ARRIVALS.
"I shall be so glad to drive you home, my dear," Lady Monroe said, as
Salome seated herself in the carriage. "I have the pleasure of knowing
your mother; and Eva and I spent a very pleasant day at Maplestone last
year, when I renewed an old acquaintance. How long have you been in
Roxburgh? I wish Dr. Wilton had told me you were here."
"We only came the other day," Salome said; "indeed, mother and the
children are not here yet. We expect them at five o'clock, and that is
why I am so anxious to get back. We have lodgings at Elm Fields."
"You must direct us when we get nearer the place. Have you been spending
the day at your uncle's?"
"Reginald and I met Kate and Digby on the down, and we went back to
dinner. I have not seen Aunt Anna yet. Uncle Loftus came to see me."
Then fearing she might have left a wrong impression she added--
"Uncle Loftus is very kind to us."
"He is kind to everybody," said Eva Monroe earnestly. "He is the best
doctor in the world--except for sending me to Cannes for the winter."
"He has done that for the best, Eva;" and Lady Monroe sighed. "It only
shows how conscientious he is."
Salome was becoming nervous about the right turn to Elm Cottage; and her
wrong glove began to worry her as she looked at Eva Monroe's slender
fingers in their neatly-shaped four-button black kid gloves.
"It is up there, I think," Salome said. "Yes; I know it is." Then, as
the crimson rushed into her face, she said, "Elm Cottage is at the end
of this road, next to a baker's shop."
"It is a pleasant, airy situation," Lady Monroe said. "You must tell
your mother I shall call upon her very soon; and perhaps she will let me
take her for a drive."
"Oh! it is near St. Luke's Church, mamma--Mr. Atherton's church. Why, it
is the very house the Athertons lodged in till the vicarage was ready."
"So it is. You will find the Athertons pleasant neighbours," Lady Monroe
said. "They will be nice friends for you, I hope; and the church is a
very nice one. I daresay Mr. Atherton will be glad of your help in the
Sunday school."
The carriage drew up as she was speaking, and the footman looked down
from his seat doubtfully.
"Yes; this is right," said Lady Monroe. "Good-bye, my dear. I am so glad
I met you."
"A sweet, gentle girl," Lady Monroe said, as Salome, having expressed
her thanks, disappeared behind the little wooden gate. "It is very sad
for them all. What a change from that lovely place, Maplestone Court,
where I saw poor Emily Wilton last year!"
"Yes," said Eva; "to lose their father and money and position."
"Not position, Eva. A gentlewoman can never really lose position in the
eyes of right-thinking people. I feel a great interest in the Wiltons;
for their mother is, I should think, but little fitted to struggle with
adversity; she was never strong."
"I wish we were not going to Cannes, mother, and then we could often go
and see them. Oh! I do _not_ want to go away; my cough is quite well. It
is so hard to go. Think how tired we were of the life there last year."
And a cloud of discontent came over the fair face of the delicately
nurtured girl, who had all that loving care could suggest to brighten
her life and soften the privations which delicate health brings with it
to the young.
It must strike us all, old and young, when we look round upon the lives
of others, that there is a crook in every lot, and that God will have us
all learn the lesson of "patience,"--patience which can make the crooked
places straight and the rough places smooth.
Salome found Stevens had set out tea on a little table in the
dining-room. The tea-pot had a cosy over it; and a plate of thin bread
and butter, cut from one of Ruth's fancy loaves, looked inviting.
"This is the mistress's time for afternoon tea," Stevens said. "She
could not sit down to a table at this time, just off a journey too. I
have got some buns for the children. Now, Miss Salome, do go and get
yourself tidy, to look home-like. Where are the young gentlemen? Master
Reginald went out with you."
"I expect they are both gone down to the station. Reg and I have been to
dinner at Uncle Loftus's. Oh! here is the carriage. Here are mother and
Ada!"
