Chapter I: Salome

"SALOME!"

"I'm listenin', child, my lovey."

"Salome, has mother told you about Lionel and Marian?"

"Nofing as I know on, dearie."

"Then she hasn't been up here since Aunt Ella came over?"

"Why no, Master Charlie, dear. Why should she come up?"

"Then I shall tell you the news," burst forth Charlie, colouring with excitement. "Marian and Lionel have got to come and stay over here for ever so long, because—because—"

Salome turned her head round, and looked in the glowing face, and put out her dark hand.

"It's not a secret, lovey dear, is it?" she asked gently. "The dear missis wouldn't mind you tellin' me, would she?"

"Why no, nursey dear," laughed Charlie. "She said, 'Run off and tell Salome, if the news has not got to the nursery yet, Charlie; she will be very sorry though.'"

"That's all right then," answered Salome, settling herself to her work and preparing to listen. "I'm one as like news very much, lovey, if 'tis all right for me to hear it."

"Well," pursued Charlie, "you know Marian and Lionel have been staying here since Saturday because it was Alick's birthday, and he wanted to have them particularly?"

"Why of course I do, Master Charlie. Haven't they been running in and out of this nursery, a kissin' of the little ones half the time?"

Charlie laughed.

"Teasing them too," he added. "But any way, Salome, when I was sitting with mother just now (you know the others are all gone for a walk), who should come over the grass and round the garden way but Aunt Ella. She had thrown a cloak over her head, and her face was all white and scared. She beckoned mother to the window, and said she would not come in. Mother went to her, and begged her to enter, but she waved her hand, and looked more miserable than I have ever seen her. And then she said, bursting into tears—

"'Claude has scarlet fever; the doctor has just been, and says so.'"

"Then mother caught up a shawl that was lying there, and went out on to the verandah, and they stood talking for ever so long. At last she came in, saying, as she closed the door upon Aunt Ella, 'It's so hard not to kiss you, but I suppose I must not.'

"Aunt Ella shook her head vigorously, and said, 'Then you will detain them when they come? It is "very" good of you, Greta dear.'

"And then she hurried away, and mother sat down by the fire, as if she were quite tired out."

Charlie paused. Salome's handsome, dark face was turned towards him intently, and for once her work had fallen from her busy hands.

"Poor dear, poor dear!" she murmured. "What good thing de dear Lord know all 'bout it. Poor dear, poor dear!"

"Then," pursued Charlie, "I came over to mother, and asked her why she was sad, and she began to cry too, like Aunt Ella.

"'Is scarlet fever very bad, mother?' I said.

"'Very, very bad, dear.'

"'Is Claude very ill?'

"'They do not know yet. But it is so sad for them to be shut away from everybody.'

"'Will they be?'

"Mother nodded. And then, wiping her eyes, and kissing me, she said more cheerfully:

"'You will be pleased with one piece of news, Charlie. I have asked Marian and Lionel to stay with us for a long visit. You will like that.'

"'I wish it were Claude though,' I said; 'for he is nearer my age.'

"And then I was sorry; for mother looked disappointed. Salome, I wish I weren't so selfish."

"Well, lovey, tell de dear Lord so. That's de best way as I knows of to get things right."

Charlie pondered. His Indian nurse's advice was always good. Ever since he could remember, she had been the same. Love shone out of her beautiful dark eyes; loving words came from her mouth. Charlie put his hand into hers confidingly.

"Does de dear missis want me, lovey?" she asked suddenly.

"No; she's gone out in the garden to find father. Do you think it will be nice, having them to stay, Salome?"

"If de Lord has sent dem, child, you may 'pend on it as He 'll make it all right."

"Yes," said Charlie soberly; "only, you see, they are different from us, and—"

"Don't you be upset, lovey; you jest know what I say is de trufe. De ways of de Lord is de very best ways. Don't you worry yourself 'bout 'em."

Just at this moment Ruth and Sydney, who had been listening open-mouthed to the conversation, began to grow tired of the little sermon with which their dear nurse often ended a talk, and proceeded to the other side of the room, to go on with their interrupted play. Charlie sprang up, and went after them, while Salome took her work again, and went on with it industriously.

