Part 28 (2/2)
Salome was very happy; a sweet, peaceful calm seemed to surround her.
Everything was so lovely; that little piece of sky above the laburnum at the gate, how beautiful she thought it was; and how kind of Ruth Pryor to bring in such a dainty little afternoon tea. Even Mrs. Pryor tried to look a little more cheerful to suit the summer radiance, and did not shake her head and sigh as she came in to see if the sun was s.h.i.+ning on the carpet; but when Salome said, ”I love the suns.h.i.+ne, Mrs. Pryor,” she forbore to shut it out, and only laid down a sheet of the _Daily News_ on the particular place on the floor where the sun lay.
Mrs. Pryor had just completed this arrangement when a knock at the door made her toddle off to open it. In another minute she returned.
”Here is a gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Wilton.”
”Mr. Atherton? oh! ask him to come in.”
”No, Miss Wilton, it's not Mr. Atherton. He has been here often enough, I should have shown him in; but this is the gentleman who, regular as clock-work, all the time you were so bad, came at half-past eight every morning, and walked down to Harstone with Mr. Raymond, and always the last thing at night would come to the shop and hear how you was.”
Salome in vain tried to stop Mrs. Pryor's long speech. Mrs. Pryor was, when once unwound, like an alarum, obliged to run off.
”It must be Mr. Percival. Yes; ask him to come in, Mrs. Pryor, please.”
Salome had another moment's suspense, and then Philip Percival came in, quietly and to all appearance unconcerned, though his heart was beating so that he could almost hear it, and his emotion at the sight of that sweet pale face and large wistful eyes turned up to him was hard to conceal.
”I am so glad to see you downstairs, Miss Wilton,” he began; ”so very glad.”
”I daresay you hardly know me,” she said with a smile. ”I have cut all my hair, and Mrs. Pryor says I look like a starved robin. But I am getting well now, and Uncle Loftus says I shall be able to walk soon, though my legs are still very stiff.”
”I have brought you a book,” Philip Percival said. ”I thought I should like to give it to you myself.” And he unfastened a neat parcel, and displayed a pretty book in a red and gilt cover.
”Thank you,” Salome said. ”What is the t.i.tle? 'Under the Cedars, by S.
M. W.' My book! Oh, I don't understand. How has it been done?”
”When you were ill--very ill--last March, I happened to be here when the first sheets came from the publishers. Your brothers could not correct them, and as I have had a little experience with printers, I asked leave to possess myself of them. I told Mr. Darte you were ill, and unable to attend to them yourself, and that I was to act for you. I hope you do not mind,” he said half anxiously.
”Mind! Oh, I am so grateful to you. It _is_ a pretty book outside!” she exclaimed with almost childish delight.
”It is prettier inside than outside,” Philip Percival said. ”I feel as if all the children were my particular friends; and as to the cedars, I have sat under them, and know the two ring-doves that come and sing their song to little Pamela.”
”Oh, you can't think how glad I am you like my book; and--has Mr. Darte sent the money? because you know it is _yours_, and I hope when I get well to write another story better than this, and you shall have the rest of the money then if you _can_ wait.”
Philip Percival felt a choking sensation in his throat, and he could not speak. And Salome, her face flus.h.i.+ng rosy red, went on,--
”I know it is a great deal to ask, and you have been so good and kind to Raymond. He says, if ever he is worth anything it will be your doing.”
”_Yours_ rather, I should say,” Philip murmured.
”I feel as if I could never, never repay you for all you have done,”
Salome went on; ”but you know I am grateful. We are all of us so grateful to you. Raymond is quite different since he had you for a friend, and he will do well now, I think.”
”I had something to say about Raymond. I am not tiring you, am I?” he asked anxiously, for the bright colour had left her face and she laid her head back on the cus.h.i.+ons.
”No, oh no; only pleasure is somehow as hard to bear as pain, in a different way. I have so longed for the day when I could show mother and the boys my book, and here it is. Only Reginald knew about it, and since I have been better I have asked him if he had heard anything of the publisher, and he has always said it was all right, he thought, and the book would come out one day. He did not tell me _you_ had done all this for me.”
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