Salome went swiftly out to meet her mother and sister, and tried to
greet them with a smile. "Mother," she exclaimed; "I am so glad you have
come."
Mrs. Wilton made an effort to respond to Salome cheerfully; but Ada did
not even try to smile.
"Now, then," said Dr. Wilton, "I must not stay. Reginald is walking up
with the little boys and my Digby. The luggage will follow in the
omnibus."
"Won't you have a cup of tea, Uncle Loftus?" said Salome. "We have it
all ready."
"No, thanks, my dear, I cannot stay. I have a consultation at half-past
five. Really you have made the best of this room; it looks quite pretty;
and it is quiet here. I hope you will be comfortable."
While he was speaking, Mrs. Pryor appeared, with a courtesy so profound
that Dr. Wilton had to hurry away to hide a smile.
"I hope I see you well, ma'am," said Mrs. Pryor; "and I hope, I am sure,
you will mention anything I can do for you, and I will try in my poor
way to do it. It's a world of trouble, ma'am, and you have had your
share, as I have had mine; and I know how hard it must be for you,
ma'am, in the evening of your days, to have a change like this--from
riches to--"
"Here are the little ones," exclaimed Salome, as the sound of the
children's voices was heard in the porch.
Hans and Carl were in the highest spirits. They had chattered all the
way from the station, and were ready to be pleased with everything.
They brought with them a relic of the old home, in the person of a
little white fluffy dog, named Puck, which came bustling in at their
heels, flying up at every one in expectation of a welcome, and
regardless of Salome's--
"Mother, what will Mrs. Pryor say to a dog? I thought Puck was to be
given to the De Brettes."
"The children begged so hard to bring him," Mrs. Wilton said. "Puck is a
dog no one can object to."
Salome looked doubtful, and said--
"I am sure Mrs. Pryor won't let him get on the chairs," as Puck seated
himself on one of them. "Get down, Puck."
"I thought it was a mistake to bring Puck," Ada said; "but the children
would have their own way."
"He is a very well-behaved dog in general," said Stevens, anxious to
make peace and avoid discussion with Mrs. Pryor; "and if he forgets his
manners, we must teach him, that is all."
"Where is the nursery?" Carl asked, "and the school-room? Are we to have
tea there?"
"You shall all have tea together this evening," Stevens said; "but I
will show you your room, my dears. Come upstairs."
"Where is Raymond?" Mrs. Wilton asked.
"Raymond!" exclaimed Salome. "He said he would go to the station. Did
you not see him?"
"No," Reginald said. "Digby Wilton and I walked down together from the
cricket match. Digby is not so bad after all."
"I think him very nice, and I like Kate. I had quite an adventure,
mamma. Lady Monroe, who says she knew you years and years ago, brought
me from Edinburgh Crescent in her carriage, and was so kind. Do you
remember her, mother? She came to Maplestone last year."
Poor Mrs. Wilton, who had been trying to keep back her tears, found the
very mention of her old home too much at this moment. A sob was the only
answer; and Ada said--
"Mamma had better go and take off her things and rest a little. Show us
the way, Salome." Reginald followed, and tried not to be disappointed
that his mother did not notice the book-shelves and several little
contrivances in her room. And Salome wished Ada would not say, "How
dreadfully small the house is; and how this huge ugly bed fills up the
room,"--the four-post bed which was Mrs. Pryor's glory.
She had come up behind the party, and hearing her most valued possession
thus slighted, took her revenge forthwith.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am; I don't wish to intrude; but I do not take
_dawgs_. No dawgs or cats are allowed in _my_ house. I don't take
_children_ as a rule--never; but a dawg I cannot put up with. It would
wear my spirits out. I hope," looking round, "you are _satisfied_,
ma'am!"
"Oh, it is all very clean and neat, thank you," Mrs. Wilton faltered
out; "it will do very nicely, and--and I will see about Puck: if he is
troublesome, he must be sent away."
