Part 18 (1/2)

The household at Elm Cottage were engrossed for the next ten days with preparations for Ada's departure. Mrs. Pryor's eyes filled with tears whenever it was mentioned.

”Going off to foreign parts, where my dear departed lady went years agone, to find a grave for her husband; no good ever comes from going to these outlandish places. However a widow lady can trust her child to go off like this pa.s.ses my comprehension.”

”These are old-fas.h.i.+oned notions in these days, mother,” Ruth would interpose. ”These foreign places are just English all over. I know a young person who went as maid to--to--not Cannes, but it's all the same; the name begins with a saint.”

”Ah! I daresay,” sighed Mrs. Pryor; ”some Papist's place.”

”Well, this young person told me,” said Ruth, taking no notice of the interruption, ”that at their hotel it was just like an English country house; everything goes like clock-work. In your lady's days, I daresay, sixty years ago, it might have been changed.”

”Yes, it _was_ different. And times are changed,” said Mrs. Pryor. ”The young set themselves up, and think it fine to scoff at their elders. If this pretty child--for she is _but_ a child--is laid in the burying-ground out there, hundreds of miles from her widowed mother, don't come to me to be _surprised_--that's all.”

Ruth nodded at Stevens to say no more. But Stevens's own heart was heavy; and many were the sighs which were breathed over Ada's box, which stood ready, strapped and addressed, in the dull haze of the November morning.

Ada herself had kept up bravely till now; but as the wheels of the fly were heard which was to take her to the station, to meet Lady Monroe and Eva and their maid, her sobs broke forth.

”Oh, I wish I were not going!” she said. ”O mother, mother!”

”Don't upset mamma, Ada,” Salome whispered. ”Dear Ada, please don't.”

But Ada threw herself into her mother's arms, and could only sob out, ”Oh, I wish I were not going!”

Mrs. Wilton strove to be calm; and Stevens wisely hastened box, and neat little bundle of rugs, and ulster, and umbrella into the fly. Hans and Carl, who, with Stevens, were to see Ada off, stood bewildered to see their generally calm, self-possessed sister crying so bitterly.

”I thought she wanted to go to France,” Carl said, puckering up his mouth.

”Yes; I thought Stevens said Ada was crazy to go,” echoed Hans.

”She will be all right when she is once off, my dears,” said Ruth. ”You run and get in. There's good little boys; get into the fly. Look! I declare there is Puck, knowing as well as possible that Miss Ada is going.”

At last Ada was gone, clinging to the last to her mother and to Salome, and saying, ”Give Raymond and Reg my love; don't forget.”

Ada was not the first to find that the longed-for pleasure is not all that imagination pictured; and well might Ruth say, as she turned back into her little shop,--

”There, I didn't think she had so much heart, that I didn't.”

”Everybody's heart ain't always in their mouths, Ruth,” was Frank's rejoinder. ”Still waters run deep, my dear.”

”Then you are one of the deepest I ever saw, Frank; you never waste a word. I do believe if I hadn't helped you, you never would have come to the point with me.”

”That's an old story now, my dear,” said Frank, rubbing his floury face with his hand. ”Don't be offended, my dear,” he continued. ”I don't say it wasn't a good story, for _me_ anyhow, that I _did_ come to the point.”

After Ada's departure Salome made a great effort to settle down into a fixed routine. She wrote out a list of the lessons with her little brothers, and with Reginald's help got over the formidable arithmetic better than might have been expected. Irksome as this routine was to a girl of her dreamy and imaginative temperament, she bravely struggled to take each day as it came, and do the best with it. Stevens, who did all the needle-work and small was.h.i.+ng of the family, could not always walk with her children, but she clung to this habit of a past life; and soon after the one o'clock dinner in the short winter days Hans and Carl would set off on a shopping expedition with Stevens, or for a walk over the downs. And while Mrs. Wilton rested quietly for an hour, Salome would sit down to her story, and forget the present in the society of the imaginary children of whom she wrote. Unconsciously she reproduced the dear old home of her happy childhood,--the stately trees, the emerald turf, the little lake with the rustic bridge. Her children were the idealized children of her own experience, and the circ.u.mstances in which she placed them and the adventures which befell them were, like the ”monkey stories,” for the most part reproductions of incidents which lay treasured in the storehouse of her memory. Thanks to Miss Barnes's admirable teaching, Salome was guiltless of slips of grammar, and wrote a fair hand. This ”thinking on paper” has a peculiar fascination in it for the young; and no one could have grudged Salome these hours she spent over her ma.n.u.script, full of hope and even belief that by her hand the weight of care might be lifted from her mother.

Christmas drew on, and Reginald was full of his examinations--so full, that he sat up late at night with his papers, and had but little time to give to the consideration of Salome's tale.

It was one evening when Mrs. Wilton was occupied in answering a long letter from Ada, filled with glowing descriptions of Cannes and the happy life she was leading there, that Salome went into the dining-room where Reginald was at work. The finished ma.n.u.script was in her hand, and she said, ”Reg, where do you advise me to send my story? I have finished it, every word.”

Reginald was absorbed in his Euclid, and held up his hand, as if to beg her to stop.

”Are you very busy?” she said. ”Then I won't trouble you.”