Chapter VII: Salome's Slate

"HOW'S that, dearie?"

"Very nice, very comfortable, thank you, Salome."

We must return to the evening of Lionel's accident. He had but a short while ago been carried into the nursery at the cottage, where in the ordinary way the little ones slept, as there were but few bedrooms at the disposal of the somewhat large family. The children were just putting away their toys for bed when the cavalcade arrived, and had been hurried to the dining-room, where they had since been kept amused by Alick and Marian, while Mrs. Chantry and Salome attended to the poor boy, whose discomfort and suffering were very great in his soaking condition.

He was at last got to bed, and Mrs. Chantry had sat down by him to write her note to her sister. Now she had gone to see after the little ones, and Salome and he were left alone.

"Very comfortable, thank you, Salome," he had answered gratefully, to her inquiry as to the position of his pillows.

"You'll be better by-and-by, dearie; that is, if de dear Lord sees best."

Lionel did not dissent by word or sign, but closed his eyes.

"Is de pain very bad, dearie?"

"Not so bad as it was before you put on this stuff. What time can it be, Salome?"

"I should say it's nigh on ten o'clock by now."

"I thought it must be the middle of the night."

"I hope you'll be asleep, dearie, long 'fore that. Master Lionel, you mustn't mind me callin' you by my pet names, 'cause when I'm waitin' on my child'en, I always call 'em so."

"And I'm one of your children now," answered Lionel, smiling.

"Jest that, dearie. Now you mus' do jest what I say, and we'll get on first-rate."

"I mean to," he answered, looking up in her face.

"That all settled den, dearie. Now you go 'sleep."

Lionel obeyed, at least in so far as closing his eyes again, but the pain in his hand was too severe to allow of sleep.

Salome went quietly about, arranging all things for the comfort of her children, who were turned out of their room by Lionel's presence.

And he watched her handsome form going here and there, sorting out clothes, putting up toys, carrying out night-clothes, till in spite of pain and everything, his eyelids got heavy, and before he thought it possible, he was fast asleep.

Then Salome, quiet as she had been, grew quieter. She took off her shoes and pinned her skirts close round her, and stepped about noiselessly.

Mrs. Chantry was in the next room arranging for beds for her little ones. Charlie was put with Alick, and the others stowed in corners where they would be perfectly happy.

Salome crept out to help her mistress.

"He's sleepin' like a baby, dear missis; he could not be doin' better. There's nothing like sleep for healin'. Now, child'en, you must not make 'noise for all de world. Master Lionel get better if he have dis sleep out. He perhaps not wake till half de night over."

The children were quite ready to fall in with their dear Salome's wishes. They were, however, tired and sleepy—being up for two hours longer than usual, great as the excitement had been, had left them very weary, and they gladly viewed the little impromptu beds prepared for their use.

"That is awfully comfortable," said Ruth, as she laid her little curly head on the white pillow. "I like being turned out; I wish we were every day!"

"Do you?" asked their mother, smiling.

Marian was busy undressing Sydney, "the baby," as he was sometimes called.

"Aunt Greta," she said, as she raised her head from kissing the fat shoulders, "how is it that children in their petticoats are so exquisite?"

"To baby-lovers!"

"Well, I suppose so; but I perfectly love to undress Sydney."

Mrs. Chantry smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Now he is ready for bed, Aunt Greta, is he not like the pictures of 'little Samuel'?"

Salome smiled brightly.

"I' seen them too," she said. "I'd like him to hear de dear Lord speak 'any rate."

"I hope he will," said Marian, kissing him.

"Well, if you have had enough for to-night, Marian, shall we put him into bed?" said Mrs. Chantry, smiling.

"I love Marian," said Sydney; "she's a kind gell."

They all laughed.

"Well, Marian is going to stay with you for ever so long, and you'll have plenty of her," she said coaxingly. "Will you always love me, Sydney?"

Sydney nodded, and then, his bed being ready, he was laid in it, and his mother knelt down by him and whispered his evening prayer.

