A JOURNEY.
That last week at Maplestone was like a hurried dream to all the
children, who had known no other home. Their neighbours and friends were
very kind and full of sympathy, and Mrs. Wilton and the little boys were
invited to spend the last two days with the De Brettes, who lived near,
and it was arranged that they should stay there with Ada; and that
Salome, and Stevens, and the two elder boys should precede them to
Roxburgh. Miss Barnes had said she would come with them for a day or two
to help them to arrange the rooms, and prepare everything for Mrs.
Wilton; but she was called away to the sick-bed of her own mother, and
Stevens and Salome went with Raymond and Reginald alone. The beautiful
summer seemed over, and it was in a chill drizzling rain that Salome
looked her last at Maplestone. She did not cry as the fly, laden with
boxes, rumbled slowly down the drive. Stevens sobbed aloud, and Raymond
and Reginald kept their heads well out of each window; but Salome sat
pale and tearless. The coachman's wife at the lodge stood with her
children round her at the large gate, and curtseyed; but she hid her
face in her apron, and cried bitterly. The gardener had preceded them
with the cart to the station, and the boxes were all labelled before the
party in the fly arrived.
[Illustration: "The coachman's wife hid her face in her apron, and cried
bitterly." _Page 66._]
"Shall I take the tickets?" Raymond asked.
"Yes; let Master Raymond take them," exclaimed Stevens.
Salome had the purse intrusted to her by her mother to pay expenses.
"It is better you should begin your responsibilities," her mother had
said sadly; "and Stevens will have so much to attend to."
Salome opened the purse and gave Raymond a sovereign.
"Another," he said, waiting.
"That is enough. Four tickets, third class."
"Third class. _I_ am not going to travel third class, I assure you."
"We must, Raymond; we _must_," said Salome. "Raymond!"
But Raymond was gone, and Salome stood laden with small parcels, while
poor Stevens was counting over the boxes.
The gardener had a beautiful basket of flowers ready, and had filled a
hamper with the best fruit and vegetables from the Maplestone gardens.
"I have put up a melon, Miss Wilton, and a lot of grapes. Mind how the
hamper is unpacked. You'll still have some more flowers soon, for I
shall be coming up to Roxburgh."
"Perhaps we had better not, thank you, Thomas. They are not ours now,
you know--nothing is ours;" and, as often happens, the sound of her own
voice as she gave utterance to the sad truth was too much for her. She
put her little hand into Thomas's, and said in a broken voice, "Here
comes the train! Good-bye, Thomas; good-bye."
At this moment Reginald, who had been doing his utmost to help poor
Stevens, came up.
"Now, dear Salome, make haste. Here's an empty carriage."
"Third class? Here you are. How many seats?" said a porter.
"_This_ way, do you hear?" Raymond called. "This way. Stevens is to go
there, and you must come with me. I've got the tickets."
"Hallo, Wilton!" said a pleasant voice, "where are you off to?"
"I am going to Roxburgh with my sister," said Raymond. "My sister--Mr.
Henry St. Clair," said Raymond grandly. "Get in, Salome, or you will be
left behind."
Raymond's friend took some parcels out of Salome's hand, and courteously
helped her into the carriage, putting the umbrellas and cloaks up in the
rack behind the seat, and settling the little parcels for her.
As the guard came to shut the door with the usual words, "Any more going
on?" Raymond said, "Where's Reginald?" and, putting his head out, he
called, "Hallo, Reginald; you'll be left behind."
"I am going with Stevens, third class," was the answer.
Raymond's brow grew dark, and he muttered something between his teeth.
"What an idiot! I've got his ticket."
Salome, who had great difficulty in repressing the tears which the
good-bye to Thomas had brought in a shower, said bravely, "We ought all
to have gone with Stevens, Raymond."
Raymond turned away, hoping his friend would not hear, and then the two
boys began to talk about Eton matters, and Salome was left to her own
sad meditations. She could not help, however, hearing some of the
conversation, and her surprise was unbounded when she heard Raymond say
his return to Eton was uncertain, for since the "governor's" death
their plans were all unsettled. They might go abroad for the winter; at
present they had taken a house near Roxburgh!
Oh, how could Raymond talk like that? and what would become of him?