There were three houses on the top of the downs at Leesworth, which stood, as a little colony, all to themselves, quite apart from the village under the cliff.

One had been there for generations, and was called The Towers. In it lived Courtenay Malden and his young wife, both now away in India. Belonging to this was a large garden, two or three fields, coachhouse, and stables, with coachman's and gardener's cottages attached. It stood on the summit of the hill, and the ground sloped away from it on either side, a steep lane leading from it to the beach beneath, some eight minutes' pleasant walk between red cliffs and overhanging trees.

Then there was The Cottage, as it was called, adjoining Courtenay's garden, and belonging to him, which had been done up a year or two ago, and turned into a gentleman's house. Though the rooms were extremely small, the rent suited Mr. Chantry's small income, and his wife thought that the long, low nursery, built out over extensive kitchens and laundry, amply made up to her for the confined space of the other chambers. Sometimes she confessed to herself that a peep of the sea would have been very refreshing to her, but when she looked out at the sweet country lane in front, she was so grateful for the peaceful home which was provided her that she felt she ought not to wish for anything else.

In the old-fashioned garden belonging to this cottage, Mr. Chantry, who was very delicate, employed himself whenever the weather allowed. He had been ordered to spend as much time as possible in the open air, and now, from such time in the morning as his health permitted him to rise, he was to be seen busily working. Sometimes Mrs. Chantry would take her sewing out, and sit by his side; and he would look up at her from his weeding, and say:

"Greta, this is the happiest piece of our life, after all."

They had four children—Alick, aged seventeen; Charlie, eleven; Ruth, six; and Sydney, three years old. They had lost two little ones during their long residence in India. Salome and a little maid completed the family.

The third house was Sunnyside, built by Courtenay for his invalid father's use, in the field adjoining his own garden, but a little lower down the hill, nearer the edge of the cliff. In this lived Mr. and Mrs. Malden, Lionel, Marian, Claude, Muriel, and Leslie, varying in ages from sixteen to eight years old.

As Salome sat at her work on the day on which the story opens, the occupants of the nursery heard voices approaching, and Charlie exclaimed:

"There they are!"

"Who?" asked Ruth.

"Alick and the others."

"I hope they will not come up here bothering."

"Hush, dearie," said Salome, turning round.

"They 'do' bother," added Sydney, in his little, distinct voice; "and I don't like botherin'."

"Of course you don't," laughed Charlie, "but the best thing you can do is to put up with it as well as you can, Sydney. They don't mean to tease you."

Sydney looked unconvinced, and before long the three young people about whom they had been talking were heard running up the stairs, and came quickly into the room.

The first to enter was a girl of about fifteen, tall and robust, with a fresh, sweet face, which looked as if care sat but lightly on it. This was Marian Malden.

Behind her came her brother Lionel, and following him Alick Chantry, a head taller than his cousin, with slight, graceful figure, and earnest face.

"Oh, Salome, have you heard?" asked Marian, coming over and kneeling down by the nurse's side. "Is it not dreadful? What will poor mother do?"

Salome's peaceful eyes turned towards the young, fresh face, but she did not at once reply.

"I call it a horrid nuisance!" exclaimed Lionel. "It's just how things happen. Here were we going to have jolly Easter holidays, and now everything's upset."

"But we shall have some nice times here," put in Alick. "We often do; and when once we know that Claude is going on well—"

"Oh, of course he will! That's not it a bit," said Lionel. "But here are we, shut off from all our games and books, and even clothes, and obliged to be mewed up in this little cottage, with nothing on earth to do."

Marian looked distressed. Her hand, which was resting on the nurse's knee, fidgeted nervously with the strings of the pinafore which Salome was mending, and her face turned red and uncomfortable.

"It is dreadfully unfortunate," Lionel went on, "that we were out for this walk, instead of having gone home first. Then mother would have had no excuse for exiling us; as it is, as we have not been home for three days, it would be daft, I suppose, to go. But, all the same, it is a great bore."

"But—" said Marian, anxious to stop her brother.

