Marshall Emma
Salome
CHAPTER XIV
DAFFODILS
THE Christmas season, so different to any the Wiltons had ever passed, came and went. Raymond managed to attain his wish, as he generally did; and instead of returning punctually to the office after the two days above and beyond the bank holiday which Mr. Warde kindly and considerately granted him, he sent an excuse to him, and a telegram to his mother, which alarmed her very much, to say he had a severe cold, and was not allowed to travel.
It ought to be a warning to all those who are tempted to make false excuses or deceive, that when once it is done, every one's faith is weakened in their assertions. It takes years of truthfulness and sincerity to restore the confidence which one falsehood has shaken.
Reginald must be excused, therefore, if he said, as he read the telegram, —
"Humbug!"
Salome gave him a quick glance, for she saw her mother's distressed and anxious face.
"I do hope he is not very ill. What do you think, Salome?"
"I hope not, mother. He only says, 'A severe cold;' and you see he sends the telegram himself."
"Would you advise me to send a telegram for a paid answer?"
"Certainly not, mother," said Reginald. "Don't disturb yourself; he is all right."
Mrs. Wilton was silenced; but when Reginald left the room she said to Salome, "I cannot understand how it is that Reginald is so unfeeling about Ray. It is not like the love of brothers."
All this anxiety at Elm Cottage might have been spared had it been possible to show Mrs. Wilton the comfortable dining-room at Rose Court, the St. Clairs' home, Raymond talking and laughing with one of Henry St. Clair's sisters at a pleasant dinner-party, and quite forgetting the sore throat and little cough which had seemed to Mrs. St. Clair in her kindness a sufficient reason for Raymond to prolong his visit. Sympathy for the boy's altered position had made her doubly kind to him, though she secretly wished he would talk less of himself, his old Eton days and friends, and would have liked it better if he had been quieter and less self-asserting.
"It was a kindness to invite him, poor boy," she said to her husband. "They had a very pretty nice place, with every comfort, and Henry paid them a visit during the Easter holidays. Think what a change it is! I am glad to be kind to him; though he is not exactly the friend I would choose for Henry."
"A conceited, shallow-pated young fellow," was the reply. "Handsome enough, no doubt; but I, for one, shall not be sorry to see him start for Harstone."
Poor Raymond! How little did he think that this was the impression left upon his host at Rose Court. He went home with a fresh edition of discontent at his lot, and relapsed a good deal into his former habits.
So the winter passed, and the days lengthened, and the bright spring-time drew on.
One radiant March morning Salome set out early to spend a day at Edinburgh Crescent. A holiday was proclaimed for the children, and an expedition with Ruth Pryor to see a menagerie which was stationed in a large field not far off. Mrs. Wilton had been unusually well of late, and was quite happy to be left for the day, to write letters, and perhaps walk over to the vicarage at three o'clock to see Mrs. Atherton. Salome's step was light and elastic as she walked away towards Edinburgh Crescent. She had the spring of youth in her, which responded to the spring of nature; and something delightful had happened which was to mark that day with a red letter, as she thought, to her. "Under the Cedars," after three unsuccessful journeys, and three new title-pages, had been accepted, and she had in her pocket a letter offering to publish the story and give her ten guineas for it. If the proposal was agreeable to her, the cheque would be sent at once. Only those who have earned money that is needed for some express purpose can understand the joy in Salome's heart. It was only ten guineas. Fifteen more would be required to meet what was wanted. But another story was rapidly approaching its conclusion, and very soon she might earn the rest.
These few months had been times of steady progress with Salome. She had set herself earnestly to learn the lesson of her life; and no one, old or young will, if they seek God's help, do this in vain. Just as one who sweeps a room from this cause makes it and the action fine, so did Salome, by striving against her desultory, untidy habits and her dreamy indolence, when what she had to do was uncongenial, and, above all, when her effort to struggle against discontented repining for what was denied her of luxury and pleasantness in everyday life, make the way "finer" and brighter for others and for herself. Child as she was, her influence was felt. Stevens acknowledged it, and her brothers could not fail to be affected by it. All unconsciously to herself she was fulfilling the command of One who lays no burden on us too heavy to bear, who tells us to let our light so shine that our Father in heaven may be glorified.
