"A conceited, shallow-pated young fellow," was the reply. "Handsome enough, no doubt; but I, for one, shall not be sorry to see him start for Harstone."
Poor Raymond! How little did he think that this was the impression left upon his host at Rose Court. He went home with a fresh edition of discontent at his lot, and relapsed a good deal into his former habits.
So the winter passed, and the days lengthened, and the bright spring-time drew on.
One radiant March morning Salome set out early to spend a day at Edinburgh Crescent. A holiday was proclaimed for the children, and an expedition with Ruth Pryor to see a menagerie which was stationed in a large field not far off. Mrs. Wilton had been unusually well of late, and was quite happy to be left for the day, to write letters, and perhaps walk over to the vicarage at three o'clock to see Mrs. Atherton. Salome's step was light and elastic as she walked away towards Edinburgh Crescent. She had the spring of youth in her, which responded to the spring of nature; and something delightful had happened which was to mark that day with a red letter, as she thought, to her. "Under the Cedars," after three unsuccessful journeys, and three new title-pages, had been accepted, and she had in her pocket a letter offering to publish the story and give her ten guineas for it. If the proposal was agreeable to her, the cheque would be sent at once. Only those who have earned money that is needed for some express purpose can understand the joy in Salome's heart. It was only ten guineas. Fifteen more would be required to meet what was wanted. But another story was rapidly approaching its conclusion, and very soon she might earn the rest.
These few months had been times of steady progress with Salome. She had set herself earnestly to learn the lesson of her life; and no one, old or young will, if they seek God's help, do this in vain. Just as one who sweeps a room from this cause makes it and the action fine, so did Salome, by striving against her desultory, untidy habits and her dreamy indolence, when what she had to do was uncongenial, and, above all, when her effort to struggle against discontented repining for what was denied her of luxury and pleasantness in everyday life, make the way "finer" and brighter for others and for herself. Child as she was, her influence was felt. Stevens acknowledged it, and her brothers could not fail to be affected by it. All unconsciously to herself she was fulfilling the command of One who lays no burden on us too heavy to bear, who tells us to let our light so shine that our Father in heaven may be glorified.
I think Salome's little light was shining, and I also think that had it not been for the surrounding gloom of sorrow and loss which, as it were, encompassed her, it would not have been so bright nor so steady in its radiance.
How she longed to tell Reginald the good news about "Under the Cedars." How she wished the letter had come by the first instead of the second delivery. It would be nice to meet Reginald, and hear him say, "How jolly it is!" "I shall be obliged to let him know, when I have the money, what I am going to do with it. But that time is not come yet. I must take the days one by one. And oh, what a lovely day this is! Such a sky; and how those horse-chestnut buds are shining in the sun. I remember one day last spring how I was riding with father, and he told me to look at the big chestnut tree by the lodge, how the buds were glistening."
The wakened memory of her father sent a thrill of pain through the young heart, and a hungry longing for him, which is so well expressed by the poetess of love and natural affection in her own especial strain without a rival:—
"But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring—
The human heart with all its dreams and sighs,
Thou that bring'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies?
Sweet sounds and scents break forth where'er thou art;
What wakest thou in the heart?
"Too much, ah! there too much,
We know not well wherefore it should be so;
But roused by thee,
What strange, fond yearnings from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see;
How are we haunted in thy wind's low tone
By voices that are gone!