Salome Part 28

"Come and have a pipe and a gla.s.s of brandy and soda. You look awfully down in the mouth, Wilton."

But Raymond pa.s.sed on, saying, "Not to-day, thanks."

"Oh, I say, are you in a great sc.r.a.pe? Don't be sulky, old fellow. Come along."

"No," Raymond said more decidedly; "my sister is very ill, and I am going home."

"Sister--which sister? the pretty one at Cannes?"

"No; my eldest sister. This is my way," he said, glad to escape from what was, now at least, most uncongenial company.

When he reached Elm Cottage, Stevens met him.

"She is herself now, and she keeps asking for you."

"I can't see her; it will kill me."

"Don't talk like that, Master Raymond. Go to the dear lamb at once; she is asking for you every minute."

Ah, what a sore pain is remorse! Raymond Wilton will never forget the sight of his sister as she lay before him, her hair--that beautiful, luxuriant hair--all gone, her large, pathetic, wistful eyes turned to him as he came in.

"Raymond, dear Raymond," she whispered, "I wanted to tell you how I love you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Raymond,' whispered Salome, 'I wanted to tell you how much I love you.'" _Page 230._]

He expected to hear something very different to this,--entreaty to be good; to begin life afresh; to give up all his selfish indulgence. But no; Salome had not strength for this; she could repeat only,--

"Dear Raymond, I love you; and the Lord Jesus loves you, and is quite ready to forgive all. Please ask him. Kiss me, Raymond, and let me see you kiss mother."

He obeyed; and then, as he held his poor mother in a close embrace, Salome whispered,--

"I am happy now. Good-bye, Raymond; I can't talk any more."

Who shall say what this love of the stricken child did for the wayward, sinning brother? It seemed to him the very reflection of the highest and greatest love of the all-loving One who loved _all_ unto death.

Raymond slowly left the room, walked as if in a dream to the silent, deserted sitting-room, and with sobs and tears prayed for forgiveness to Him who is ever pitiful and full of mercy--who welcomes back the wanderer with the fulness of forgiveness, seeing him even while yet a great way off, and _coming out to meet him_. I think He went forth to meet the poor sinful boy in the quiet of the spring evening; and He will lead him, blind as he is, by a way that he knows not.

Patient continuance in well-doing: how sure is the reward. If it tarry, wait for it. If the hope is deferred, and the heart sick, yet shall the faithful and patient ones know at last that the granted desire is as the tree of life.

CHAPTER XVII.

A DREAM.

Summer was in its first fresh beauty, and lilacs and hawthorns were filling the air with their fragrance. Laburnums waved their golden ta.s.sels in the soft breeze, and the blue skies of early June were like those which Lady Monroe said they had left behind them in the Riviera.

She had returned with Eva and Ada; and Mrs. Wilton had the pleasure of hearing from her that the plan had fully answered. Ada had been everything that Eva wanted as a companion, and Lady Monroe begged to keep her for the present till Salome was quite well again.

Dear little Salome! She had struggled through fever and pain, and was lying on this lovely afternoon by the open window of the little sitting-room at Elm Cottage,--a pale, faint, shadow-like Salome indeed, but with returning light in her beautiful eyes and a tinge of colour on her cheeks. Her legs were as yet all but useless; the cruel rheumatism had attacked them with terrible force; but it was easy for Stevens and Ruth to carry that little light figure downstairs, and every day now she came into the sitting-room, which was filled with flowers brought continually from Lady Monroe's conservatory by Eva and Ada.

On this particular June afternoon Salome was alone. Her mother had gone for a drive with Lady Monroe and Eva, while Ada was spending the day with Louise and Kate Wilton. Hans and Carl were now sent to a school for little boys in the neighbourhood, and were on this afternoon gone to watch the cricket at the college ground, where Reginald was distinguishing himself and proving himself worthy of his Rugby training.

Salome was very happy; a sweet, peaceful calm seemed to surround her.