I think Salome's little light was shining, and I also think that had it not been for the surrounding gloom of sorrow and loss which, as it were, encompassed her, it would not have been so bright nor so steady in its radiance.
How she longed to tell Reginald the good news about "Under the Cedars." How she wished the letter had come by the first instead of the second delivery. It would be nice to meet Reginald, and hear him say, "How jolly it is!" "I shall be obliged to let him know, when I have the money, what I am going to do with it. But that time is not come yet. I must take the days one by one. And oh, what a lovely day this is! Such a sky; and how those horse-chestnut buds are shining in the sun. I remember one day last spring how I was riding with father, and he told me to look at the big chestnut tree by the lodge, how the buds were glistening."
The wakened memory of her father sent a thrill of pain through the young heart, and a hungry longing for him, which is so well expressed by the poetess of love and natural affection in her own especial strain without a rival: —
"But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring —
The human heart with all its dreams and sighs,
Thou that bring'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies?
Sweet sounds and scents break forth where'er thou art;
What wakest thou in the heart?
"Too much, ah! there too much,
We know not well wherefore it should be so;
But roused by thee,
What strange, fond yearnings from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see;
How are we haunted in thy wind's low tone
By voices that are gone!
"Looks of familiar love, which never more,
Never on earth our aching eyes shall greet,
Sweet words of welcome to the household door,
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet.
Spring, 'midst the wakening of thy flowers and bees
Why – why awakest thou these?"
It seemed so long to her since the last spring, as if she had left behind her childhood and its dreams and happiness and come into the cares of womanhood. But youth was strong within her for all that; and when her cousins, the trio of dear little sisters, came rushing out to meet her as Bean threw open the door, and Kate danced downstairs to give her a prolonged hug, Salome felt ready for anything her cousins might propose.
"The boys are going to be so condescending as to walk with us," Kate said. "We are all going to Stoke Canon to get daffodils. I thought you would like that, as you have an eye for beauty, as Aunt Betha says. Digby is to bring Reginald home to luncheon, and we are to start at two o'clock. But come upstairs now. I have got a new hat, and I want your advice about it."
"May we come and get daffodils, Katie?" pleaded Edith's little voice.
"Certainly not; run away, children."
"Let Edith come, Katie, Edith and Maude," Salome said.
"Oh no, they will only be a bother; besides, we are going too far for them."
"You must come to tea with Hans and Carl next Saturday," Salome said, "if Aunt Anna will allow you."
"Oh, that will be nice!" exclaimed the children. "Now, do come and see Guy and Aunt Betha."
Poor little Guy lay extended on his sofa, while Aunt Betha was busy with some new table-linen, which she was marking in the old-fashioned way with red marking thread.
Guy's pale face beamed with delight as Salome came into the room. Poor suffering little one! he had not much variety in his life, and Salome's visits were always hailed by him as a great event. She told him a story sometimes, every detail of which he would drink in with hungry eagerness. Salome was a favourite with Aunt Betha as well as with little Guy, and she turned to her with a bright smile of welcome on her pleasant old face, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her eyes.
"I am getting past this fine marking," she said, "though I don't think that dinner napkin is amiss," holding it up for admiration.
"I wonder you take the trouble, auntie," Katie said. "Every one writes on linen now-a-days. Mamma says it is quite old-fashioned. Do give it up."
"No, my dear," said Aunt Betha half sadly. "I am an old-fashioned person, and I could never bear to see beautiful linen inked all over with blotted scrawls. No new fashion would make me believe that this is not the best plan. That mark will last long after I am in my grave. I am not ashamed of my handiwork, I can tell you."
Salome had taken up the table-napkin and was admiring the three well-shaped letters L. E. W. and the neat figures beneath, the number and the year, when Guy's little voice was raised in appeal.
"Cousin 'Lome," – his nearest approach to Salome's name – "do come and talk to Guy; tell about when you were a little girl, at your big house – tell about the bridge."
"A little girl!" thought Aunt Betha, as she saw Salome's slight, almost child-like figure bending over Guy. "She is but a child now, so young and delicate-looking, and not one to breast many of the storms of this troublesome world."
