THE CONSEQUENCE.
Salome's illness proved to be rheumatic fever. She was in great pain,
and often delirious--wandering in thought to her old home and her
childhood, and talking incessantly of the emerald necklet and money and
debts, and the troubles which had by her brother's selfishness shadowed
her young life, and weighed her down prematurely with the sorrows of
older people.
Her mother understood but little of these feverish wanderings. But there
was one in that house in whose ear his sister's voice rang with a pain
which he never felt before.
Reginald was miserable and lonely. The little ones--whom in a bad day of
restlessness and fever Dr. Wilton had hurried off in his carriage to
Aunt Betha, who begged to be allowed to have them, saying she would be
answerable they were in nobody's way--were continually asking when
Salome would be well. Mrs. Wilton sat hour after hour in the sick room,
almost paralyzed with the fear of losing this precious child. Stevens,
dear faithful Stevens would go away to hide her grief when the moans of
pain were more grievous, or when Salome would talk as if she were in the
old nursery at Maplestone, and address Ada or her father as if present.
All these tender and loving hearts were wrung with sorrow and distress;
but Raymond's pain was far greater than any of these. Mrs. Atherton and
her son were unable to reach him with a word of comfort. He went
sullenly off to the office, and returned with a look of utter misery on
his face every afternoon, only to hear the same report--"She is no
better."
One Sunday morning he was up and dressed in time, and Reginald walked
with him to church. The two brothers had been so much separated since
early childhood that there was little sympathy between them. But this
grief about Salome seemed to draw them together.
"How is your sister? How is the young lady?" Ruth asked, as they passed
her door.
"No better, thank you," Reginald replied.
"What's the use of asking?" Frank Pryor said. "Mother says she is taken
for death, and you know it."
"I don't know it," said Ruth impatiently. "I don't give up hope. It is
not my way. I leave that despairing about everybody and everything to
your mother and you. There, Frank, I don't mean to be cross, but I feel
as if I should break my heart if that child died;" and Ruth burst into
tears. Puck sprang to her, whining and crying, and showing by every
possible sign that he sympathized with the general sorrow for Salome.
The two brothers walked on to church, and when their sister's name was
read in the list of those for whom their prayers were desired, it was
not lost on them that Mr. Atherton added, "who is dangerously ill." The
name, with the significant words, came as a sort of spoken declaration
of the fear in both boys' hearts, and a deep sob from Raymond was heard
by a man kneeling behind him, and understood. That man was Philip
Percival. He waited at the door of the church after service, and gave
the hand of both brothers a fervent pressure.
To his surprise Raymond said, "I want to speak with you, Percival. Will
you come in?"
The two young men were going into the desolate sitting-room, where the
daffodils, gathered ten days before, were hanging their pretty heads,
all shrivelled and forlorn.
"The flower fadeth," thought Philip Percival, as he recalled the bright
afternoon and the sunshine glowing on the daffodils and on the plaits
of hair gathered round the small shapely head, as it bent over the
treasures in the basket.
Reginald was following his brother and Philip Percival, when Raymond
turned quickly towards him.
"Wait a few minutes, Reg, if you don't mind. I want to speak to Percival
alone."
Reginald obeyed without a word, and sitting down on a stool in the
passage, buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the sound of
the ringing voice above, as it called, "Yes, father; I am coming. Oh!
look at the chestnut tree, all in flower, not buds, as I thought."
Then the door above was closed, and Stevens came down, in her hand a
large paper parcel. She was crying bitterly.
"I have just cut it all off," she said. "Did you ever see such hair? Oh!
the pretty darling. I can remember it when she was three years old--how
the people would turn round to look at it when she walked down the
village. O Master Reg, my dear, my heart will break if we lose her! And
we _shall_ lose her, I believe."
Reginald did not speak. After one look at the great mass of golden brown
hair, he turned almost impatiently away, and went upstairs to his own
room.
I cannot write what passed between Philip Percival and Raymond; but when
Stevens came to call him to dinner, he seemed not to hear her. Philip
Percival was standing by the empty fire-place, and, rousing himself,
went up to Raymond, saying,--
"Good-bye; I am going now."
"Wait and see Reginald. You must wait and dine with us."
"You can tell Reginald alone; it will be less painful."
"No," Raymond said; "I would rather you were present."