Everything was so lovely; that little piece of sky above the laburnum at the gate, how beautiful she thought it was; and how kind of Ruth Pryor to bring in such a dainty little afternoon tea. Even Mrs. Pryor tried to look a little more cheerful to suit the summer radiance, and did not shake her head and sigh as she came in to see if the sun was shining on the carpet; but when Salome said, "I love the sunshine, Mrs. Pryor," she forbore to shut it out, and only laid down a sheet of the _Daily News_ on the particular place on the floor where the sun lay.

Mrs. Pryor had just completed this arrangement when a knock at the door made her toddle off to open it. In another minute she returned.

"Here is a gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Wilton."

"Mr. Atherton? oh! ask him to come in."

"No, Miss Wilton, it's not Mr. Atherton. He has been here often enough, I should have shown him in; but this is the gentleman who, regular as clock-work, all the time you were so bad, came at half-past eight every morning, and walked down to Harstone with Mr. Raymond, and always the last thing at night would come to the shop and hear how you was."

Salome in vain tried to stop Mrs. Pryor's long speech. Mrs. Pryor was, when once unwound, like an alarum, obliged to run off.

"It must be Mr. Percival. Yes; ask him to come in, Mrs. Pryor, please."

Salome had another moment's suspense, and then Philip Percival came in, quietly and to all appearance unconcerned, though his heart was beating so that he could almost hear it, and his emotion at the sight of that sweet pale face and large wistful eyes turned up to him was hard to conceal.

"I am so glad to see you downstairs, Miss Wilton," he began; "so very glad."

"I daresay you hardly know me," she said with a smile. "I have cut all my hair, and Mrs. Pryor says I look like a starved robin. But I am getting well now, and Uncle Loftus says I shall be able to walk soon, though my legs are still very stiff."

"I have brought you a book," Philip Percival said. "I thought I should like to give it to you myself." And he unfastened a neat parcel, and displayed a pretty book in a red and gilt cover.

"Thank you," Salome said. "What is the t.i.tle? 'Under the Cedars, by S.

M. W.' My book! Oh, I don't understand. How has it been done?"

"When you were ill--very ill--last March, I happened to be here when the first sheets came from the publishers. Your brothers could not correct them, and as I have had a little experience with printers, I asked leave to possess myself of them. I told Mr. Darte you were ill, and unable to attend to them yourself, and that I was to act for you. I hope you do not mind," he said half anxiously.

"Mind! Oh, I am so grateful to you. It _is_ a pretty book outside!" she exclaimed with almost childish delight.

"It is prettier inside than outside," Philip Percival said. "I feel as if all the children were my particular friends; and as to the cedars, I have sat under them, and know the two ring-doves that come and sing their song to little Pamela."

"Oh, you can't think how glad I am you like my book; and--has Mr. Darte sent the money? because you know it is _yours_, and I hope when I get well to write another story better than this, and you shall have the rest of the money then if you _can_ wait."

Philip Percival felt a choking sensation in his throat, and he could not speak. And Salome, her face flushing rosy red, went on,--

"I know it is a great deal to ask, and you have been so good and kind to Raymond. He says, if ever he is worth anything it will be your doing."

"_Yours_ rather, I should say," Philip murmured.

"I feel as if I could never, never repay you for all you have done,"

Salome went on; "but you know I am grateful. We are all of us so grateful to you. Raymond is quite different since he had you for a friend, and he will do well now, I think."

"I had something to say about Raymond. I am not tiring you, am I?" he asked anxiously, for the bright colour had left her face and she laid her head back on the cushions.

"No, oh no; only pleasure is somehow as hard to bear as pain, in a different way. I have so longed for the day when I could show mother and the boys my book, and here it is. Only Reginald knew about it, and since I have been better I have asked him if he had heard anything of the publisher, and he has always said it was all right, he thought, and the book would come out one day. He did not tell me _you_ had done all this for me."