The boys came in to dinner in good time; and about two o'clock the happy party of four cousins set off for the Stoke Canon Woods.
Digby and Reginald were now fast friends; and Kate held to her first affection for Salome. Salome enjoyed Kate for a time, her sharp speeches and rippling fun were amusing at intervals; but she often thought that she would not care always to live with Kate, or skim over the surface of everything as she did.
The daffodils were in their full glory in a field and orchard beyond Stoke Canon Woods. Many poets of every age have sung their praises; but who can really convey any idea of their loveliness as they bend their beautiful heads to the crisp breeze as it passes over them, and catch the sunlight on their pale golden cups?
"Oh, take them gently!" Salome exclaimed, as the boys rushed upon them, eager to fill the girls' baskets for them. "Take them gently; don't break one off too short," she said, bending down and gathering the flowers with a tender hand. "Look at the fringe on this one; and oh, Kate, just see how deep it is, and how perfect the leaves are."
"Oh yes; but I like primroses better when they are gathered, and bluebells. The Stoke Woods are filled with bluebells in May."
"Hallo!" exclaimed Digby, "there's Percival and his elder brother. When he was at the college they used to be called – "
"You shouldn't tell school nicknames; it is not fair," Reginald exclaimed. "Come down here, Percival," he shouted, for the field and orchard lay a little below the level of the road. "Come down and speak to us, Percival."
Percival obeyed, and his brother remained standing on the bank above.
Salome gave him one quick glance, and all the bright colour left her face. He saw and understood, and, following his younger brother, came down and said, —
"Introduce me to your friends, Robert."
"Oh, I forgot you did not know them, Phil. Miss Wilton and Miss Salome Wilton."
Philip Percival bowed with a pleasant smile, and stooped to gather some of the flowers almost as gently as Salome herself.
"I must take some to my father," he said. "They will please him; he has a craving for bright colours, and daffodils more than any flower seem to fill the house with light."
"Yes," Salome said; "I do love them so much; they are like bits of spring sunshine."
Then, as the party all walked on together, Philip talked of many things; and Kate seemed to amuse him as much as she did Salome, for he often laughed merrily at her sharp sallies.
The Percivals returned with the Wiltons, and they had what Aunt Betha always liked to prepare for them – a school-room tea: a glass dish of jam, a pile of hot cakes and – a departure from the usual order – of Dorset butter. Fresh white butter was a luxury not known every day in Mrs. Wilton's school-room or nursery.
"This is jolly," said Kate, "if only there are chairs enough to hold us all. – No, don't sit on that, Mr. Percival; it has long been shaky on one leg. – Run, Edith, and get some more chairs. And you three little ones may all come, only you must not make yourselves 'jammy,' or what will Aunt Betha say?"
"I think I shall go and have my tea with Guy, if you don't mind very much," Salome said. "Poor little boy, he must wish he could come here."
"Nonsense, Salome! Pray don't be so silly," Kate said. "Let Edith take him some hot cake, and he will be content."
But Salome went off, little Edith following her; and Guy's delighted welcome was a sufficient reward.
"Oh, Cousin 'Lome, if only you could live with me! Do tell me another story."
Aunt Betha took the opportunity of Salome's presence to slip downstairs to watch some operations in the kitchen, and Salome and Guy were left together. She fed him with little bits of cake, and repeated to him some verses which fascinated the sick child, and he made her say them over and over again; – the story of the two little birds told by Mrs. Fowler in her beautiful book called "Our Children's Story," – a story in its sweet musical rhythm which has touched many hearts besides little Guy Wilton's.
Salome wished she could have one word with Philip Percival – one word to say that the ten pounds would be so soon in her possession. But the opportunity was not forthcoming. Salome tripped gaily home with Reginald in the soft spring twilight, her basket of daffodils in her hand, and a feeling of joy in her heart, which beamed in her sweet face as she went into the drawing-room at Elm Cottage.
"Look, mother! look, Hans and Carl – "
But the joy faded out of her face and changed to anxious foreboding as Mrs. Wilton said, brokenly, —
"I am so glad you are come. Send the children away; don't let Reginald come. I want to speak to you alone."
CHAPTER XV
LOST!
"SEND the children away!" The words recalled that first day of sorrow – eight months before.