"I do love Jesus," he said comfortably, stroking his mother's face softly; "and I love everybody too."

So they darkened the room and went down to supper.

"Alick, my boy, you look tired," said his mother.

"I feel tired, mother."

"I hope carrying him was not too much for you—has not hurt you."

"Oh, no. I shall be all right in the morning. Mother, I feel so thankful I hardly know what to do."

Soon the excited household were in bed; and the sleep, so much needed by all, came a gift from an overruling Father's love, and refreshed and strengthened them.

The next morning, Salome reported Lionel to have passed quite as good a night as she had expected, but that he was suffering, and must be kept very quiet.

"You do not think there is anything serious?" asked Mrs. Chantry anxiously.

"Oh dear, no, misses, my dear. But, after all he went through, we can't 'spect him to be well. He feel as if he's bruised all over."

Mrs. Chantry went in to see him.

"I am sorry you are in so much pain, my dear," she said kindly.

But she remembered all his annoyance and restlessness since he became her guest, and she felt it hard to make her tone such as she would like it to be to her own child were he hurt.

"Thank you, auntie," he replied, turning away his eyes. He wanted to say something, but he could not get it out.

"Have you all you want, my dear? Is Salome nursing you as you would like?"

She would not have asked her own child that. But Lionel should have no reason to complain of her care of him.

"Oh, yes, thank you—everything," he answered heartily. "I am only sorry to give you all so much trouble."

It was said so humbly, so unlike proud Lionel, that his aunt was touched.

"Never mind that, dear, so long as you get better. But I must not let you talk."

"Aunt Greta!"—he paused, taking her hand with his unhurt one, though he felt hers slightly unwilling. "Aunt Greta, I am so sorry I was so cross and unbearable since I came. It seems funny now I am helpless to ask you to forgive me, but I do. I could not be happy till I had told you."

Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears.

"My dear boy, you are freely forgiven; do not think of the matter again."

She kissed him warmly, and left the room with a happier heart than she had had ever since he came into the house on the Saturday before.

When Salome came back to him, Lionel was very silent, and she gave him his breakfast without much remark, though her observant eyes had seen a great deal more than he guessed.

"Salome," he said presently, when she was getting the things ready to dress his wounds, "have you heard anything from Sunnyside this morning?"

For an instant Salome hesitated, then she said, quietly and firmly:

"Don't you think, dearie, as you'd better not be asking 'bout them all day, till your pain gets little better?"

"If you knew—" he answered brokenly.

"What should I know?" she asked kindly.

Lionel was silent. It seemed as if he could not tell her.

"I do want to hear," he said at last, "but if you say I am not to ask, I shall submit."

"You are very good, dearie. I'm only wantin' you to get well, and if you go frettin', you won't get strong."

Lionel did not press the matter, but silently prepared to have his hand dressed.

"It seems worse than ever," he said, as he tried to lift it towards her and failed.

"That's to be 'spected," she said. "My! How it is swollen. My 'pinion is, dearie, that this is different from a sprain. I b'lieve it's out of joint; that's what it is."

"Is that worse than a sprain?" asked Lionel, wincing as she began to bathe it.

"Not if you get a bone-setter, dearie. We'll see 'bout that. You got nofing to do, dear, jest yet, but be patient, and let me see to you. Salome don't hurt you more than you 'spected, does she?"

"You are 'very' good to me," he answered; "much better than I deserved."

"If I am, I'm only follerin' in de dear Lord's ways, dearie. He's better than ever we deserve in all things."

"I know that," he said softly.

As the day passed on, though Lionel did not ask again for news of his brother, Salome noticed an anxious, melancholy look settling down upon his face. She went out and consulted Mrs. Chantry as to what she would wish.

"You told me to say nofing, misses, my dear; but I'm thinkin' as it will be quickest in the end to keep no secrets."

Mrs. Chantry thought for a minute, then she said:

"You can do just as you think best at the moment, Salome. I may well trust it to you. I know what would make 'me' better if I were ill—that would be to have nothing kept from me."