Ashamed to go third class! ashamed to say they were poor! Oh, if only
Reginald had been the eldest brother, what a difference it would have
made.
Raymond got out at the junction, where they had to wait for the
up-train, to smoke a cigar. His friend did not accompany him, and he and
Salome were left together. With ready tact he saw that she would prefer
silence to conversation, and he only asked her if she would like the
window quite closed, as it was so damp, picked up a flower which had
fallen from Thomas's basket, and then unfolded a newspaper.
The next minute a young man looked in at the window and said, "I thought
I saw you at Fairchester. How are you, old fellow?"
"All right. Where are you bound for?"
"I am going down into Cornwall till term begins. I say, there's Wilton!
As much side on as ever, I suppose. Bragging as usual, eh?"
Henry St. Clair tried to make it evident by a sign that remarks about
Raymond were to be stopped.
"Never was such a fellow for brag. I have been staying near
Fairchester, and I heard the other day that the whole family were left
without a farthing and heaps of debts. Is it true?"
"I don't know," said Henry St. Clair. "Have you seen Barnard lately?"
"No. What makes you ask? I say, St. Clair, what's up?"
"The _up_-train. Now we are off. Here comes Wilton."
Raymond came sauntering up, and knocking the ashes from his cigar, threw
it away.
"You extravagant fellow!" St. Clair exclaimed.
"Well, I can't smoke here, can I?"
"You ought not to smoke at all, according to Eton rules," exclaimed the
other boy, as he ran away to take his place in another part of the
train.
"Where did Harrington come from?"
"He has been staying near Fairchester, he says," St. Clair replied
carelessly, and then he began to read his paper.
"Near Fairchester!" thought Raymond; "then he will have heard all about
us. Whom can he have been staying with, I wonder? How stupid Salome is
sitting there like a dummy when she might talk, as she can talk
sometimes, and be agreeable. One can't go about the world airing one's
pauperism; it's such nonsense."
The rest of the journey passed without much conversation. The Wiltons
were to get out at a small station where there was a junction of two
miles to Roxburgh. Henry St. Clair was going on to Harstone. He helped
Salome, and even said to Raymond, "Here, take your sister's bag and
umbrella, Wilton."
Reginald and Stevens were behind at the van watching the piles of boxes
turned out, and Stevens was nervously counting them.
Henry St. Clair bid Salome a pleasant good-bye, and she felt his kind
attentions in contrast to Raymond's indifference.
"What a nice little thing that sister of Wilton's is!" Henry St. Clair
thought, as the train moved off and he caught sight of Salome's slight
figure standing by Stevens and the luggage which was to be carried
across to another platform for the Roxburgh train. "A nice little thing!
And what a selfish brute Wilton is; such a cad, too, with his big
talk--while she is so different. I wonder whether it is true what
Harrington has heard. I will ask Barnard. He comes from those parts, and
is sure to know. I'll ask him."
The drizzling rain had turned into a regular down-pour, when at last
Stevens and her boxes were safely stowed away in the omnibus, and Salome
and her brothers filled a cab, with small parcels, baskets, and rugs at
the Roxburgh station.
"Where shall I drive, sir?" asked the cabman as he prepared to mount to
his seat.
"What's the name of the house?" said Raymond. "Salome, where are we to
drive?"
"I--I--don't quite know," said poor Salome. "How stupid of
me!--Reginald, can you remember?"
"It's by a church, and the name is Friar, or Pryor, or--"
"There's a lot of churches," said the cabman; "and this ain't exactly
the weather to stand here while you put on your considering cap, with
the water pouring off one's hat enough to blind one."
"It's St. Luke's Church. Yes, I am sure it's close to St. Luke's,"
Salome exclaimed. "But Stevens will know--our nurse, who is in the
omnibus."
"You want a nurse, you do," said the cabman, "to guide you? Come now, I
can't wait here all night."
And now a shout was heard from the omnibus.
"The old lady wants to speak to you," said the conductor. And Salome,
looking out at the cab window, saw Stevens frantically making signals
and trying to make her voice reach the cab.
"Oh, Stevens knows, Stevens knows the address," and before more could be
said, Reginald had jumped out and was soon climbing the steps of the
omnibus to hear what Stevens said. He was back in a minute drenched
with rain, and saying,--
"Close to St. Luke's Church--Elm Fields--Elm Cottage--Mrs. Pryor."
