The Growing up of Salome.

White Ribbon, Volume 5, Issue 56, 1 February 1900, Page 3

The Growing up of Salome.

By Anns Hamilton Donnell

Eai'h ui the three elderly Missed Camp had a tiiinly rooted belief that both the other “ girls ” were getting hard of hearing. Thai wa.» why, when Aunt Faith overheard Mrs Pippin’s uncharitable speech al out the Child, she bore it alone patiently. It was really for tunate the girls had inherited the grandmother Camp’s deafness—it would have hurl them so to have heard that speech. “ It’s ridiculous that Salome Pitcher’s aunts don't let her dresses down ” —that had been the arrow that wounded gentle Aunt Faith. “ She looks like a long-legged game pullet, tall of its age. "When my girls were fifteen they wore their skiits to their boot-tops.” The old ladies had been on their way horn* from a meeting—three abieaet as they always walked. The Elmsboro’ selectmen built the villasidewalks with direct reference to that peculiarity of the Misses Camp. Mrs Pippin had iustled along behind them, >0 her stiff, creaky black silk. Her pew was ju6t I ehind theirs, and it w’as natural they bhculd fall into line that way, coming out of the little vine-embowered church. It was the only connecting link between them. The Child—Salome was always the Child to her doting old aunts—had walked on briskly ahead of them, her short skirts sw’ajing about her kne*s. Salome was fifteen years old and of goodly size. /‘The Child's legs are long,” mused Aunt haitb, b.ill swariing under her w’ound, “ aud so very narrow. She takes after the Camps, dear Child ! No, I wouldn’t have had the girls hear Mrs Pippiu for anything. It’s the first

time I’ve ever felt to be reconciled to their afH cl ion. Aunt Charity was watching the Child, too—and smarting. Her sweet, delicate face was suffused with a pale flush. She walked between tne others, —Aunt Charity always walked between,— silent and grave. Only Aunt Hope spoke, and her words made the other " girls ” start involuntarily. “ How—how tail the Child is gelling to Ire !” Aunt Hope said. Then they walk* <1 on together without further words. That was as near as they hud ever come to confessing that Salome was growing up. Salome ? The Child ? No, no, the Child could not be giowmg up ! She was just a slip of a thing yet that they could dose and coddle and get out of scrapes, the dear Child !

This was the cloud uo bigger than a man’s hand that lurked always on the lurizon of the Mieses Camp—that some day, sorno time, Salome would grow up and leave them. It haunted them always. Lately the cloud had been growing steadily bigger. At dinner-time that Sunday they ta ked with gentle animation of the village picnic that was to take place on Tuesday.*Salome's animation was not quite so gentle. *' It’s going to be the best one we’ve ever bad !’’ she cried enthusiastically. “ The Keith boys are going to run the little stcuiu -latmch on the pond, and Encch Bentley’s going to make gallons of ice-cream—gallons i" “ I suppose they’ll all dre*s up considerably,” Aunt Faith said. “ Yes, of course,’* echoed Aunt Hope. It’s foolish, but they always do. You’ll wear your dimity, dear Child. I’m glad you put it on todvy, to kind of take the net off ” “ it’s a very pretty dress,” said Aunt Faith “ and simple. Nothiug could be more suitable for a child.

She sighed gently. She was glad Salome w r as sitting down so she could not see how long—and narrow, vtry narrow—the dear Child's le„s were. Mrs Pippin’s strident voice was in Aunt Faith’s ears still. “ Yep. certainly, it is suitable, moat suitable,” rejoined Aunt Charity, hastily’. Was she hearing Mrs Pippin's voice, too ? “ I’m thankful, girls, we made it up with a generous hem and turned down at the belt ; and there’s plenty of new, too, to face it with some time—when the Child grows up. It's goods that will wash like a pocket handkerchief aud wear for years and years.” “ You may wear it to the academy at the mills yet, char Child!” smiled gentle Aunt Hope. The academy was another sore spot, but the three dear old ladies found consolation in treating it as a mild joke. It loomed still so far ahead of them. There was really uo oc-ca-ion to worry about the academy yet. The distance from Salome’s knees to h<-r anklog was very considerable. It was -*unt Faith who had pet her ankles a 3 the academy limit for skirts. The Child pusl ed back her chair suddenly and stood out on the baie, painted floor before them all. They were u-ed to her little whimsies and smiled indulgently.