Salome went back to her charge.

He looked earnestly in her face, but made no remark.

"The dear misses says as you may ask what you like, Master Lionel, about your little brother."

"Oh, 'thank' you, Salome; how kind of Aunt Greta."

"But you won't go vexing yerself all the time, will you now, dearie? 'Cause de dear misses only 'low me to tell you, 'cause I know you will be better for not keepin' anythin' in."

"I'm sure I shall, Salome. It is very kind of you."

He was silent for a little while, then he said hesitatingly, "Have you heard to-day?"

"We did this morning. He was not quite so comfortable then, dearie."

"Do you think there is any danger, Salome?"

"I never heard that, dear. I'm so sure that de dear Lord holds it all in His hand that I don't ask if dere's danger, but I say to myself, 'De Lord knows,' and that make me quite peaceful."

Lionel pondered. In his helpless condition, he had time to listen to the heavenly music which would have been too low to hear in the turmoil of life.

"Salome, why do you suppose I have had this accident?"

"I don't pretend know all de Lord's ways, dearie."

"I know, Salome."

"Do you?"

"I was so headstrong that He could do nothing with me, so He had to knock me down before He could teach me."

Salome smiled at the boy's way of putting it, and she answered, "It's a good thing to have found that out anyway, dearie."

"I've found out a great deal more than that," he replied.

But he did not explain, and Salome came over to him, and smoothed his bedclothes, telling him to go to sleep now, and not talk any more.

"Salome, you must be like my mother, and give me a good-night kiss. Will you? Then I shall know you have forgiven me."

"I have not got 'nofing to forgive dearie. I always ask de dear Lord to wash de slate clean every night."

"The slate?" questioned Lionel.

"Where it's all put down on. If dere's any stain on my heart, either from my sin or from other people, I say to de dear Lord,—

"'I don't want to tink of it no more, dear Lord, wash it all 'way. Wash mine 'way from thy holy sight, and wash deres 'way from my unkind sight, and den we'll start quite clean 'gain, and I'll be happy.'"

"Oh, Salome, how nice!"

"Don't you see, dearie, He can't dwell where 't isn't all fresh and clean? So I'd better ask Him to wash it, and make it ready for Himself; 'cause I 'spect Him to dwell with me."

"Haven't 'we' anything to do then?" asked the boy, looking up earnestly.

"We've got to ask Him to do it, dearie, and believe He'll keep His promise to hear us."

Lionel turned his face to the wall, and Salome went about her work.

After this, one day was like another all the week till Sunday. Lionel's foot got gradually better, but his hand remained helpless and painful, so that Salome earnestly advised him to stay in bed for the sake of both foot and hand.

Marian came to read to him, Alick played chess with him, and he was so happy in the cheerful room and Salome's company that he took her advice to stay where he was. Privately, he dreaded to return to ordinary life, even had his hand permitted it, while his little brother's life hung in the balance. That it did hang in the balance he began to understand.

Salome did not express it in so many words, but he could see from the soberness of the faces that greeted him after the general early bulletin, that the news did not get any better.

He noticed on the Monday morning that Marian did not come up to bring him a flower to grace his breakfast, but that Salome busied herself in unusual silence, and there was a sort of feeling of something wrong in the air. He tried to shake it off as a bad dream.

"I shall get up to-day, if you'll let me, Salome," he said, as he pushed away his tray. "My foot is ever so much better, and though my hand is so bad still, I have lain here long enough; don't you think so?"

"So you have, dearie, but I had better bathe your hand 'fore you do. See, I've got all your clothes as dry as bones for you, and 'dere 'dey are all ready on a chair when you like to dress. We did cut your sleeve, but if we had not, you'd not have been able to get your arm into your coat, I'm afraid."

Lionel shook his head. His hand was bathed and bound up again, and then Salome said gently:

"I wouldn't get up for half an hour if I was you, dearie. Lie still a bit."

"Have you any particular reason why I should?"

"Only I have a message from your mother for you, and I thought we talk about that first."

