Salome Part 24

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 Sat.u.r.day," 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 pa.s.ses 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 gla.s.s dish of jam, a pile of hot cakes and--a departure from the usual order--of Dorset b.u.t.ter. Fresh white b.u.t.ter 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!