Salome Part 5

"Where are Ralph and Cyril?" Kate asked.

"Downstairs. We have all been 'preparing a lesson,' doing a holiday task. Such humbug, as if fellows of our age ought not to dine late."

"Well, the Barrington boys always have school-room tea."

"They are younger. Ned isn't fifteen, and I am sixteen."

"No, not quite; not till next week," Kate said. "You are younger than Raymond. Are you not sorry for them at Maplestone?"

"Awfully," said Digby; "and I think every one so unfeeling. You girls ought to be in mourning."

"Mamma said it would be too expensive," said Kate; "but then she never expected they would all come here and see us. I believe she is going to get up something if they do come; but they may not get lodgings. Isn't it odd, Digby, to think of our visit to Maplestone a year and a half ago, when we felt them so much better off than we were, and envied the house and the gardens, and the ponies and the carriages? And Raymond talked so much of his swell Eton friends; and Reginald was at Rugby; and you grumbled because you could not go to school, but had to be a day boy at the college here."

"Yes, I remember," said Digby. "And how pretty Ada looked when she went to church on Sunday. And that quiet one, they say, is clever, with the queer name."

"Salome! ah, yes," said Kate. "She was odd--so dreamy, and unlike other girls. Dear me, it is very sad for them all. I wish they were not coming here all the same, for I know they will be disappointed; and Roxburgh is not a place to be poor in. I am sick of all the talking about who this person is, and where they come from, and what they wear; and that 'residents' can't know 'lodgers' for fear of getting mixed up with what is not quite the thing. I do hate it," said Kate vehemently; "and yet what is one to do?"

"Play backgammon now," said Digby; "and go to bed and forget it. With slow holidays like these, one had better lie there half the day."

"_Pray_ don't be late to-morrow, Digby; it does make such a fuss. Now then--sixes as a start. What luck for me!"

So the cousins in Edinburgh Terrace talked of the cousins at Maplestone.

So small a part of the lives of others do griefs and sorrows make. That evening, while Digby and Kate were so lightly discussing the coming of Ada and Raymond, of Aunt Emily and Reginald, Salome was standing in the fading light by her father's grave in the quiet churchyard of Maplestone, with some freshly-gathered flowers in her hand, and crying as if her heart would break!

CHAPTER IV.

LOOKING FOR LODGINGS.

Aunt Betha was not the person to do anything by halves. She had promised to set forth early the next day to "hunt for lodgings," and she did not shrink from her task. She was up earlier than usual, that everything might be in order and her daily routine gone through in good time. First there was Guy to be washed and dressed; and his breakfast, with his two little sisters, Maude and Hilda,--Edith breakfasting in the dining-room with her elders. Then came the visit to the kitchen, and Mrs. Wilton's orders and counter-orders to convey to the young servant who cooked under Aunt Betha's supervision. There were the daily accounts to balance, and the daily arrangements to make; and last, not least, the daily burden of others to be borne. How n.o.bly and uncomplainingly Aunt Betha bore this burden I have no words to tell you. She had gone through deep trials in her young days, and had been the useful sister to Mrs.

Wilton's mother. Then when that sister died, and dying said, "You will have a home with Anna; don't give her up, she will want help," Aunt Betha transferred her faithful service from the mother to the daughter.

She was too poor to live without earning her own living, and she chose to do this by the position in Dr. Wilton's house in which we find her.

Dear Aunt Betha! She was plain, and short, and very old-fas.h.i.+oned in her dress. "I hear too much about dress in this house," she would say, "to care much about my own." And black silk for Sundays, and a black merino or alpaca for week-days, made short and full, was her unvarying costume.

Aunt Betha was scrupulously neat and clean, and her caps, tied with mauve ribbon under her chin, were always fresh and bright. So were the large collar and cuffs which finished her "afternoon dress;" though when she was busy about the house in the morning she dispensed with the cuffs, and wore a large ap.r.o.n and holland sleeves over her gown.

Mrs. Wilton had that dislike to trouble which can hardly be called indolence; for she was active in her habits, and could go through a good deal of fatigue without complaining. She would walk with Louise to a house at some distance, if the carriage was not available, rather than miss an afternoon party. She would give herself any amount of trouble about one of her husband's patients who she thought belonged to a good family. She would plan and contrive for Louise and Kate's dress and amus.e.m.e.nt; and her own appearance was singularly youthful and her dress faultless; and all this was not effected without much pain and trouble.

But all the daily routine of household duties which did not bring any especial honour with them she disliked. Drudgery could be as well done by Aunt Betha as by her. Why should she be a drudge? "Aunt Betha was made to be useful, and she enjoys it. Dear old woman! We give her a comfortable home, and she is happy. Nothing could fit in better."