"A message," echoed Lionel, surprised.

"Your dear little brother was much worse after they sent in last night—"

"Is that mother's message?" he asked, his heart sinking down to an unknown depth.

"No, dearie; she sent jest these words to you, to you particularly, dear Master Lionel. Can you bear me to say dem to you now, dearie?"

"Yes," answered Lionel slowly. He knew the purport of the message without any more words.

"She said, 'Tell him to be comforted, for Claude has gone to be with Jesus.'"

The boy's eyes were fixed on Salome's face with unutterable yearning. And then as her tender voice and touch helped him to take in the reality of the news, he turned away, and hid his face under the bedclothes.

"Oh, if I could only have seen him once more," he moaned, "just for one single minute!"

Salome understood such words as she heard, but she knew it was useless to offer consolation yet. She went to her place at the window and took up her work, her heart sending up many a prayer that the mourning one might be comforted.

At last she heard herself called, and she hastened to his side.

"Oh, Salome," said the boy, flinging his one arm round her neck, and burying his face against her, "I've got no mother to go to, and I am so dreadfully miserable! May I tell you about it?"

"I'd be very glad, dearie. But you must 'member there's One as is better 'ner any mother; He'll comfort you better 'ner I can."

"I was so angry with him for being ill—," whispered Lionel.

"I know, dearie, and de dear Lord knows."

"And I said he would be sure to get well."

"And so he has, dearie; he's well up dere."

"But—and I said 'he always came up the right side,' and here—he is dead—and I—I have been saved. Oh, Salome, I'd give my life for his at this very minute."

"Yes, dearie, I know as you would; but you're thinkin' of all your sins, and not of the de Lord's mercy. Hasn't He washed your slate clean?"

"But that doesn't make it any better that I was so cruel and thoughtless to say such things."

"It makes it better now. He says,—

"'I am He dat blotteth out thy transgressions, and will not 'member
thy sins.'"

"But even that will not bring Claude back."

And then at the sound of his brother's name, he wept bitter tears.

"But, dearie," said Salome with the greatest tenderness, "you jest listen what I say to you. Don't you think as de dear Lord has got a lot of good things for the darlin' boy as will be far, far better than livin' down here? And don't you think as He's cared for him far better than anyone here could do, if you had your wish to give your life for his to-day?"

Lionel listened, still his head was buried on that motherly bosom.

"Oh, Salome," he said, "how dreadful it is to mourn!"

"My dear Lord says how 'blessed' it is to mourn, and He can't be wrong, dearie."

"How 'can' it be blessed to mourn?"

"Jest this very fing, dearie. He says it is blessed to mourn in order that you may be 'comforted;' He means to give more dan He takes away."

"But how, Salome?" he asked. "How can He comfort me?"

"That's the very fing, dearie. 'He' is our comfort, He Himself. If He draws near to you, and comes and takes you into His arms, and wraps you up in dem, you'll say wid great joy, 'It was 'deed blessed to mourn, 'cause "He" has comforted me.'"

"And will that be better than having Claude back?" asked Lionel.

"He'll make it better dan dat even, dearie; He'll say to you, 'I know what's best for you.'"

"And then—Oh, Salome, how will He make me not mourn for those horrid things I said?"

"He won't make you not mourn for dem, dearie, but He'll comfort you 'bout dem. He'll say to you (I mean when you safe in His arms, and leanin' on His bosom), He 'll say to you, 'I've blotted out your transgressions, and now all things work together for your "good."' Dat's de way de dear Lord speaks to me anyway, dearie. It 'pears to me as if 'comforted' jest means having Jesus Himself."

Lionel kissed her dark cheek, and laid himself down on his bed. He turned over on his side, away from the light, and did not speak again for hours. There was no more talk of getting up.

She brought him food from time to time, but beyond a grateful "thank you," he said not a word.

Salome knew all was well with him, and when Marian met her on the stairs, and asked anxiously after her brother, she answered:

"De dear Lord's got him in hand, and you need have no 'xiety 'bout him, child."

