DAFFODILS.
The Christmas season, so different to any the Wiltons had ever passed,
came and went. Raymond managed to attain his wish, as he generally did;
and instead of returning punctually to the office after the two days
above and beyond the bank holiday which Mr. Warde kindly and
considerately granted him, he sent an excuse to him, and a telegram to
his mother, which alarmed her very much, to say he had a severe cold,
and was not allowed to travel.
It ought to be a warning to all those who are tempted to make false
excuses or deceive, that when once it is done, every one's faith is
weakened in their assertions. It takes years of truthfulness and
sincerity to restore the confidence which one falsehood has shaken.
Reginald must be excused, therefore, if he said, as he read the
telegram,--
"Humbug!"
Salome gave him a quick glance, for she saw her mother's distressed and
anxious face.
"I do hope he is not very ill. What do you think, Salome?"
"I hope not, mother. He only says, 'A severe cold;' and you see he sends
the telegram himself."
"Would you advise me to send a telegram for a paid answer?"
"Certainly not, mother," said Reginald. "Don't disturb yourself; he is
all right."
Mrs. Wilton was silenced; but when Reginald left the room she said to
Salome, "I cannot understand how it is that Reginald is so unfeeling
about Ray. It is not like the love of brothers."
All this anxiety at Elm Cottage might have been spared had it been
possible to show Mrs. Wilton the comfortable dining-room at Rose Court,
the St. Clairs' home, Raymond talking and laughing with one of Henry St.
Clair's sisters at a pleasant dinner-party, and quite forgetting the
sore throat and little cough which had seemed to Mrs. St. Clair in her
kindness a sufficient reason for Raymond to prolong his visit. Sympathy
for the boy's altered position had made her doubly kind to him, though
she secretly wished he would talk less of himself, his old Eton days and
friends, and would have liked it better if he had been quieter and less
self-asserting.
"It was a kindness to invite him, poor boy," she said to her husband.
"They had a very pretty nice place, with every comfort, and Henry paid
them a visit during the Easter holidays. Think what a change it is! I am
glad to be kind to him; though he is not exactly the friend I would
choose for Henry."
"A conceited, shallow-pated young fellow," was the reply. "Handsome
enough, no doubt; but I, for one, shall not be sorry to see him start
for Harstone."
Poor Raymond! How little did he think that this was the impression left
upon his host at Rose Court. He went home with a fresh edition of
discontent at his lot, and relapsed a good deal into his former habits.
So the winter passed, and the days lengthened, and the bright
spring-time drew on.
One radiant March morning Salome set out early to spend a day at
Edinburgh Crescent. A holiday was proclaimed for the children, and an
expedition with Ruth Pryor to see a menagerie which was stationed in a
large field not far off. Mrs. Wilton had been unusually well of late,
and was quite happy to be left for the day, to write letters, and
perhaps walk over to the vicarage at three o'clock to see Mrs. Atherton.
Salome's step was light and elastic as she walked away towards
Edinburgh Crescent. She had the spring of youth in her, which responded
to the spring of nature; and something delightful had happened which was
to mark that day with a red letter, as she thought, to her. "Under the
Cedars," after three unsuccessful journeys, and three new title-pages,
had been accepted, and she had in her pocket a letter offering to
publish the story and give her ten guineas for it. If the proposal was
agreeable to her, the cheque would be sent at once. Only those who have
earned money that is needed for some express purpose can understand the
joy in Salome's heart. It was only ten guineas. Fifteen more would be
required to meet what was wanted. But another story was rapidly
approaching its conclusion, and very soon she might earn the rest.
These few months had been times of steady progress with Salome. She had
set herself earnestly to learn the lesson of her life; and no one, old
or young will, if they seek God's help, do this in vain. Just as one who
sweeps a room from this cause makes it and the action fine, so did
Salome, by striving against her desultory, untidy habits and her dreamy
indolence, when what she had to do was uncongenial, and, above all, when
her effort to struggle against discontented repining for what was
denied her of luxury and pleasantness in everyday life, make the way
"finer" and brighter for others and for herself. Child as she was, her
influence was felt. Stevens acknowledged it, and her brothers could not
fail to be affected by it. All unconsciously to herself she was
fulfilling the command of One who lays no burden on us too heavy to
bear, who tells us to let our light _so_ shine that our Father in heaven
may be glorified.
I think Salome's little light was shining, and I also think that had it
not been for the surrounding gloom of sorrow and loss which, as it were,
encompassed her, it would not have been so bright nor so steady in its
radiance.
How she longed to tell Reginald the good news about "Under the Cedars."
How she wished the letter had come by the first instead of the second
delivery. It would be nice to meet Reginald, and hear him say, "How
jolly it is!" "I shall be obliged to let him know, when I have the
money, what I am going to do with it. But that time is not come yet. I
must take the days one by one. And oh, what a lovely day this is! Such a
sky; and how those horse-chestnut buds are shining in the sun. I
remember one day last spring how I was riding with father, and he told
me to look at the big chestnut tree by the lodge, how the buds were
glistening."
The wakened memory of her father sent a thrill of pain through the young
heart, and a hungry longing for him, which is so well expressed by the
poetess of love and natural affection in her own especial strain without
a rival:--
"But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring--
The human heart with all its dreams and sighs,
Thou that bring'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies?
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 Saturday," 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 passes 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 glass dish of
jam, a pile of hot cakes and--a departure from the usual order--of
Dorset butter. Fresh white butter 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."