CONFIDENCES.
Salome did not know what passed between Raymond and her mother, but when
she came up to her room, she heard her speaking cheerfully to Stevens,
who always came to attend on her mistress, as in old days. Salome had
slept in a small iron bedstead in a corner of her mother's room since
Ada had left home, in order that Raymond might have the one she had
shared with her sister to himself. Salome, however, still kept her
property in her old room, and her manuscript and heaps of books and
scribbles were in the drawer there, so that she often went into it.
The next morning Salome got up early, with the intention of posting her
roll and the letter at the nearest Elm Fields post-office before
breakfast. It seemed that Raymond had changed his habits, for Salome met
him ready dressed in the passage, as she softly left her mother's room.
"Where are you off to, Salome?" he asked.
"I was going to post a letter. O Ray, I am so glad you are up early; and
I will get the coffee made directly.--Be quiet, children," she said, as
two little figures came dancing down the passage in their nightgowns.
"Run back and be quiet, or you will wake mamma."
Stevens was busy in the dining-room, where the fire was burning
cheerfully, and the light of the December morning struggling to gain
ascendency over the Harstone fogs.
"Wonders never cease!" exclaimed Stevens. "Master Raymond will be in
time at the office for once!" Stevens spoke with the freedom of an old
servant, and to Salome's surprise her brother did not resent it. He was
quiet and subdued, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts.
"You are never going out in the cold and fog, Miss Salome? What are you
going for?" Stevens asked.
Salome was all this time hoping the manuscript and letter, stuffed in
the pocket of her black ulster, would escape notice.
"I like to warm my feet before breakfast, Stevens. Do go and call
Reginald. He will be late for school. He was so tired last night with
his work."
Stevens was gone at last, and brother and sister were left together.
Salome's heart beat fast. She did so much wish to say the right thing,
and to avoid irritating her brother. She was apparently intent on
watching the boiling of the little "Hecla" which made the coffee, but in
reality she was thinking how she should begin what she longed to say.
She was spared the effort. Raymond suddenly said,--
"I am in a great bother, Salome. I wish you would help me. I--"
"How can I help you, Ray? Oh, I am so sorry for you and for mother! I do
trust Mr. Warde will let you stay at the office."
"Mr. Warde! the arrogant cad--it is not about him I am bothered. Sneak!
to complain of me to my uncle. Why did he not say it to me? It is only
that fellow Browne, the head clerk, has a spite at me!" This was an old
story. In days gone by, Raymond's bad school reports had always been
"the result of spite." "But, Salome," he went on, "you know I did not
like to be for ever begging of poor mother, so hard up as I know she is,
so I borrowed some money of a fellow, who said I need not think of
paying him for ever so long; and now he is turned rusty, and we have had
a blow-up, and he says if I don't pay him to-day, he shall come here to
my mother, or to my uncle, for he will have the money by hook or by
crook."
"O Raymond!" Salome exclaimed; "how much is it?"
"A mere trifle; only my term's allowance at Eton--five and twenty
pounds. Do you think, Salome, you could get it for me in any way? You
never wear that gold thing with emeralds mother gave you that belonged
to grandmamma. Could you let me have it to raise money on it?"
"I don't know. I don't think it would be right. The necklet is in
mother's dressing-case. I never have kept it myself. Of course, it is
mine, as grannie left it to me, or it would have been sold. Still I
don't think it would be right. O Raymond, I wish I could ask some one
about it."
"If you do that you will ruin me. If I can get the money quietly, I will
promise not to borrow again."
"Did you use it for--for that ulster and pin, and--" Salome was alarmed
at her own boldness; and Raymond answered,--
"_No_; I did not."
"And you are in debt for those things also?"
"Yes; but that does not matter--tradesmen will wait. It's this fellow
Percival."
"Oh, is it Percival, the brother of Reg's friend? Digby knows him; he is
very good and nice. I thought you despised him."
"I said he wore a coat out of elbows in the office; but he is a
gentleman for all that, I find."