"It's worse for him than for any of us," said Marian, wiping away her tears.

"Perhaps not, lovey. When de Lord ploughs down deep, de gentle rain goes in deep too. I never saw de Lord's work more plain. Dere's joy amongst de angels of God dis week I'm thinkin'."

"Then I don't so much mind, Salome. Would he like me to come and see him?"

"I'd leave him 'lone wid de Lord, lovey, till he ask for someone else."

She went back to her charge, and Marian sought for her aunt to cheer her with Salome's report.

In the evening the sunset happened to be very lovely, and Salome pulled up the blind, without however speaking about it. The glory streamed along the floor, and rested on Lionel's bed. He turned round when he felt the warmth on his face, and appreciated her action in a moment; he knew it was done to cheer him.

"Salome," he said, "is Alick at home, do you think?"

"Yes, dearie; he is walkin' in the garden with Miss Marian, and de dear misses. There he is, turnin' de corner now."

"I wanted him to write a letter for me to mother. Dear Salome, ask Aunt Greta if she minds my sending one. I can't write well with my left hand myself."

"I'll go at once, dearie. Your dear mother like to get 'letter from you."

Alick came directly, and willingly undertook to be his cousin's amanuensis.

Salome said she had "something to do for her child'en," and left the two boys together.

Lionel greeted Alick with a smile, and then said:

"You don't mind, Alick?"

"Not a bit. I am delighted to do anything for you."

"I'd rather you should see what I say than anyone else. Even Salome could not understand this as well as you."

Alick was silent, his hand holding the pen ready to begin.

"I shan't write much, Alick; but I think I ought not to hold it back when she's in such trouble."

Alick hoped he understood, but he let his cousin proceed in his own way.

"So will you begin now, Alick?"

"DEAREST MOTHER,—Alick is writing for me because I can't use my hand
yet.

"I cannot attempt to explain to you in writing all I have felt this day in the loss of dear Claude, but I just want to tell you one thing which I know will make you rejoice even in your sorrow.

"While one of your little lambs has been taken, into the fold in heaven, another big lamb has been sought by the Great Shepherd and brought into His fold on earth. Mother, on that rock, with the water ready to swallow me up, I learned what it was to be a sinner. I thought before that I was a very good fellow on the whole, and could not imagine why you were anxious for me to have a Saviour. Then I understood it in its awful meaning, and unless Alick had come, it would have been all over with me for this world and the next. At least I suppose it would, but perhaps God would have thought of some other way of saving me. At any rate, while I was despairing on account of my sins, which were ten times more dreadful to me than drowning, Alick whispered these words, 'Mighty to save.'

"'Mighty to save!' I repeated to myself. 'Then He's mighty to save me.' All at once, while Alick was climbing down, risking his life to rescue me, I saw Jesus on the cross giving His life, shedding His blood, for me. Mighty to save! And then I remembered that text on our nursery wall at home, 'Look unto me, and be ye saved.'

"Before Alick had got down to me, the deed was done. I had looked, and
I was saved.

"Mother dear, will this do you good? Such a week as I have passed no
words can say.

"Because I have been very far off, I must come very near. Because He has given His life's-blood for me, I must henceforth give my life to Him. There must be no half-and-half with me.

"Salome has been so good to me.

"Now, darling mother, you can't write to me I know, but you can send
me a message.

"I'll tell you what I've found God this week, 'The God of "all"
comfort,' and He will be that to you and my dear father too.

"Your loving son,

"LIONEL MALDEN."

Lionel had taken the pen and had scratched his own name with his left hand at the bottom of the page.

"Thank you, Alick," he said.

"Thank you for letting me know," answered Alick earnestly.

"I don't mind your telling Marian about it, Alick. I can't talk of it yet to anyone. I have got so much to learn."

"You've learnt the greatest thing at any rate," said Alick.

"It's only the 'beginning,' I'm thinking, Alick. One step up a very tall ladder."

"Whose top reacheth unto heaven," said Alick, smiling.

"Yes," answered Lionel.