“ Look 1” she cried," “ see how far it is ! 1 measured last nignt and it’s nine inches 1” She was looking down wistfully at herkneeshort skiits and the long stretch of black stockings b* low them. Salome did not know that she look* d like a “ game pullet, tall of its age ” —that did not trouble ht r. But how she uni want to go to the academy ! All the other girls went even Alethea Pij pin was go-

ing in the fall, and she was only thirteen. A sob crept into Salome’s voice, and she choked it d< w’n with a little unsteady laugh. “It takes so long for your petticoats to grow nine inches, Aunt Faith, Aunt Hope, Aunt Charity,” she appealed to them all, in her own quaint fashion. “ Don’t you see, at the rate they’re growing now’, I shall 1 e middle-aged when I get to academy length ?’* She laughed again nervously, and then, with «ne of her sudden impulses, darted round the little tea-table, hugging thorn all in turn, and escaping in a little wh'rl of short, crisp skiits through the kitchen door. It was the way of the Child when she wms excited. Not for the world would she have the three dear old aunts know the longing in her heart—th** longing to gro.v up likeother girls. Her interne loyalty to them forbade the slight*st open rebellion. If they wanted her a little girl till she was forty she must bear it.

“ But I’ll grow up then,” she cried to herself, w’th a fierce laugh in her throat, “ and I’ll go to the academy, too !’’ She threw’ herself down on the soft grass and stared steadily out across the pretty oldfashioned yard, seeing herself through a long vistiof years, in ankle-deep petticoats, going down the straight village road toward the academy. The vision startled her out of her depressed spii its and her clear laugh drifted back to Auut Faith, Aunt Hope, uni Aunt Charity, sitting in sober i-ilence w’hero she had left them.

“ The dear Child !” murmured Aunt Hope softly, and the other “ girls ” drew relieved breaths, they hardly knew why. The next day was Monday, and preparations for the picnic were on foot. Aun* Charity ai d Aunt Hope spent the morning in the kitchen, among pans and nappits and warm igrant odours. The Child seeded rasins and heat eggs on the back door-steps. Only Auut Faith was left out of the busy proceedings ; cooking w:?s not Aunt Faith's talent. She stole upstairs to Salome’s room under the eav*s, and took down the new dimity dress. She had her thimble on her and her workbag at her side. She began to w’ork with nervous haste.

“I’ll let it down a little from the top, just a little,” she thought. “ I can’t have that woman saying things about the dear Child at the picnic. She’ll go, 1 suppose —oh, dear me, yes, Meicy Pippin’ 11 g > !” Her scissors snipped the tiny, close stiches with sharp little clicks, and the gathers, released, set free folds upon folds of the soft material. Aunt Faith kept listening, guiltily. “ 1 wouldn’t have the girls know’ ! I v,\iut it to come *>n them gradually,” her thoughts kept on, to the tune of the scissors. “ They’ll hardly notice at all to-morrow, with so much going on, and when they do get round to noticing, they’ll be used to it.” Aunt Faith’s logic was open to criticism, but it satisfied her, gentle soul. She sat up inSalom</8 room all the morning, working fast and hard. Once she slipped down into the kitchen, and got u hot iron unobserved. She spread newspapers on the floor, and pressed out the crease and the old gathers, in the dimity skirt with patient care. She had let the dress down nearly three inches, but nothing Out tin* added length told the secret. Now let Mrs Pippin go to the picuie ! In th** afternoon Salome went out into th* orchard w ith her book, and the three old Edit s went 10 their rooms tor their customary after