"Salome, I have lost the necklet set with emeralds, which really belongs to you. When we first settled in here, I looked over all my personal jewels, and everything was right. This afternoon, when I came in from the vicarage, I opened my large dressing-case to look for a ring I thought I would sell, and the necklet was gone! Salome, do you, can you imagine the Pryors are dishonest?" Salome looked bewildered for a moment, and then the terrible suspicion, which was almost a certainty, flashed upon her. "Salome, do you think the Pryors can have been dishonest? Do you think we are living in a den of thieves? There is no one but Stevens and the Pryors who ever go about the house. It must lie between them."
"Mother!" exclaimed Salome, "Stevens! How can you say so?"
"What am I to say or think, Salome? The necklet is old-fashioned, but it is very valuable. They are fine emeralds, and, I daresay, worth sixty or seventy pounds. I was very foolish to keep it here; I ought to have sent it to your Uncle Loftus to put in his plate-chest, or to the bank. Salome, have you nothing to advise or to say? Shall I question Stevens?"
Salome was taking the daffodils one by one from the basket, and did not speak for a moment.
"No, mother; do not question anybody yet; let us wait. It is so dreadful to suspect innocent people. Are you quite sure the necklet was in that large dressing-case? Have you looked through the little one?"
"Yes, over and over again. I know I am not mistaken. I was thinking of a ring which belonged to an uncle of mine which I do not value; and I thought if I sold it I might get a few pounds for the boys. Reginald would like to go to Westmoreland this Easter, and it is so hard to have no spare money. Raymond, too, wants five pounds, – so much, though I fear he is very extravagant."
Salome started as her mother was speaking, for Raymond came in. It was Thursday, the day for the early closing of the offices in Harstone, and Mrs. Wilton said, —
"This has been a lovely afternoon. Where have you been?"
"I came in here about three o'clock and found everybody out, so I went off again. I thought you might have liked a drive, mother, and I could have hired a little trap for a trifle. Where had you flown to?"
"Only to the vicarage. How kind of you to think of me. Look at Salome's daffodils! But I have had a most unpleasant loss, Raymond, – do not mention it to the little ones or to Reginald. I have missed something of value out of my large jewel-box – that old gold necklet set with emeralds."
"I thought that was Salome's," Raymond said, taking up the newspaper, and sitting down with it on the sofa, soon appeared to be absorbed in it.
Salome went on quietly arranging her daffodils, and then as quietly left the room. She went upstairs to her mother's room, and then, after much thought and prayer, determined to speak at once to Raymond. For how could she doubt that he had taken the necklet? A shudder of pity and deep pain at this deed of her brother's thrilled through her. But it seemed all clear. The necklet was hers, and he had talked to her about it; and she had said, when he asked if it could be sold, "I do not know if it would be right." Then there arose before her the past six months, and the pains she had taken to cover her brother's sin. Had she been right to do this? Would it not have been better to have gone direct to her Uncle Loftus and confided in him?
Poor Salome! The same doubts and fears have at times beset us all; and the question is a hard one to answer. Desire to shield those we love from exposure may not be the truest kindness to them, and yet loving hearts shrink from inflicting pain, especially when, as in Salome's case, the frank avowal of Raymond's sin must bring sorrow on his mother, already so heavily tried and burdened with grief and trouble.
But Salome was now determined to be brave, as far as Raymond himself was concerned; and that night, when her mother and Reginald had both gone to their rooms, she tapped gently at Raymond's door, and said, —
"Please let me in. I want to speak to you."
The door was opened at once, and Raymond, looking straight at his sister, said, —
"Well, what is the matter?"
"Raymond," Salome said, closing the door behind her and clasping her little hands tightly together, "I am come to speak to you about my necklet set with emeralds."
"You had better have up Pryor, and – "
He faltered, for Salome's clear, steadfast eyes were fixed on his face as if she could read his thoughts.
"Raymond, I believe you have taken my necklet out of mother's large dressing-case! Why did you do so by stealth and like a thief?"
"Come now, Salome – no insults. How dare you speak like that?"
"Raymond," the brave girl went on, "I am certain you took the necklet; and you must tell mother to-morrow morning, and not allow innocent people to be accused. What have you done with the money? Have you paid Mr. Percival? Raymond, I mean to be answered, and I shall wait here till you speak."