"I should think so," said Salome indignantly; "as if a coat made any
difference. But I can't imagine how it was he had money to lend you."
"He is a miser, you see," said Raymond. "He is saving up, and grinding
and pinching, that the brother at the college may get to Oxford. They
say he will get a scholarship; but that would not keep him, and so this
fellow is saving up. I'll tell you how it was I borrowed the money. I
told him a cram, and said it was to keep my mother and all of you."
"O Raymond! how could you be so mean and deceitful?"
Raymond took his sister's plain speaking very quietly, because he looked
upon her as his only hope. "Percival found out that I had spent the
money in billiards, and--well you know, in 'The Queen's,' with Barington
while he was here; and--"
"I think it is dreadful," Salome interrupted. "I could not have believed
it of you."
"Well, look here, Sal, will you save me from a frightful row with Uncle
Loftus by seeing Percival, and trying to make him wait for his money? I
expect he would believe you; and I really don't want to--to vex my poor
mother. It was bad enough last night about old Warde; and I promised to
do better at the office, and that I would go to Edinburgh Crescent
to-night just to please her, for I detest it. If there is a row with
Percival, it will make her ill."
"You should have thought of that before," was on Salome's lips, but she
refrained from saying so.
"Reg will be here directly; may I tell him?"
"No; on no account. I will tell Percival to come up here this afternoon,
just at dusk, and you must manage to meet him."
"O Raymond, I don't think that will do; you don't consider what people
might say if they saw me."
"It is nearly dark at four; that is not late. That old quarry place
then."
"Where I saw you with some one some time ago?"
"Yes; that's it. I will be close at hand. Do pray let me tell Percival."
Salome had only time to say "Yes," when Reginald came down. It was so
new to her to hear the grand, magnificent Raymond pleading for a favour
at her hands. It was a cowardly proceeding on his part; but such boys as
Raymond Wilton are cowards. It would have been better for him if he had
not so often been helped out of school scrapes by too indulgent parents.
His was one of those natures which need discipline and firmness as well
as love. He had not been taught that in self-denial there is nobleness
which brings peace after the pain. To choose the thorny path of which
Mr. Atherton had spoken to his sister, had never even occurred to him.
He had always looked for the smoothness and pleasantness of life as his
by right as well as choice, and thus of all the family who had suffered
these sharp reverses he was the least able to meet them.
As Reginald came into the room Raymond left it; and Stevens and the
children next appeared--Stevens with a tray for her mistress's
breakfast, and two bowls of oatmeal porridge for Hans and Carl.
"I am just going to walk a little way with Raymond," she said; "I shall
not be five minutes."
Salome was off like lightning, and soon overtook her brother.
"Raymond, may--may I tell Reginald? may he come with me this afternoon?"
"No," said Raymond; "what made you race like that? Tell no one, and I am
certain Percival will listen to you. In the quarry at four o'clock, or
soon after."
Salome fell back breathless behind her brother, and turned up the road
to the post-office. She dropped the precious manuscript into the box and
the letter addressed to Messrs. Bardsley and Carrow, and then ran home.
"Good morning, miss," said Ruth, who was washing the step of the shop,
while Puck sat by watching the operation. "It is a fine winter's
morning, isn't it? just enough frost to make it pleasant. Puck is
looking his best, isn't he? the beauty! I washed him last evening."
"It is very kind of you," said Salome; "he is beginning to like you,
Ruth, as well as he does us."
"Oh no; he isn't one to forsake old friends," said Ruth. "See now--" for
Puck had darted towards Reginald with delight expressed in a series of
twists and twirls and low sounds of affection, as he ran hither and
thither round Reginald.
Salome ran to her brother. "I have posted my story, Reg." How she longed
to say more; how perplexed was her loyal heart as to what was right and
best to do.
She seemed suddenly drawn into a secret meeting with a stranger, and
with what shame she would have to beg him to wait for the debt her
brother had so dishonestly contracted. Salome watched Reginald's figure
as he ran with amazing speed down the road, and then turned slowly and
sadly into the house.
