Emma Marshall - Salome

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 brass knob 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 Cox! Dear me, Miss Cox, 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."

"Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I saw his death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?"

"Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties."

Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss Cox, and had basely deserted her as soon as she could cook – send up a dinner fit to be eaten – to dress the dinner of the baker's boy who had served 6 Edinburgh Crescent with bread.

"Dear me! I thought Mr. Wilton was a very rich gentleman. I have heard the young ladies talk of the fine country place. How was it?"

"He had misfortunes and losses, Ruth; and his family are coming here to live in furnished lodgings. But I can meet with none. Can you help me?"

Ruth looked right and left, as if she expected to see some one coming up or down the road with the news of lodgings in their hands, and was silent. At last a light seemed to break over her rosy face. "If they don't mind being next to our shop, I believe I do know the very place. Will you come and see? The house belongs to my mother-in-law, and she has got it nicely furnished. It is not far; will you come, Miss Cox?"

"Is it quite near, Ruth? for I must be back for the children's dinner, and I am so tired."

"You can take a tram from the Three Stars, and that will get you home in no time. It is not far, Miss Cox."

"Well, I will come, Ruth; but I don't feel sure about engaging the lodgings. Your mother-in-law won't mind my looking at them?"

"Oh no, ma'am, not a bit. She was an old servant, you know, of some real gentry at Whitelands, and the old lady died last fall twelvemonth, and left mother – I always calls her mother – a nice little sum and some real valuable furniture."

"Oh! then she won't take children," said Miss Cox despairingly. "She won't take boys?"

"That she will, if you like the apartments; there won't be no difficulties," said Ruth in a reassuring voice. "You see, my Frank's father died when he was an infant, and mother went back to her old place, where she lived till two years ago, when the mistress died. Then she took this little business for Frank, and the house next. It is quite a private house, and was built by a gentleman. She thought she should be near us and help us on a bit, and so she has. And she put the furniture in it, and has added a bit here and there; and she let it all last winter to the curate and his mother; and here we are, Miss Cox. Look straight before you."

Miss Cox looked straight before her as she was told, and there, at the end of the road, stood a neat white house with a pretty good-sized baker's shop on the lower floor, and two windows above. There was a wing with a bake-house, and then a tall elm tree, left of its brethren which had once stood there in a stately group, either by accident or by design, and given their name to the locality – Elm Fields.

"There's my Frank at the door," Ruth said, nodding; "he wonders what I am come back for."

"I remember him," said Miss Cox; "he used to take an hour to deliver the bread. Ah, Ruth, you should not have married such a boy."

"Shouldn't I? Then, Miss Cox, you and I don't agree there. If I am a bit older, Frank is the best husband that ever lived. – This way, ma'am."

Ruth opened a wooden gate and went up a narrow path to the door of a small house, built of old-fashioned brick, with a porch at the side, and a trellis covered with clematis.

"Quite like country, isn't it, ma'am? – Mother," Ruth called. And then from the back of the house Mrs. Pryor emerged, a thin, pale, respectable-looking woman, but with a sad expression on her face. "Here's a lady, mother, come to look at your apartments, for a family – Dr. Wilton's brother, you know, mother, where I lived when I first saw Frank."

"Ah! indeed; will you please to look round, ma'am? It is a tidy place; I do all I can to keep it neat and clean; and there's some good furniture in it, left me by my dear blessed mistress." And Mrs. Pryor raised her apron to her eyes, and spoke in a low voice, like one on the brink of tears.

"Well then, mother, when ladies come to be in their eighty-sevens, one can't wish or expect them to live. It is only natural; we can't all live to be a hundred."

"I don't like such flighty talk, Ruth," said Mrs. Pryor reprovingly. "It hurts me. – This way, ma'am."

Aunt Betha followed Mrs. Pryor into a sitting-room on the ground floor, square and very neat, – the table in the middle of the room, a large mahogany chiffonier, with a glass of wax flowers on it, and two old china cups. Miss Cox went to the square window and looked out. The ground sloped away from the strip of garden, and the hamlet of Elm Fields, consisting of the cottages and small houses where Frank now delivered his own bread, was seen from it. There was nothing offensive to the eye, and beyond was a line of hills. Harstone lay to the right. Another room of the same proportions, and four bed-rooms, all very neat, and in one, the pride of Mrs. Pryor's heart, a large four-post bed with carved posts and heavy curtains, the very chief of the dear mistress's gifts and legacies.