meeting with a stranger, and with what shame she would have to beg him to wait for the debt her brother had so dishonestly contracted. Salome watched Reginald's figure as he ran with amazing speed down the road, and then turned slowly and sadly into the house.
Mrs. Wilton came down about eleven o'clock looking much brighter and better. When the little boys had put away their books and slates, and had gone out with their hoops, she said: "I feel so much happier about dear Raymond, Salome. He was so affectionate to me last evening, and has promised to do better. I have written a line to your Uncle Loftus, to ask him to deal gently with him, and to remember how greatly indulged he was in your dear father's lifetime. He has been little prepared for such a life as the one he is now leading. But we must be patient with him, poor dear fellow. I always think I am not half patient enough."
"O mother, you are only too kind to Raymond, and, indeed, to us all. You spoil us all."
"Not you, Salome," her mother said tenderly; "I fear you have too much on your young shoulders. If I were a strong woman, like your Aunt Anna for instance, I could do more to help you; but I am so useless. No one can feel that more than I do."
"You are of great use, mother dear," Salome said, "and ornamental too. You always remind me of somebody in a story as you sit by your work-table. Quite as pretty a picture as that one of you when you were a girl, whatever Mrs. Pryor may say. When shall we know about our affairs, mother?" Salome asked after a pause.
"I cannot tell; there is so much to settle. I believe the furniture realized a great deal, and the wines, and – "
"Don't let us talk of it, mother. I was only thinking of those jewels of grannie's – the set of emeralds that she left me."
"They are all secure, my dear; they are my personal property, which is mine under settlement. But I often think I shall sell some of them. Indeed, I shall have to do so, I expect."
"It would not be wrong, would it, mother? I mean nothing that is yours ought to go to the creditors?"
"No, certainly not, my dear. It is sad to think you should have to talk of such things at your age. Only a few months ago, and I was consulting Miss Barnes about your going to Paris to finish, and now here is your education stopped."
"Oh no, mamma," said Salome cheerfully; "I learn a great deal by teaching Hans and Carl. I am beginning Latin with Reginald, and you know I read German and French for my own pleasure. I daresay I am finishing my education just as well as if I had gone to Paris."
Salome's words had more truth in them than she knew. She was indeed under training in the school where the Lord gives His children many lessons, learned, perhaps, more easily in youth than in after years.
Many times in the course of that day Salome tried to recall all Mr. Atherton had said in his sermon on the Sunday before. He had been speaking of those who sought themselves and their own pleasure, and had quoted the well-known words of Thomas à Kempis: – "My son, if thou seekest thyself, thou shalt find thyself, but to thy own punishment." The thing eagerly coveted and sought after, nay, even prayed for, is granted; but it comes after all in the guise of a foe rather than of a friend.
"I am not seeking myself," Salome thought. "I am trying to serve Raymond, and to save mother from pain; but, oh! I wish I could have had Reginald with me when I go up the road. He knows already something, I am certain, from the Percival who is at the college; but I could not break my word to Raymond, I must go through with it now."
Happily for Salome, Kate and one of her little sisters came to see them soon after dinner on this bright winter day, and Salome and Hans and Carl walked towards Roxburgh with them. Kate was as good-tempered and kind as ever, and infected Salome with her bright spirits.
Reginald was sure to stand marvellously well in the examination, Digby said so. Ralph and Cyril were going to sing at the school concert. It was such a pity Salome could not be there. Everybody always went, and it was such fun. Kate wanted Salome to go round by the college ground, where a football match was on; but as the sun set and the winter's fog gathered, Salome knew her hour was drawing near, towards which she was looking with nervous dread.
The boys ran into the house, and clattered upstairs as soon as they reached home. Salome lingered in the porch a moment irresolute; then started off past the shop, where the gas was already lighted, up the road towards the quarry. The hedges were higher as she advanced, and, indeed, the road was cut out of the rock.
It was dusk, almost dark, and Salome felt lonely and frightened. She had not long to wait in suspense. A tall figure advanced towards her from the overhanging rocks of the old quarry.
