"Oh no; don't remind him of it. I see him every day, and he can ask me if he chooses."

But Salome was not to be satisfied. "As I promised to do something about it by Christmas, I must tell him how it is."

"How what is?"

"Why, Raymond, I thought, I hoped I might get something for some work I did, and then I could have paid Mr. Percival half perhaps."

"Work! what sort of work?"

"Oh, you must not ask. I will tell you some day perhaps."

"Don't bother yourself, Sal. Percival can wait. He is all right now with me, and I think he is a good fellow after all. I want awfully to get to St. Clair's for Christmas. He has asked me, which is awfully kind of him. You remember he was the fellow who travelled with us on that wretched journey."

"Yes, I remember; but I don't think you can go, Raymond. It is such a long journey for two days."

"I shall ask for an extra day. Old Warde is very civil to me now. It is better to keep up with friends worth having, like St. Clair. Mother thinks so."

Salome was silent. She thought it wiser to say nothing.

There was a bright service in St. Luke's Church every Wednesday evening; and on the Wednesday before Christmas, as Salome was coming out of the church, scarcely two hundred yards from Elm Cottage, she heard a voice near her say,--

"Miss Wilton."

She started, and turning quickly, said,--

"I wanted to see you, Mr. Percival. I cannot do what I promised, and I--I hardly like to ask it, but _could_ you wait till Easter?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I can and will wait. I came here on purpose to say so."

"How kind of you! Mr. Percival, is--do you think my brother is getting on better at the office?"

"I hope so," was the answer.

"He is there in better time of a morning, isn't he?" asked Salome anxiously.

Again the answer came guardedly,--

"I think so."

"Mother has been so ill lately, and quite confined to her room. Raymond has been much more attentive to her lately."

"I am very glad to hear it. I hope you will be at rest about the money.

Good-night."

Then he was gone. And Salome ran quickly across the road to the gate of Elm Cottage, saying to herself, "Surely Taylor and Darte will take my story, they are so long in replying, and that is a good sign. Bardsley and Carrow were only a week. Oh, perhaps by Easter it will be all right, and I shall be able to repay Mr. Percival. How kind he is! I do like him."

CHAPTER XIV.

DAFFODILS.

The Christmas season, so different to any the Wiltons had ever pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sertions. 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-a.s.serting.

"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 pa.s.sed, 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 t.i.tle-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 G.o.d'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, encompa.s.sed 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?