"All right," said the cabman. "I know--Pryor the baker; I pass down by
there from Whitelands often enough." Then he climbed to his seat, the
rain still falling in one continuous rush, and they were off.
"How idiotic of you, Salome, not to know the address," said Raymond;
"and I do wish you would keep your hair tight. Look here!" And he gave
one of the thick plaits a somewhat rough pull as it lay like a line of
light upon Salome's black jacket. "I saw St. Clair looking at it. You
didn't take in who he was."
"Some Eton swell, I suppose," said Reginald.
"I thought he was very nice and kind," said Salome.
"Nice and kind! He is Lord Felthorpe's son, and in the same house as I
am at Eton. Old Birch always manages to get the right sort of fellows!
How could you be such an ass, Reginald, as to travel third class when I
had taken a first class ticket for you?"
"We ought all to have travelled third class," said Reginald stoutly.
"Mother said second; but there is no second on the Midland Railway, so I
went third."
"Well, just as you please," said Raymond. "I say, what a neighbourhood
this is! not a good house to be seen," and he wiped the window of the
cab with his coat-sleeve.
Salome looked out from her window also.
"I don't remember this part of Roxburgh. It cannot be near Uncle
Loftus's house, I think."
"Oh no," said Reginald; "that is the swell part--Edinburgh Crescent and
Maniston Square and the Quadrant. This is more like a part of Harstone.
Hallo!"
The cab had stopped at last.
"What are we stopping for?" exclaimed Salome.
"I expect this is the place," said Reginald, "for there is a baker's
shop, and Pryor over it."
"Nonsense," said Raymond. But the cabman got down and tapped at the
blurred glass, signing to Raymond to let it down, and saying, "Now then,
sir, look sharp!"
"This can't be the place,--it's impossible,--it's a mistake."
But now a cheerful voice was heard, and, with a large cotton umbrella
held over her, Ruth appeared.
"It's all right! This way, sir, round by the gate. I am sorry you have
such a day, that I am; it makes everything look so dismal. Frank will
come and help with the luggage."
Salome followed Ruth to the trellised porch, where the clematis was
hanging limp and damp, with drops from every tendril. Just within the
porch stood Mrs. Pryor. Smiles were not in her way at all. She looked as
sad and melancholy as the day, and when the creaking omnibus was heard
coming up the road and stopping at the gate, she held up her hands.
"All those boxes! it's ridic'lous to think of getting 'em in."
"Nonsense, mother; Frank will manage that in no time. There's lots of
room, and a family must have things to use."
"You walk in, miss," said Ruth to Salome; "tea is all set in the
parlour. We thought you would like to have one room kept for meals and
one for company."
"Company! what company! Who would ever come near them in that obscure
quarter of Roxburgh," Salome thought. And now Raymond made it worse by
coming in to declare he should not allow his mother to stay in a hole
like this, and that he should go out and look for lodgings the very next
day. Whoever took them must be mad, and he should not put up with it.
Even Reginald's good temper was tried to the utmost, and he and Raymond
began a fierce wrangle about the cab and omnibus fare; while Stevens,
wet and tired and miserable, sat down on one of her big boxes, and
seemed as if all exertion were over for her.
"I am wore out," she said. "I have not slept for three nights. I am wore
out."
Of course, Mrs. Pryor was too much affronted at Raymond's remarks on her
house--the house, with all the highly-polished furniture, which was at
once her pride and joy--to volunteer any consolation; but quietly
addressing Salome, she said,--
"You have not seen the bed-rooms yet; will you walk up, Miss Wilton?"
Salome followed, saying, as she passed Raymond and Reginald,--
"Please do not say any more. I daresay we shall be very
comfortable.--And do come up with me, Stevens, and see the rooms."
The gentle, sweet voice softened Mrs. Pryor somewhat. Stevens was
pleased to see the bed-rooms neatly furnished, and that not a speck of
dust was to be seen; from these upper windows, too, there would be, on
clear days, a nice open view; and altogether her spirits rose, and she
said "with a few things put here and there she thought she might soon
get a bed-room fit for her mistress."
"I am glad mother did not come with us," said Salome. "It will be all
settled before Monday. If only Raymond would make the best of it."