Alas! the very spirit of mischief, whose name he bore, seemed to have
suddenly possessed Puck. A great bustling and low growling was heard on
the staircase, and Hans and Carl laughing and saying, "At it, Puck--good
Puck." In another moment Puck appeared shaking something soft
frantically, and tearing wildly about with it in his mouth, letting off
the spirits which had been pent up on his journey from Fairchester.
"What has he got? Take it from him, children.--What is it, Salome?"
"It's a bird, I think.--Puck, put it down," said Reginald sternly,
seizing Puck by his fluffy tail, and administering several hard slaps.
[Illustration: "'It's a bird, I think.--Puck, put it down!'" _Page
113._]
When at last Puck dropped his prey, Mrs. Pryor exclaimed, "My feather
brush--my dear, dear mistress's feather brush! I've seen her dust her
own chayny with it _times_. I wouldn't have taken a pound for it. Oh
dear! oh dear!"
"It is not much injured, I hope," said Mrs. Wilton. "Only two feathers
have been loosened."
"A nasty, mischievous little thing," said Mrs. Pryor in an injured tone,
making a thrust at Puck with the short handle of the feather brush.
It was not in dog nature to take this patiently, and Puck stood at bay,
barking furiously, and growling as an interlude between every fresh
outburst.
Mrs. Pryor put her hands to her ears, and saying something about calling
her son to protect her, she toddled away. After a storm comes a calm.
Puck stood apologetically on his hind legs when his enemy was gone; and
Carl, seizing him in his arms, carried him off to the little room he was
to occupy with Hans, saying, "That horrid old woman should not touch
him."
Like the sun shining through a cloud was the appearance of Ruth's
good-natured face.
"I will manage it all," she said to Stevens. "If mother makes a great
fuss, why, I'll take the little creature to live with us. _I_ am not so
particular or fidgety. Don't take any notice of what mother may say; she
means well."
Alas! how many people "mean well," and how much better it would be if
they made their meaning clear. Their good intentions are often like a
riddle, hard to find out. If the intention is good, it is a pity that it
is not better fulfilled. People who say they mean well are, I am afraid,
often very disagreeable, and do not make the lives of others easier by
their "good meaning."
The evening passed. Tea was over. The "little ones" were in bed. Stevens
was sitting at supper with Mrs. Pryor when Raymond rang the bell.
"Where have you been, Raymond?" Salome said, going out to meet her
brother. "Why did you not go to the station to meet mamma?"
"Why didn't I go?--there were plenty without me," he said crossly. "I
have been with Barington; I met him in Roxburgh, and I was thankful to
get out of this hole."
"Raymond, don't say that to mamma," Salome entreated.
"Well, my dear boy," Mrs. Wilton said, rising wearily from her chair as
Raymond went into the room, "I was getting quite anxious about you;" and
then she kissed him affectionately.
"I met an old friend--Barington," Raymond said; "and I knew Reginald
would meet you.--Hallo, Ada, how are you? Barington wanted to come
to-morrow to see you. He admires your photograph so much; but I could
not let him see us here, so I put him off."
Ada looked up with a placid smile from her work--for Ada was never idle
for a moment--and said, "Who is Barington?"
"Oh, an awfully nice fellow!--I say, mother, you won't stay here, will
you? No decent people will call upon you. I can easily find you some
nice lodgings Barington told me of."
"My dear boy, we must stay here for the present. It is quiet and better
than living in a street. Will you have any tea, Raymond?" she asked.
"No, thanks; I have dined with Barington at the Queen's. He paid the
score."
Raymond had a soft, caressing way with his mother, and she now sat with
her hand in his, looking at him with loving interest.
"I can't bear you to live in a place like this," he began again, "you
dear mother. I am sure there are heaps of good lodgings in the better
part of Roxburgh, only our kind relatives did not wish to have us too
near them."
"Nonsense, Raymond," Salome broke in.
