Part 22 (1/2)
”I am so sorry. I do wish I were neat and tidy like Ada, who never left anything in the wrong place in her life.”
”It is never too late to mend,” said Mrs. Atherton with a smile. ”I have not seen you for a week, except in church. I have been so busy; and every week and every day we get nearer to Christmas, the pressure grows greater. I wanted to ask you if you would come over to the vicarage and help me with some work.”
”I work so badly,” Salome said, ”but I will do all I can.”
”It is very easy, humble sort of work,” Mrs. Atherton said,--”sewing strings on skirts, and b.u.t.tons on ap.r.o.ns and pinafores, for Christmas presents in the parish, you know. Will you come in to-morrow afternoon for an hour or two?”
Salome promised; and then conversation seemed to flag, as it always does when something is on the mind of one of those who are trying to keep it up without alluding to that ”something.”
At last Mrs. Atherton rose to go away, when, taking Salome's hand in hers, she held it for a moment, and said,--
”My dear child, I have not seen you since we met you on the Whitelands Road. It was very late for you to be out alone, and with a stranger.”
Salome's colour rushed to her face, and was of course misunderstood.
”You are so young, my dear,” Mrs. Atherton said; ”and I daresay, living in the country, you have often been out late in your own grounds and village. But here it is different. And you were talking and walking with a gentleman. Was he an old friend?”
”No,” said Salome, ”oh no; I had never seen him before. Oh, please do not ask me any more questions.”
The look of distress on Salome's face touched Mrs. Atherton.
”My dear child,” she said tenderly, ”if you were my own daughter, I should say what I now say. Do not think that I interfere unduly, but let me earnestly advise you not to place yourself in the same position again. Will you promise?”
Salome was silent. How could she promise, when once more she must meet Philip Percival and tell him if she had succeeded in getting the money or not? Perhaps she might write to him, but somehow she felt it would be better to see him.
Mrs. Atherton waited, as if for an answer; and as none came, she dropped Salome's hand, and turned away.
”Do kiss me again,” Salome said. ”And do trust me. I thought, and I still think, I was doing right that evening.”
”Well, my dear child,” said Mrs. Atherton, kissing her affectionately, ”I hope it will prove so. Give my love to your mother. I will come in again very soon.”
Salome ran upstairs with Ada's letter, and hastily putting it on the table by her mother's side, went down again to read her own letter. It was from Bardsley and Carrow. Her hands trembled with excitement as she tore open the envelope and read:--
”DEAR MADAM,--We return the ma.n.u.script of 'Under the Cedars,'
with thanks for allowing us to peruse it. We regret that it is not suited for publication in our series of stories for the young.--We remain your obedient servants,
”J. A. BARDSLEY AND CARROW.”
”Everything is a disappointment! Everything fails!” exclaimed Salome.
”It is no use trying to do anything. Mrs. Atherton suspects me of I don't know what; and I was only trying to save mother from pain. But Raymond may go his own way now. I can do nothing for him. Why should my life be so different to other girls? Ada is happy at Cannes, having all she can wish for. Then there are the girls at Edinburgh Crescent going out to-night to a fancy-dress dance, and to-morrow to some other party, and next week to the school concert; and here am I, trying to be of use, and yet I cannot even succeed in that, and everything is so wretched and miserable. I saw Mrs. Atherton looking round on this untidy room. The children are really the greatest bother;” and Salome s.n.a.t.c.hed up the tail of the kite, newspapers and all, with no gentle hand; and by so doing, the string, which was twisted in one of the corners of her old writing-folio, brought the whole down--cloth, work-basket, and all.
”What a horrid fire! and _what_ a mess! Really this isn't very inviting,” said Reginald, as he came in from football, and, covered with mud and scratches, threw himself into the chair Mrs. Atherton had occupied.
”Where's mother?” he asked. ”Is her cold worse? I say, Salome, I was chosen to play in the second fifteen instead of a fellow who is ill. I have had a glorious run for once. Sal, what's the matter?”
Salome was fairly crying now.
”It is all so miserable and uncomfortable, Reg; and look here.”
She handed him the letter as she spoke.