Mrs. Wilton came down about eleven o'clock looking much brighter and
better. When the little boys had put away their books and slates, and
had gone out with their hoops, she said: "I feel so much happier about
dear Raymond, Salome. He was so affectionate to me last evening, and has
promised to do better. I have written a line to your Uncle Loftus, to
ask him to deal gently with him, and to remember how greatly indulged he
was in your dear father's lifetime. He has been little prepared for such
a life as the one he is now leading. But we must be patient with him,
poor dear fellow. I always think I am not half patient enough."
"O mother, you are only too kind to Raymond, and, indeed, to us all. You
spoil us all."
"Not you, Salome," her mother said tenderly; "I fear you have too much
on your young shoulders. If I were a strong woman, like your Aunt Anna
for instance, I could do more to help you; but I am so useless. No one
can feel that more than I do."
"You are of great use, mother dear," Salome said, "and ornamental too.
You always remind me of somebody in a story as you sit by your
work-table. Quite as pretty a picture as that one of you when you were a
girl, whatever Mrs. Pryor may say. When shall we know about our affairs,
mother?" Salome asked after a pause.
"I cannot tell; there is so much to settle. I believe the furniture
realized a great deal, and the wines, and--"
"Don't let us talk of it, mother. I was only thinking of those jewels of
grannie's--the set of emeralds that she left me."
"They are all secure, my dear; they are my personal property, which is
mine under settlement. But I often think I shall sell some of them.
Indeed, I shall have to do so, I expect."
"It would not be wrong, would it, mother? I mean nothing that is yours
ought to go to the creditors?"
"No, certainly not, my dear. It is sad to think you should have to talk
of such things at your age. Only a few months ago, and I was consulting
Miss Barnes about your going to Paris to finish, and now here is your
education stopped."
"Oh no, mamma," said Salome cheerfully; "I learn a great deal by
teaching Hans and Carl. I am beginning Latin with Reginald, and you know
I read German and French for my own pleasure. I daresay I am finishing
my education just as well as if I had gone to Paris."
Salome's words had more truth in them than she knew. She was indeed
under training in the school where the Lord gives His children many
lessons, learned, perhaps, more easily in youth than in after years.
Many times in the course of that day Salome tried to recall all Mr.
Atherton had said in his sermon on the Sunday before. He had been
speaking of those who sought themselves and their own pleasure, and had
quoted the well-known words of Thomas a Kempis:--"My son, if thou
seekest thyself, thou shalt find thyself, but to thy own punishment."
The thing eagerly coveted and sought after, nay, even prayed for, is
granted; but it comes after all in the guise of a foe rather than of a
friend.
"I am not seeking myself," Salome thought. "I am trying to serve
Raymond, and to save mother from pain; but, oh! I wish I could have had
Reginald with me when I go up the road. He knows already something, I am
certain, from the Percival who is at the college; but I could not break
my word to Raymond, I must go through with it now."
Happily for Salome, Kate and one of her little sisters came to see them
soon after dinner on this bright winter day, and Salome and Hans and
Carl walked towards Roxburgh with them. Kate was as good-tempered and
kind as ever, and infected Salome with her bright spirits.
Reginald was sure to stand marvellously well in the examination, Digby
said so. Ralph and Cyril were going to sing at the school concert. It
was such a pity Salome could not be there. Everybody always went, and it
was such fun. Kate wanted Salome to go round by the college ground,
where a football match was on; but as the sun set and the winter's fog
gathered, Salome knew her hour was drawing near, towards which she was
looking with nervous dread.
The boys ran into the house, and clattered upstairs as soon as they
reached home. Salome lingered in the porch a moment irresolute; then
started off past the shop, where the gas was already lighted, up the
road towards the quarry. The hedges were higher as she advanced, and,
indeed, the road was cut out of the rock.
It was dusk, almost dark, and Salome felt lonely and frightened. She had
not long to wait in suspense. A tall figure advanced towards her from
the overhanging rocks of the old quarry.