dinner naps. The naps were as inevitable aa the dinner. Aunt Faith slept the sound sleep of a Relieved mind, but the other “ girls ” w.*re restless and uneasy. It was a good while Ih*fore Aunt Charity could close her eyes. Aunt Hope gave up the struggle entirely. “ It’s no use,” she murmured, “ I can’t get Mercy Pippin’s voice out o’ my ears. It keeps saying those hateful words right along steady. I’m thankful the girls couldn’t hear. Some times it must be a relief to be hard of hearing.” She stirrel uneasily about her room, setting right things to wrongs restlessly. Then she tiptoed across the hall irto Salome’s room. Her mind was mad' 1 up at last. “ I’ve got to do it ; it’s no use,” she cried, softly. “ I can’t have the Child made sport of, and I can bear doing it better than either of the girls. They’re so tender-hearted they couldn’t see to sew through their tears. It would almost break their hearts to lie a party to the Child's growing up.” The tears ran in slow procession down tenderhearted Aurt Hope’s delicate, seamed face. She wes finding it hard, too. If once they began to admit that the dear Child was growing up, where would the end be ? “ And I’m admitting !” groaned Aunt Hope. 14 Here I’m going to let this hem down in cold blood ! But I’ve got to —it’s no use, I’ve got to ! I’m thankful we put in such a very wide hem—Charity didn’t want it but three inches, but I raid six. Now I can let it half down, and it will look all right. I 11 cirry it out in the unfinished chauil or wheie the girls can’t see me. Poor things ! hut they’ll take it ' easier if it 'rind of grows on them gradually.” It was hot in tho unfinished chamber, and Aunt Hope was afraid of spiders. Both circumstances made her remaining there all the afternoon heroic ; but she worked on readily. Before it was quite tea-time she kindled the fire and warmed a flatiron. Her work wasdone with painstaking neatness, and the pretty dress was hung away again in Salome’s little lean-to closet l>efore the girls came out <f their rooms. Aunt Hope had forborne to hold it up for the last inspection that women g*ve their work ; she was afraid it would look long to her. The same fear had prevented Aui t Faith in the morning. They had both hung away the dimity dress with averted faces. 1 he Elmsboro’ 1' ghts were ext uished early. On many summer evenings they were not lighted at all. On thispartieularevening Salome Pitcher and her three old aunts sat out in their cool little yard till the stars came out, and it was bed-time. All along the pretty village street there was a soft coo of voices, and ti e creaking of rockers on gravel-walks and verandahs. All Elmsboro’ was out of do**™ in the twilight. Th* fun-nyiker <>t tne neighbourhood went along the street, warning them into bed. “ Picnic ! Picnic ! Picnic to-morrow ! All ye good ie<>ple, hie ye to bed 1 ” his gay voice boomed in their ears, and there was a ripple of laughter and shuffling of feet and chairs along the street. “ Come on, Aunt Faith, Aunt Hope. Auut Coarity !” Salome’s bright voice called, laughingly. * VI • ■ n't light the lamps, the st.' go bright,” Aunt Faith said. But an hour later Aunt Charity lighted a lamp. She stole to the Child’s door and looked in. She was asleep, dear Child ! Aunt Charity tiptoed across the room to the closet. The soft starshine lighted her quaint little figure, in its white nightgown, and kissed her intent.

wi-ilul face. Aunt Charity was smaller than the other girls ; she was not “ the greatest of these,” like th > other charity in the Bible. When she crept back to ner own room again, Salome’s new dimity dress was over her arm. Its skirt trailed in unwonted fashion on the floor, as she walked. It got in Aunt Charity’s way, and made her stumble a little.

“ I’ve got to ! I’ve got to !” she thought. " I can’t let folks like Mercy Pippin say unpleasant things about the Child’s legs —haven’t I suffered ever since meeting let out Sunday r I’m glad the girl* were spared. I can bear it letter than they could For once it was a mercy they couldn’t hear readily. Now, le* me see—” She hent close to the light, and pursed her lips, thoughtfully. She had made up h*-r mind to let part of the hem down to Salome’s skirt. “ It was fortupate—oh ! Why, I thought—-m-m-ni, I see. We only made a three-inch hem, I see. I was thinking we made a very broad one, but I remember there was a good d* al of discussion. I was almost hurt with thj* othor girls for wanting it so broad, and they made it iny way, after all ! All is, I shall have to face it down. The new pieces are downstairs, in the secretary drawer.” And like a white ghost Aunt Charity crept down to get them. They. w*re rather sm ill pi* ces, and made a good deal of piecing necessary. It took a long time to face down Salome’s skirt. Ihe clock in the church steeple struck the hour that takes the most strokes and the hour that takes the bast—and yet again—l»efore Aunt Ch irity had finished. Then, without another look at the heap of soft stuff in her lap, she bundled it up over her arm and carried it back to Saljine’s closet. It was dark in the bit of a corner, and she had to fumble around amongthe tiersof hooks. It seemed hard to find one high« nough so that the dress would not trail on the floor. On her way out Auut Charity stoope* to kiss the Chil l. “ Dear Child !” she whispered. One, two, three ! clanged the steeple cl ck, as little old Aunt Charity went hack to bed. She was very tired. “ But I had to, I had to,” she spoke alou 1. “ And it was easier tor me than the other girls. They could hardly have borne it. They’ll kind of get used t> it now, before they kn>w it It had to come ”

