Part 29 (1/2)
”Reginald can keep a secret,” Philip said, ”or he is not the boy I take him for. Now, if you can listen without being too tired, I want to tell you something about Raymond and me. Mr. Warde wishes to send me out to a West India station in Barbadoes, to look after the business there and superintend some change in the sugar-planting. He offers me a very good salary, and I am to have a clerk, of course. Raymond thinks he should like to go with me in that capacity, and I believe Dr. Wilton quite approves the plan. Will Mrs. Wilton, and will you, approve also?”
”I think it will be the very best thing for Raymond. I do not know what poor mother will say about it, she is so fond of Raymond. Still, she would bring herself in time to it. When would you go?”
”The first week in July,--this day month.”
”Shall I tell mother about it when she comes in, or will you tell her?”
”I think I shall ask you to tell Mrs. Wilton,” he said, rising to leave her. ”Good-bye.”
”You will come and see me again very soon, won't you?”
”If you wish it.”
”I do wish it very much,” she said. ”And then there is the money. Mr.
Darte will send it to me now, I suppose, if I write to him. Will you come for it some day?”
”No,” he said, ”I shall never come for that. If you wish to please me, you will not mention that subject again; it hurts me and pains me. Let us never speak of it again.” He spoke vehemently, almost roughly, and taking one of the little white thin hands in his, he said, ”Give me one of the books, and write my name in it; and do not forget me.”
The next minute he was gone, and Salome was left in a maze of delight, surprise, and happiness, through which there seemed to run a golden thread, bright and s.h.i.+ning, as she repeated softly to herself, ”So good, so n.o.ble, so brave! And I think he cares for me, and I think--”
What Salome thought I shall not write here, but leave her to her book and her dream, while the sun, nearing the west, comes in at the open window and touches the little short curls which cl.u.s.ter over her head till they s.h.i.+ne like the aureola round the foreheads of Fra Angelico's maidens in the old pictures of a bygone time.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LAST.
The surprise and delight which the sight of ”Under the Cedars” caused in Elm Cottage I cannot describe. However many thousands of books are written year by year, however many thousands are launched on the stream to win popular favour, there is always a special charm and interest in the first book written by one we love. It raises the person for the time to an important place in the family; and though the poor little book may soon be engulfed in this stream of which I speak, and lost to sight, or beaten down by the lash of reviewers, or, worse still, left to die the natural death of utter indifference, the author's position amongst her own immediate friends is not altered by it.
”Under the Cedars” was fresh and bright, full of imagination and that subtle power which touches the commonplace with interest. It had many faults--faults of youthful exuberance of fancy--faults of construction; but it deserved the praise of the local newspapers, which said it was perfectly simple and pure in its style, and the descriptions of child-life and nature alike true and unaffected. Then ”Under the Cedars”
had the advantage of being well revised and corrected by an able hand.
It was well printed and well ill.u.s.trated, and Hans and Carl danced about with excited delight as they recognized their own portraits in two knickerbockered boys of their own age.
Ada laughed at this. ”All little boys look alike,” she said. ”You don't suppose the man who did the pictures knew anything about you or Salome.”
But Ada was none the less delighted to take back a copy to Eva Monroe on the day when twelve presentation copies arrived from London. And Dr.
Wilton was pleased to show one to his wife.
”That child has done something to be proud of though she is so unpretending.”
All the cousins admired and applauded, and Digby was triumphant.
”Did I not always tell you that Salome was awfully clever? Not one of us could ever come up to her.”
Even Aunt Anna was pleased when a lady, of whom she thought a great deal, said, ”I have bought a charming story for children, called 'Under the Cedars.' Have you seen it?”
It was something to take it from her writing-table and to say, ”It is written by a niece of mine, a very clever girl of seventeen. So young, and so full of talent.”