"I suppose we shall have to make the best of it," pursued Lionel loftily; "and so we'll say no more about it. But things always seem to happen 'contrairy.' If I particularly want to do anything, sure enough something prevents."

Salome smiled silently over her work, and Marian's eyes, which were fixed on her face, looked enquiringly.

Alick had turned on his heel after a glance at his cousin, and had walked out of the room, with an annoyed shrug of his shoulders.

"What did you so particularly want to do?" asked Charlie, breaking a rather awkward pause.

"I wanted to enjoy my Easter holidays. I had planned to have a lot of boating, and father had promised to get me a bicycle."

"You will be able to have the boating all the same," said Charlie.

"Yes, but not half such fun as if there were our own house to run in and out of. One thing I know, when Claude gets out of this horrid fever—"

Salome raised her face, and put out her hand gently.

"Dear young master," she said gravely, "I don't think as de dear Lord would like you to say 'dat. We've got to submit to Him. Them as will be led, He leads as tender as tender, but them as want to be drove—"

"Do you mean that I want driving?" asked Lionel, turning red.

"Don't you think as you're anxious to go this way and that way, as pleases you best, Master Lionel?"

"I certainly do," he answered, trying to laugh off his displeasure. "Don't you think that the pleasantest?"

Marian listened intently for the answer. She so often thought her own way was best, and found out afterwards that she was wrong.

"I have learnt not," answered Salome humbly. "It can't be learnt all at once, but if we're 'willing,' de dear Lord takes us in hand, and then it's all right wid us."

Lionel picked up his cap, and walked over to disturb the little ones at their play.

Marian got up, and bent her head to kiss the smooth, dark cheek.

"Oh, Salome," she said, "what a way on the road you've got!"

"Me, dearie?"

"Yes; it looks very, very far off to be able to be sure the Lord's way is best. I wish I could jump right over to it."

"Well, dearie, we can't 'jump' to nothin'. It's just a step at a time—followin' on. If you take what He sends to-day, you'll find as you'll be a step nearer home to-morrow."

Marian's face gave a little flash through one or two tears, and she went to seek her aunt with a very tender hope of doing to-day what came next.

"Aunt Greta," she said, when she found her aunt, sitting somewhat dejectedly by the fire in the dining-room, "do you want a new daughter for a little while?"

Mrs. Chantry looked up, brightening in spite of herself at the bright tone.

"Because I mean to try to be one, if you will have me. I cannot think what dear mother will do without me, but since she has decided it so, I mean to make the best of it. It would be poor gratitude to you for your kindness in having us, to keep on lamenting that we are not at home."

"Dear child, you know how glad I am to be able—"

"Yes, auntie. So now that's all settled, what are you going to set your new daughter to do?"

Marian's homely face was quite brilliant for a moment.

Mrs. Chantry looked round the room with a sigh; it was disordered enough to make any one sigh.

Marian hastened to pull the tablecloth straight, and began to pack Sydney's bricks into their box.

"Aunt Greta," she said, as she passed the back of her aunt's chair, bending down, and speaking shyly, "will you not go up and see Salome?"

"Why, darling?"

"She would give you some medicine."

"Medicine?" echoed Mrs. Chantry, wondering.

"Don't you know the sort of medicine she always carries about with her?"

Mrs. Chantry smiled and roused herself.

"We all might," she said, as she went to the door.

And then Marian was left alone to her untidy room.

Meanwhile, Alick, disgusted with his cousin's selfishness, had gone to his own chamber, and shut himself in.

Like Charlie, he felt this illness at Sunnyside a great blow to him. Setting aside the risk and sorrow to all there, the actual thwarting of his plans, and having to make room for Lionel in their narrow abode, meant a great deal of annoyance to orderly Alick. As to Marian, he did not at the moment give her a thought.

He looked round on his dear little domain.

It had been all very well for Lionel to share it for two days, which had been specially set apart as a special holiday, but how to put up with his cousin for two months (had not Salome said something about two months?) he could not conceive, and paced up and down his room in sore vexation.

Alick's life flowed on in an even, uneventful way just now, and the boy confessed to himself, or hardly knew that he confessed it, that it was rather tame and dull.

