Part 10 (1/2)

”How much?--my dear, your father was living at the rate of four or five thousand a year!”

”Four _thousand_!” This at least was a help to a clear understanding.

Four thousand did stand out in sharp contrast to three hundred. Salome was speechless.

”Your Aunt Anna will be calling on your mother to-morrow, and she will settle about your coming to see your cousins. You must be about Kate's age--seventeen.”

”I am not quite sixteen,” Salome said. ”Ada is just fifteen, and Raymond seventeen. Reginald is nearly fourteen.”

”Only a year between each of you, then!”

”The little ones are much younger. Carl is nine, and Hans eight. They were born on the same day of the month.”

Family records of births and ages were not in Dr. Wilton's line. He looked at his watch, and said,--

”Well, I must be off. I will speak to your mother about the situation for Raymond, and other matters, as we drive up from the station.

Good-bye, my dear.” And Dr. Wilton was gone, leaving Salome standing in the middle of the room. She would have liked to kiss him, to cry a little, and be comforted. But there was something in her uncle's professional manner, kind though it was, which threw her back. He would do his duty, she felt; he would not give up his brother's children; but he would do it as shortly as possible, and waste neither time nor words over it.

He had smiled, and looked kind; he had spoken pleasantly and cheerfully; he had even put his arm round her when she first went into the room, and there was real feeling in the words, ”Well, my dear child,” as he kissed her forehead; but for all that, Salome felt like a sensitive plant, touched by the gentlest hand, which draws in, and cannot unfold in response.

”If only father were here!” the girl exclaimed, covering her face with her hands. ”Oh, that he were here! Oh, that we had all thought more of him when we had him! And what a life he must have had the last year; never telling us, and yet in such trouble!” Vain regrets for our dead; vain longings to be what we can never be again! Let us all take care, as the daily life rolls swiftly on, that we lay up happy memories, or at least pleasant memories, when that daily life has become _the past_,--the past which, when it was the present, was, alas! so often sown with the seeds of unkindness, harshness of word and judgment, ill-temper, selfish disregard for the feelings of others, which yield such a bitter harvest when those we love are hidden from our sight, and we can never more lighten a burden, or help to make the way easy by smiles and good-temper, by tenderness and forbearance, by the love which covereth a mult.i.tude of faults.

Salome was roused by Raymond's entrance.

”Why did you not come and see Uncle Loftus?”

”He did not ask for me.”

”Yes, he asked where you were; but he told me not to call you.”

”I did not want to see him. I hate his patronizing ways. Have you found your purse?”

”Yes, Reg had picked it up; but you are not going out before dinner, are you, Ray?”

”Oh, I don't know,” said Raymond, stretching and yawning. ”I should have thought we had better have dined at seven, when mamma comes.”

”I--I don't think Mrs. Pryor would like a late dinner.”

”Well, I can get a little luncheon somewhere in Roxburgh. It is so fine, and it is so slow being cooped up here.”

”You have to go with Reg to the Elm Fields Station to meet mamma--don't forget that--at five o'clock.”

”All right.” But Raymond lingered. ”The money, Sal; I'll pay you back.”

Salome opened the purse and took out two half-crowns. ”Thanks!” said Raymond; ”it _is_ a come down to want a paltry five s.h.i.+llings.”

”O Raymond!” Salome said pa.s.sionately,--”O Ray, do try to make the best of things to mother! It will make her so dreadfully sad if you grumble.

Dear Raymond, I will do all I can, only please do try to make the best of everything.”