[Illustration: "A tall figure advanced towards her." _Page 176._]
"Miss Wilton?" asked a voice, so pleasant and gentleman-like in its
tones that Salome was reassured. "I was coming to call on Mrs. Wilton. I
am Philip Percival. At your brother's entreaty, and not wishing to press
too hardly on him, I consented to see you first, as he tells me his
mother is in such delicate health that excitement might hurt her. Is
that true?"
"Yes, quite true," Salome said; but she was shivering with nervousness,
and her voice trembled.
"We had better walk up or down the road," Philip Percival said; "you
will take cold. It is a most unpleasant business, Miss Wilton; but I
honestly think the only hope of saving your brother is to deal openly
with you. He has deceived me so grossly, and you cannot wonder that I am
indignant. He represented to me that his mother and sisters were in
great difficulty, and that if I lent him the money for a month he could
repay it with interest. It was foolish of me to be taken in. I _was_
completely taken in. He has a winning, plausible manner; and he is
treated so roughly by some of the clerks who resent the airs he gives
himself, that I tried the more to befriend him. I have had a nice
reward!"
"I am so sorry," Salome said. "I want to beg you to wait a little while,
and perhaps I shall be able to pay you. Mother has no money, I know,
just now; and it is not only on that account I do not like to ask her,
but because it will grieve her so much to hear of Raymond's deceit. She
loves him so dearly, and it would be such a shock to her. Do you think
you _could_ wait?"
Philip Percival looked down on the little slight figure in its sombre
dress with very different feelings to what he had expected. "My eldest
sister will make it all right, if you will see her," had conveyed to his
mind the idea of a woman of mature years--not of a young girl, who ought
to have been sheltered by Raymond's care, not exposed by him to this
painful revelation.
"Could you wait?" Salome repeated; and as she spoke two people coming
down the road passed her and Philip Percival.
"Salome, is that you?" It was Mrs. Atherton's voice. "Good-night;" and
then, as Salome scarcely responded to the greeting, Mr. and Mrs.
Atherton passed on.
"Whom could Salome Wilton be talking to so earnestly?" Mrs. Atherton
said as they walked away. "It was not one of her brothers."
"No; I think not. You had better speak to her about it. It is far too
late for her to be walking here alone with a young man."
"It is very strange. I cannot understand it," Mrs. Atherton said. "Yes;
I will speak to her to-morrow. She is such a quiet child, every day I
know her and watch her I love her better. I cannot understand it," Mrs.
Atherton repeated.
"Yes; I will wait till Christmas for your sake," Philip said. "I see how
painful your position is, and I feel indignant with your brother for
placing you in it. He ought never to have sent me here. But lest you
should think I love money for its own sake, I want to tell you that we
are very poor. My father is paralyzed, and my mother gives lessons in
music. I have been working hard to save enough money to help my brother
to live on his scholarship at Oxford, if, as we hope, he takes one.
Also, I am able, by strict economy, to get a few things which brighten
my mother's life a little. I don't say this to make you think it is
wonderful or praiseworthy. I hope you will not misunderstand me."
"No indeed," Salome said earnestly, looking up at the face she could but
dimly see,--"no indeed. I think you are brave and good; and, please, do
not give up poor Raymond. Perhaps he may get wiser and more used to this
great change in his life."
"Let us hope so, for your sake as well as his own. And now, shall I see
you home?"
"Oh no, no; it is quite near--at the end of the road. Good-bye, and
thank you very, very much."
Philip Percival stood watching the retreating figure as it went swiftly
down the road and was soon lost to sight in the gathering darkness.
"His sister, his eldest sister," he said--"a mere child; but what a
world of resolution in her face!"
It would not have been Salome had she not dropped something in her
flight. Philip saw something white on the road, and picking it up, found
it was Salome's pocket-handkerchief. He was irresolute for a moment
whether to follow her with it or keep it. He decided on keeping it; and
putting it into his coat pocket, walked quickly away in the opposite
direction to Elm Cottage.