"I am not to exceed two pounds a week, Anna?" Aunt Betha asked, as she put her head into the dining-room, where Mrs. Wilton and Louise were lingering over breakfast and complaining that Digby was so late.

"Oh, about the lodgings!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilton. "Are you going now, dear?" (Mrs. Wilton often called Aunt Betha "dear.") "I will go up to Guy, then."

"Susan is with him. He is better this morning. Good-bye,--I have no time to lose."

"Very well. Take a cab if you are very tired. Certainly not more than two pounds a week for the lodgings; but less will be better."

Aunt Betha closed the door, and was soon on her way, her quick, light footsteps growing faint and fainter as she went along the smooth pavement of Edinburgh Crescent. She had a message at the green-grocer's and an order at the butcher's to leave as she pa.s.sed the shops which supplied the wants of Roxburgh; and then she turned away from what might be called the West End of Roxburgh to the neighbourhood of St. Luke's Church. Here there was a substratum of small villas and long, narrow streets, which were a long way from the crescents and terraces of the gay town to which so many people resorted for health and pleasure. The college at Roxburgh stood a little apart from crescents and small streets, and a large number of well-built houses cl.u.s.tered around it, where the families of boys who attended the college mostly lived. In days gone by there had been a mineral spa at Roxburgh, which had proved the starting-point of the large fas.h.i.+onable watering-place of these later times. But "the spa" had declined in popularity, and the old pump-room was in a forlorn state of decay and desolation. It had given Roxburgh its fame; and now, being out of repute, was cast aside and renounced.

The part of the town towards which Aunt Betha directed her efforts lay below the deserted spa, and was nearer the large, smoky town of Harstone, which was scarcely two miles from Roxburgh, where a busy life of trade and commerce went on in the valley, apart from the life of pleasure on the hill above. A cloud of smoke lay in the valley above Harstone, and the river fogs crept up on this side of Roxburgh, laden with the s.m.u.t and breath of the chimneys, in late autumn and winter; but on this bright August morning, the towers and spires of the Harstone churches looked picturesque in the soft, gray mist which lay over them and the tall masts of the s.h.i.+ps in the docks.

Aunt Betha did not, however, turn her eyes to the valley. She was too much intent on scanning the rows of small houses with "Apartments,"

"Furnished Apartments," printed on boards in the windows.

"Number 3 Lavender Place. That is a nice bow window, and white curtains.

I'll try there." Aunt Betha rang the bell, and did not fail to notice "that you might see your face in the bra.s.s k.n.o.b of the handle." A very neat woman came to the door, and in answer to her inquiries said--

"Yes, I have apartments to let,--a drawing-room and four bed-rooms."

Aunt Betha felt quite delighted at what seemed likely to be the speedy end of her labours. Everything was so neat. Drawing-room back and front. Could anything be better? Then came the question of terms.

"Two guineas a week."

"Would you, Mrs.--" Aunt Betha paused.

"Parsons--my name is Parsons," said the landlady.

"Could you, Mrs. Parsons, say less if the rooms were taken for some time?"

"Perhaps I might, ma'am. I _might_ say two pounds."

"Very well. I don't think I shall do better. I will close at once, and send you word as to the day the family will arrive."

"Pray, ma'am," inquired Mrs. Parsons, "how many are there in the family?"

"A widow lady, and, let me see, a servant,--poor thing, she must keep one servant; she has been used to more than you can count on your fingers,--and six children."

"I never take children, ma'am, _never_," said Mrs. Parsons.

"Oh dear, that is unfortunate; but these are not young children. The little boys are twins, and are--"

"_Boys!_ that quite decides me, ma'am. I don't like other folk's servants about my place; but I _might_ have got over that, had the children been girls. But boys--"

"Then I must wish you good-morning," said Aunt Betha. "Can you tell me of any house where children would not be objected to? _I_ live in a house full of children myself, and I find them, as a rule, a deal pleasanter than grown-up people. But of course you must please yourself."

"I look at my furniture, ma'am, and my peace and comfort. I look to the ruin of carpets and chairs, and--"

But Aunt Betha stayed to hear no more, and trotted off on her arduous errand.

In and out of houses went poor Aunt Betha, with alternate hopes and fears. Some were dirty and slovenly: the landladies of these called the children "little dears," and said "they doted on children." Some rooms were too dear; some too small; and as the sharp-sounding clock of St.

Luke's struck twelve, Aunt Betha felt tired out and ready to give up.

She was standing hopelessly at the corner of Lavender Place, when a pleasant-looking woman, crossing the road, exclaimed with a smile, "Why, if that's not Miss c.o.x! Dear me, Miss c.o.x, how are you, ma'am?"

"I am pretty well, Ruth, thank you; but I am tired out. I am looking for lodgings for poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's family, and I can't find any."