Part 27 (2/2)

”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 ma.n.u.script 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 ma.n.u.script. 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 ma.n.u.script 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, unrefres.h.i.+ng 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.

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