Reginald, whom Stevens had summoned, now came down, and Raymond said,--
"Reginald, I have borrowed money from Percival I had no means of
repaying. I was so cowardly as to let her--Salome--bear the whole burden
of it. She met him and asked him to spare me exposure; and he did, for
her sake. It might have been better if he had come down on me then. But
it is no use looking back. I am going to see Uncle Loftus and tell him
the whole truth, and perhaps he will help me out of the difficulty. But,
Reginald, the worst part is yet to come. I caused Salome's illness by
dragging her down into Harstone to get a necklet of hers on which I was
trying to raise money. If she dies, it will lie at my door. Forgive me,
Reginald."
Reginald turned away. He felt as if he could not look at his brother.
But Philip Percival said,--
"Your sister would be the first to say 'Forgive him.' You know it. Shake
hands with your brother, and let us, you and I, do our best to help him
to keep his good resolutions."
Reginald came back and held out his hand. Neither he nor Raymond could
speak, but the brothers were friends at last.
A roll lying on the table now attracted Reginald. It was addressed to
"Miss Wilton, Elm Cottage, Elm Fields, Harstone."
"What is that?" Raymond asked.
Reginald looked for a moment, and then exclaimed:
"I think I know. Yes--oh! poor Salome! it is her story."
"Her story?"
"I forgot no one knew but me. I don't understand this, though. It has
come back, after all, and I thought she said it was accepted. But this
is her writing."
Reginald unrolled the parcel, and the little kernel, so familiar to
authors, of the proof-sheets enclosed in the husk of the manuscript fell
out.
Philip Percival picked them up. "Take care of them," he said; "it is all
right. These are the first proofs, sent for correction with the
manuscript. Take care of them; and you ought to write to the publisher
and tell him they are received, and will be corrected."
"Corrected!" exclaimed Reginald. "I do not know how to correct them.
What do you mean?"
"I have had some little experience in this way," said Philip Percival;
"and if you will trust me, I will go over them and do my best till--till
your sister is well enough to do it herself."
"Thank you," said Reginald. "I don't think Salome would mind your having
them; indeed, I don't see what else is to be done."
Philip rolled up the manuscript and sheets, and, putting them in his
pocket, said "Good-bye," and was gone.
"He is the best fellow that ever lived," Reginald said; "and he is
awfully fond of her. Oh! how long is this to go on?" he exclaimed, as
the sound of Salome's voice reached them from the room above, in the
rapid, unnatural tones so full of painful foreboding to the ears of
those who have to listen to them hour after hour, with no respite but
the occasional lull of heavy, unrefreshing slumber.
Dr. Wilton was surprised that same Sunday afternoon to see Raymond
ushered into his consulting-room.
"Is there any change since the morning? I am coming in at seven o'clock.
What is it?"
"No; Salome is just the same. I am come, Uncle Loftus, to tell you how
ashamed I am of myself. I daresay you will cut me for ever, but I am so
miserable that I hope you won't be hard on me."
He did indeed look miserable; it was difficult to recognize him for the
self-sufficient, handsome young man whom Dr. Wilton had often felt too
provoked with to speak patiently to him.
The whole sad story was told. It was a step in the right direction; it
was a hopeful sign; and Dr. Wilton felt it to be so.
"I don't think I shall ever get straight in Harstone, Uncle Loftus. If I
could go away and begin fresh."
"Your debts must be paid. I must consult the other guardians and
trustees. Perhaps there may be some arrangement. But, Raymond my boy,
change of place won't effect a cure in itself. Only yesterday Warde told
me he did not wish to keep you in the office; he did not care to treat
you harshly, for your father's sake, but he says you simply do nothing,
and it is a bad example to the other clerks. It is very sad, Raymond;
you ought to have been a comfort to your poor mother and sister."
Raymond faltered out, "I will do anything you think best now, Uncle
Loftus. Do you think Salome will get well?"
"I cannot say, my boy. Such cases do sometimes pull through; but the
poor child is very ill--dangerously ill. I am going to take Mr. Masters
to see her this evening. Still we must keep up heart and hope. Come and
see your brothers and your Aunt Anna and your cousins."
"No, thanks, not now," Raymond said; "I must go back."
As Raymond was going towards Elm Fields he met one of those idle young
men whose society had been so unwholesome for him.
"Come and have a pipe and a glass of brandy and soda. You look awfully
down in the mouth, Wilton."
But Raymond passed on, saying, "Not to-day, thanks."
"Oh, I say, are you in a great scrape? 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."
[Illustration: "'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.