She lay awake a while, and the pillow under her faded check grew wet. Aunt Charity was remeuil*ering so many things about the dear Child—the time when she came to them first, a tiny morsel in long white clothes ; the time when sh** to Idled *lx>ut on uncertain, short little letf« ; the times upon times she had made sunshine for them with her childish fun and play. She was remembering how fa t the yeirs had gone over her small flaxen head, un i how, in spite of them all, she had grown from their kn«*es up to their elbows, —th ir shoulders, —she was up to Aunt Cnarity’s crown of white hair now. Aunt Charity remembered that. They had not been able to keep her alittle child. It was a l*ea itiful day for a picnic. Salome exulted in it, putting her bright tou-de 1 heal out of the window to breathe in w hiffs of the cool air, and humming strains of gay song as she dressed. She reached out to pick clusters of the climbing roses to pin on her dress. They would go so wall with the pretty dimity. “ Now for my dress—veg. I’m coming Aunt Charity ! I’ll he there in a minute —” But it was more than a minute that Salome stood before her looking- glass in speechless astonishment.

The tall figure that stood looking back at her was a young woman's figure, lithe and straight and good to see. It was dressed in dainty dimity—that looked natural to Salome. But the skirt ! The skirt swung to her slender ankles in giaceful folds. It swayed and dipped about them as she. Salome, moved. She had grown up in a night ! Another breathless minute and the girl stood looking. Then, with a swift turning of her wrists and a twirl of her little brown fingers, she had twisted all her mass of bright hair into a demure knot on her neck. She had drawn the childish ribbons into staider loops, and fastened h**rone treasure —her mother’s breastpin—at her throat.

Then the three old aunts below heard her steps coming down the stairs, staidly and gently, not with a wild dash and clamour. They had hardly time to notice the change Infore the kitchen door opened, and the Chili, grown up, stood framed in it. She made a prim little curtsey to them, holding out her long skirt mineingly. Her laughing face nodded and swayed before th**m. “ * Where are you going my pretty maid Y ‘ I'm going to the acaleiny, sir,’ she said,” her clear delighted voice rang ia their ears: aui th n something happened. With sudden, complete abjndoninent, Salome w iried toward them, an 1 t»>ok them, unresisting, into her arms. *’ You dear Aunt Faith, Aunt Hope, Aunt Chaiity !” «h* exclaimed, crying and laughing against their swvet old faces, “ you w**re so goixl to dc it I It was such a beautiful surprise ! You were so dear—lear--iear !” She portioned out the “ dears,” one to each of them, w ith a rapid accompaniment <*f kiss u s —the Child's oi l kisses. She dance 1 about the warm little kitchen, radiantly happy. That was the day Salome grew up. L >ng afterward, when even th** acideniy stood dimly in the background, that day made a distinct spot in the memory of thr.*e old ladies. They never explained it to oaeh other, or t) themselves. Each, in l*ewdder*-d guiltiness that gradually softened into quiet resignation, held herself alone accountable for the Child’s sudden growing up. “ There were so many spiders out in the unfinished chamber, I guess I was kind of agitated,” Aunt Faith thought. ‘‘l didn’t r-a-lize how much was turned down at the top.” “ I’m so absent-minded—l take it from Great grandmother Camp,” Aunt Hope mused, in bewilderment. “ I must’ve faced it down instead of hemmed it.” “ The light was so p»or, I guess I could u’o see what I was doing very well,” murmur d little Aunt Charity, softly, to herself. “ But it hai to come ! ” — Youth's Companion.