Salome Part 17

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 a.s.sociation 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 cla.s.s 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. G.o.d 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 th.o.r.n.y--let him choose the rough one, and in spite of p.r.i.c.ks 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 p.r.i.c.king 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 G.o.d. 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.r.a.pe 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.