"Well, never mind about that, dear. Uncle Loftus has, he thinks, heard
of something for you in Harstone. You are to go and see Mr. Warde with
him to-morrow at ten o'clock punctually."
"Uncle Loftus won't like to be kept waiting, so you must be up in good
time to be at Edinburgh Crescent by ten o'clock, Digby says."
"Shut up, Reginald," said his brother; "I do not want your
interference."
"What is to be done about old Birch, mother?" he asked turning again to
Mrs. Wilton; "he ought to have a term's notice. I thought I could go
back till Christmas."
"Oh no, Raymond; I am afraid that is impossible. My dear boy, it is such
pain to me--to--to--"
Mrs. Wilton was in tears again, and Salome murmured, "How can you be so
selfish, Raymond?" while Reginald, unable to control his indignation,
went out of the room, shutting the door with a sharp bang.
"Oh, well, mother, I'll go to this Mr. Warde's, of course, and I daresay
they will give me a good salary, and then I will get you some other
lodgings the very first thing; see if I don't. I am not going to allow
you to be shelved off here; and Ada! I daresay these Edinburgh Crescent
people are jealous of her. There is not one of them half as
good-looking."
"Oh, why did Ada smile and look pleased? Why did Raymond always get
undeserved praise?" Salome thought. For Mrs. Wilton said, "It is very
good and dear of you to think about us, Ray; I only hope you will be
happy. My children's happiness is now the only thing I have to live
for."
Salome bit her lip, as she listened to her brother for the next ten
minutes, standing now with his back to the chimney-piece surveying the
room, and interspersing his remarks on it, which were anything but
complimentary, with stories of "Barington," and a fellow who had dined
with them at "The Queen's."
"Shall we have prayers, mother?" Salome said at last. "You must be very
tired, and--"
"Prayers! oh, not to-night, Sal; besides, who is to read them?" said
Raymond.
Salome faltered a little as she said, "We can read a Psalm for the
Evening in turn, and perhaps mother will say a prayer."
"Yes," Mrs. Wilton said; "you are quite right, dear. Call Reg and
Stevens, and bring me my large prayer-book, for my eyes are so weak. I
am in the evening of life, as Mrs. Pryor told me," she added with a sad
smile; "and the last month has added ten years to my age."
"Why, mother, you look so young," said Ada. "I do dislike Mrs. Pryor
talking in that whiny-piny voice; and how disagreeable she was about
Puck."
Salome, who had gone to fetch the books, now returned with Stevens and
Reginald, whom she had coaxed to come back. Then she found the places in
the books, and the young voices read together the Psalm for the Seventh
Evening. It seemed to bring its message of peace to the young, untried
heart of the eldest daughter of those fatherless children.
"Fret not thyself because of the ungodly.... Put thou thy trust in the
Lord, and be doing good: dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be
fed. _Delight_ thou in the Lord: and he shall give thee thy heart's
desire."
"I will try to delight myself--that means, be cheerful and patient,"
Salome thought. "I must take care not to be too hard on Raymond, as if I
thought myself better than he. But I feel as if it would be a _fight_
now, and as if I should never be able to forget the troubles quite. I
must set myself to be patient and cure my own faults, and be as happy as
I can, that mother may see we are all trying to help her, and that we
_like_ to help her. How far, far worse it is for her than for any of
us."
Thoughts like these were in Salome's heart as she lay down to sleep that
night, and there was a shining as it were from the "delight in the Lord"
upon her young, sweet face, as her mother, weary, yet sleepless, took
her candle and went to look at her children as of old in the spacious
nurseries of Maplestone. The little boys lay in the profoundest
slumber, and the mother's heart yearned over them with unspeakable
tenderness. But as she left them and gently opened the door of the
girls' room, and stood by the bed where the sisters slept, she felt as
if the story of the last few weeks had left its trace on Salome's face.
The expression was changed, and though bright and sweet, it was the face
of the woman rather than of the child. Salome had entered the school
where God takes the text and preaches patience.