"You may wait all night, then; and" – putting on a great Inverness cape over his coat and seating himself coolly in a chair – "you will find it very cold here in this horrid little room."
"I shall go to Uncle Loftus early to-morrow morning and tell him everything from first to last. I have been wrong to conceal it all this time, and I mean now to tell Uncle Loftus everything. If father were alive, he would be told; and Uncle Loftus is our guardian, and has been very kind to you."
"Kind! nonsense," Raymond said. "I don't see his kindness."
"Well, Raymond, I shall tell him everything to-morrow – about your debts, and all the trouble you have caused, and – "
"That I stole your necklet, and made a fortune by it. Just like you, to jump at conclusions."
This was grateful, after all that she had done for him. But natures like Raymond's are almost incapable of gratitude.
"Where is my necklet? tell me that, Raymond."
"Well, if you must know, I did take it to Moore's in St. Michael's Green to-day to have it valued. I found mother's keys on her dressing-table, and took a look into the box. You know I asked you about the necklet, and so don't put on that surprised face."
"I shall go to Moore's to-morrow and bring back the necklet," said Salome decidedly; "and I shall tell mother about it. It is only fair and right. Suspicion has fallen on the Pryors, and I must do it. I know I am right," she said confidently. "I shall get up very early to-morrow and go down into Harstone."
"What stuff! I will bring the thing back. Moore won't give it up to you; besides, the shops are not open till past eight. Don't be foolish, Salome."
"Raymond," she said, "please listen to me, and make a full confession of everything to mother and Uncle Loftus. Make a new beginning. O Raymond! think of our father – think of bringing dishonour on his name! Dear Raymond," she said, breaking down into tears, "I am so miserable about you; you might be such a comfort to mother and to me, and – "
Raymond was touched at last. He put his arm round his sister and said, —
"Don't cry, Salome. You see a fellow has heaps of things to do with his money that you know nothing of, and – still I will try to get out of Harstone. I shall never do any good in that hateful office. Come, don't cry. I will go down with you to-morrow and get that wretched necklet. I wish I had never heard of it."
She saw she could do no more that night, and left him, to creep into her mother's room, stifling her sobs, after exacting from Raymond a promise to be ready to go down to Harstone with her at half-past seven the next morning.
"I think Raymond's room is very cold," she said, as she lay down on her little bed by her mother, who was sleeping quietly; "I am shivering so. I hope I shall not wake mother."
The shivering was followed by heat and restlessness, and then Salome heard the clock of St. Luke's Church strike twelve, then one – two – three. She could not sleep. About five o'clock the wind began to rise and moan, then splashes of rain came against the window, and the March morning broke in storm and flood. Salome got up noiselessly as soon as it was light, and with eyes heavy from sleeplessness, and a heart heavier with shame and anxiety, dressed, and went softly down the passage to Raymond's room. She was anxious to avoid all observation, and to her great relief Raymond appeared, in answer to her tap at his door, in his ulster.
"It's an awful morning, Salome; you had better let me go alone."
"Oh no, no," she said eagerly.
"Well, it is so early; and look how it is pouring cats and dogs! We had better give up such a wild-goose chase. I'll bring back the thing all right. Can't you trust me?"
"No; I can't, I can't," said Salome. "Besides, mother will begin to examine the Pryors and Stevens, and that will only make it worse for every one. Make haste, Raymond. I hear Stevens. Do come!"
In another moment they were out in the wild, stormy morning. Could it be the same world, Salome felt ready to ask herself – the smiling, sunny world of yesterday, when she had set out so happily to Edinburgh Crescent? Then her head ached dreadfully, and her back too, and her cheeks were hot. It was almost a relief to feel the cold drops of rain which came against them every time a great blast came and hurled her umbrella on one side.
"The trams will be running when we come back," Raymond said. "Had not you better go back, Sal? It is making such a fuss; and you will get cold."
Salome only said, "I must come with you," and struggled on.
It was past eight when they reached Mr. Moore's shop. The shutters were taken down, and the shop was being dusted and swept.