More than two years ago his beloved step-cousin, Courtenay Malden, had been married, and had brought his young wife to the large house which overshadowed Alick's little home. And since that time, his whole interest had been centred in the doings and sayings at "The Towers," as it had been called for longer than any one could remember.

After a year of cloudless happiness to the young pair, as well as the little circle to which they belonged, and on whom they lavished all the love of which they were so full, a little cloud had fallen upon them all.

A tiny baby came to grace the happy home, but soon it was found that she had not the health of ordinary babies. And when her parents were suddenly called to take a journey to India, on the death of Margaret's father, the little frail girl was taken with them. She had hardly been kept alive where she could have every care at home. And when she became exposed to the changes incident to a journey, she quietly sank. They were but a week from port when her little body was laid beneath the waves of the Indian Ocean.

News of this had but lately reached the homes at Leesworth, and even the prospect of Courtenay's speedy return could hardly cheer Alick from the sorrow he felt on the behalf of those whom he loved so well.

His mother, tender as was her love for her boy, sometimes felt with a pang that his deepest interest and affection were centred outside his home.

"It will all come right," his father would say consolingly; "it is not as if Alick loved any one unworthy of him."

Mrs. Chantry tried to be satisfied, but confessed to herself a sense of relief when Margaret and Courtenay had really started for India.

Now they were on their homeward journey, bringing with them Margaret's widowed mother, whose health of body and mind had been shattered by the blow of her husband's death, and leaving behind them in that sea the tiny form on which for nearly a year all hearts had been set.

In all his life Alick had never spent such a sorrowful, unhappy three months. The empty house at the end of their garden was but typical of the emptiness of his life without Courtenay.

It was true he went often to read to Courtenay's invalid father at Sunnyside, and found some satisfaction in fulfilling one of his step-cousin's last requests; it was true that he walked frequently down into the fishing village beneath the cliff to call upon Courtenay's old men and women, but all seemed flat and dull. And he wondered at himself for being out of sorts, and was angry at himself, but could not guess why it was; nor did it occur to him to speak to any one of it.

His mother looked on and prayed. She knew not what else to do.

Salome looked on and prayed. She knew it was the best to do.

So Alick stood this bright day in March, and looked round on his invaded room.

"I teazed mother, I do believe, to have Lionel here, when she was hardly up to it, and this is what I've got for it," he said to himself. "Here he is, to be my constant companion night and day for two months. Well, I deserve it."

He sat down by his window, and pushed open the little old-fashioned lattice. The sunshine came streaming in with the wind fresh from the North Sea. He leaned his head on his hand, deep in thought.

"I wonder why all this has happened?" he asked himself. Then, pausing even in his thoughts, he waited for a moment.

"It cannot have happened by chance; why, of course it cannot. Courtenay's going away, their poor little baby, this illness of Claude's, my unutterable loneliness—"

He turned from the window, and opened his little well-worn Bible.

He might have found out the reason there. He probably would, but at this moment a step was heard outside, and Lionel entered abruptly.

"Aren't you coming down? I say, Alick, it's all very kind of Aunt Greta to have us, but where on earth are we to fix ourselves? You have only those two little bits of sitting-rooms downstairs, and these poky bedrooms up here. Wherever shall we be all day?"

"There's the large nursery."

"Yes, but who would like to settle down with the babies?"

"We often sit there. The little ones play by one window, and we have the other."

"Salome is always near that one."

"Well?"

"We can't talk, or anything."

Alick frowned. Unhappy, unrefreshed, because he had not drunk fresh supplies at the Fountain of Life, he had no strength or spirit to withstand to-day's annoyances.

"Don't you think so?" went on Lionel.

"I think we had better put up with it, and not be disagreeable."

Lionel whistled.

"I thought you'd have given a fellow a little better welcome than this, Alick."

Alick got up and turned away.

Oh, for Courtenay to set him right, to talk it all out to; to be able to explain his worries, and have the kind, generous sympathy in return!

The boy could have wept in his loneliness and despair. He had "forgotten his resting-place." If he could only have found out how poor he was, he might have asked to be enriched with the great riches. For "blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."