Mr. Moore was an old-fashioned tradesman, but of good repute; and though his shop was small, he dealt only in the very best jewellery and plate. A young man with light hair was behind the counter, and looked with surprise at these early customers as Raymond advanced to the counter, all dripping as he was, with the little shivering figure by his side.
"I left a case here yesterday. I want to take it away again. Where is Mr. Moore?"
"Mr. Moore is not come into town yet," said the young man. "He will not be here till ten o'clock."
"You can let me have the necklet, I suppose? Old gold filigree, set in emeralds. I left it here to be valued."
The young man went to a book, and ran his finger down the last page – "'Mr. Stephens – necklet, set with emeralds.' – Yes; here it is."
"That is not right," said Salome. "That can't be yours."
"Be quiet," said Raymond, in an angry whisper. – "Yes; that is it. I will take it, if you please."
There was still a little hesitation in the man's manner. "Mr. Stephens – is that right?" There was a scarcely perceptible glance at Salome as he spoke.
He produced the case, and opening it, said, "They are very fine emeralds. The value would be from sixty to eighty pounds."
Raymond took the case up, closed the spring, and, saying "Good morning," was leaving the shop; but the shopman followed him.
"I think it would be more satisfactory, sir, if you signed your name in this book, and address."
Raymond was perplexed for a moment, but only for a moment.
"The necklet is this young lady's property," he said. – "Sign your name, Salome."
The girl took the pen into her trembling fingers and wrote: – "Salome Mary Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, near Harstone."
"A relation of Dr. Wilton's, I presume?"
"Yes," said Salome. "Dr. Wilton is my uncle."
The man's manner became instantly very respectful.
"It is a very wet morning, Miss Wilton. Shall I call a cab?"
"Oh no, no, thank you," Salome said, hurrying away. But Raymond was frightened at her pale face; it haunted him for many and many a day.
"Yes; we must take a cab. You can't possibly walk back."
"The tram," Salome said, – "the tram; it will be cheaper."
She was very wet, and shivering perceptibly.
At last the corner was reached from whence the tram started. Raymond was thankful to put his sister into the tram; and if ever he repented what he had done, it was at that moment.
"O Raymond, Raymond! how could you say your name was Stephens?"
Raymond felt ashamed of himself as those pure, truthful eyes met his.
"My name is Stephen, isn't it, Salome? Don't make me out worse than I am. I am awfully sorry, and I shall go and see Uncle Loftus for your sake. O Sal, I hope you have not got cold, you look so horridly white."
Poor Salome struggled to keep calm; and was received by Stevens at the door with exclamations of angry surprise, —
"Going out in a storm like this, getting your death of cold! I have no sort of patience with you, that I haven't."
"Oh! don't, don't scold me, Stevens. It is all right now;" and running upstairs, she went into her mother's room, laid the case on the table, and said, "There is the necklet; it was not stolen – it was not. Put it back in the box; and, dear mother, will you please say no more till – "
The sentence was unfinished, and poor Salome fell forward on the bed where her mother was lying – fainting, for the first time in her life. Her mother rang the bell, and Stevens came hurrying in, raised her head, and took off her wet cloak, and her hat, which loosened all the thick masses of hair falling over her like a cloud.
"What is it? What can be the matter?" said Mrs. Wilton. "O Stevens, send for Dr. Wilton. Call Reg."
"She is faint with galloping off before breakfast, I don't know what for, I am sure. She is a slave to other people, and that is the truth. It was to please Master Raymond she went out in all the rain and storm, you may depend."
Salome soon recovered consciousness, and looking up at her mother's anxious face, which was bending over her, she said, —
"I think it will all come right now, mother; I do indeed. Put the necklet away, and Ray will tell you all about it. I wish – I wish I did not feel so giddy," she said, as she tried to rise.
"Don't try to get up, my darling – my dear child," her mother said. "O Salome! what should I do without you? Stevens is gone for a cup of hot coffee, and you must lie still."
"Put the necklet back into the dressing-case, mother," Salome repeated. "No one but you and I need ever know. Is it not odd I tremble so? I suppose I must lie quiet to-day."
They undressed her and put her to bed; and there, at twelve o'clock, her uncle found her – with her temperature very high, her head aching, and every sign of coming illness, of what nature Dr. Wilton could not then determine.
