"Then, will you manage to be at Greystone by five o'clock?"
"Yes, miss, if all's well. Oh, please thank Mrs. Fowler for asking me!"
"Mother wants to hear you sing again. She has taken quite a fancy to you, and I am so glad."
"I think your mother is the prettiest, sweetest lady I ever saw," the lame girl said earnestly. "How dearly you must love her, Miss Margaret."
"Yes," Margaret answered soberly, "but I do not think she cares for me much. Gerald is her favourite, you know. Oh, I'm not jealous of him, but I can't help seeing that though he teases and worries her, and I do all I can to please her, she loves him much better than she has ever loved me."
Salome was surprised, and pained by the look of sadness on her companion's face.
"Perhaps your mother shows her affection more to Master Gerald because he's so much younger than you," she suggested. "I cannot believe she loves him better really."
Margaret made no reply to this, but by-and-by she said, "We have had several fusses at home these last few days. Did you hear that father dismissed one of the men-servants for bringing beer into the stable?"
"Yes, I heard about it. I think Mr. Fowler was quite right," Salome declared decidedly.
"Do you? I'm glad to hear you say that. Father always means to do right, I am sure. He is a teetotaler himself, you know, and so are we all, for that matter."
At this point in the conversation the garden gate clicked, and Josiah strode up the path and hurried past the little girls into the cottage. His bronzed face was crimson; and he walked somewhat unsteadily; but he was sufficiently sober to realise that his wisest plan was to take no notice of his little daughter's visitor.
Pitying Salome from the depths of her heart, Margaret rose, saying it was time for her to go home. The lame girl followed her silently to the garden gate, where they stood for a few minutes talking.
"You'll be sure to come to-morrow, won't you?" Margaret said earnestly.
"Yes, miss," was the grave reply, "if I possibly can; I hope nothing will prevent it, but—you see how it is with him sometimes," and she pointed towards the cottage.
"Yes," Margaret admitted. "Oh, I'm so sorry! He must be a terrible trial for you. May God help you, Salome."
"He does help me," the lame girl replied, "I couldn't bear it alone. Oh, how I wish my father was a teetotaler like yours."
"I wish so, too."
"I had hoped you would never find out about my poor father being a drinker, but I might have known that sooner or later you would learn the truth. Oh, miss, don't, please don't think, he's altogether a bad man. He isn't! When he's sober, there's not a kinder or better man in the world. But when the drink gets hold of him, he isn't himself at all." And Salome laid her head on the top rail of the gate and sobbed heartbrokenly.
"Oh, don't cry so!" Margaret said imploringly, her own eyes full of tears. "Oh, perhaps he'll give up the drink some day."
"I don't know, miss, I'm afraid he won't. He gets worse instead of better. The Vicar has spoken to him, but that's done no good. He has only come home for supper now; afterwards he'll go back to the 'Crab and Cockle.' But there, I mustn't cry any more, or he'll notice it!"
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SALOME LAID HER HEAD ON THE TOP RAIL OF THE GATEAND SOBBED HEART-BROKENLY.
"Good-bye, Salome! Mind you come to-morrow."
"Oh, yes! I hope I shall. Oh, miss, I feel so ashamed that you should have seen my father to-night!"
"There's nothing for you to be ashamed about. I think you're the pluckiest girl I know. Good night!" And Margaret ran off with a nod and a smile.
She slackened her speed soon, however; and as she went up the hill beyond the church towards her home, paused now and again to look back the way she had come, and admire the beautiful view. At the entrance to the grounds of Greystone she met her father, and together they walked towards the house, whilst she told him of Josiah Petherick's condition that evening.
"Oh, father, you are right to be a teetotaler!" she cried. "Drink is an awful thing!"
"It is indeed, my dear," he replied with a deep sigh. "I found Petherick a well-informed, civil-spoken man, in fact I was favourably impressed with him this morning, and he talked of his little daughter as though he really loved her. Drink can slay affection, though," he concluded sorrowfully.
"It's dreadful it should, father!"
"When drink once gets hold of people, it makes them slaves, and kills their finest feelings. I am very sorry for that poor Salome!"
"So am I. She is so brave, too, and sticks up for her father all she can. Oh, I think he ought to give up the drink for her sake. I wonder—I wonder if it would be any good for you to speak to him!" And Margaret looked wistfully and pleadingly into her father's face.
"I will consider the matter," he rejoined thoughtfully.
"Oh, father!" she cried, picturing afresh Salome's grief and humiliation, "What should I do, if I had such a trouble as that poor lame girl has to bear?"
Mr. Fowler started, and a look of intense pain and trouble momentarily crossed his countenance, but he answered quietly, "In that case, I hope you would ask God to support and comfort you."
"As Salome does. I could not be patient like she is, though."
"I trust you would, my dear child."
"Well, I am not likely to be tried," and Margaret regarded her father with a look of affectionate pride. She wondered at the sadness of the smile with which he returned her glance; and his answer, gravely spoken, puzzled her not a little.
"We cannot tell how much our patience and our love may be tried," he said, "nor what trials the future may hold for us. We can only pray that God will help and strengthen us in our time of need."
Perfectly Happy.
"OH, I do hope she will come! It's nearly five o'clock, and she's not in sight yet. I wish I had thought of watching from my bedroom window, I could have seen then when she left the cottage."
The speaker, Margaret Fowler, started up from her seat beneath the lilac tree, and ran across the lawn in the direction of the gate which led from the grounds of Greystone into the road. Beneath the lilac tree sat Mrs. Fowler in a comfortably padded wicker chair, with a small table laden with papers and magazines at her side. She glanced after her little daughter with a slightly amused smile, then remonstrated with Gerald, who was playing near by, for making a noise.
"You will give me a headache, if you keep on doing that," she said, as he cannoned two croquet balls against each other. "Pray, be quiet!"
Gerald chose not to obey. He continued his game, utterly regardless of his mother's command.
"Do stop, Gerald!" she exclaimed. "I really cannot bear that noise any longer. Oh, where is Miss Conway? Why isn't she here to look after you? Gerald, to oblige me, find some other amusement, there's a dear boy!"
"Why do you not obey your mother, sir?" demanded a stern voice. And suddenly the little boy dropped the croquet-mallet from his hand, and turned to face his father.
"That's right, Gerald!" Mrs. Fowler said hastily. "He hasn't been doing anything wrong, Henry," she continued, glancing apprehensively at her husband, "only—you know how absurdly nervous I am—I can't bear any sharp, sudden noise. It's foolish of me, I know."
Gerald now ran after his sister, and Mr. Fowler stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking, down at her with grave attention.
"You should make the boy obey you, my dear," he said. "Has not your visitor arrived yet?"
"No. Margaret has gone to the gate to see if she is coming. I thought we would have tea out here, for it is cooler and pleasanter in the garden than in the house, and it will be more informal. I should like you to hear this lame girl sing, Henry! I think I never heard a voice which touched me so deeply as hers. But you are not listening—"
"I beg your pardon, my dear. I confess my thoughts were wandering. The fact is, to-morrow I shall have to go up to town for a few days, and I would far rather remain at home. But I am obliged to go."
"You can leave with an easy mind," his wife told him reassuringly. "I am really quite strong now, and capable of managing the household, I believe I shall be better for something to do. By the way, you cannot think how much I enjoyed my drive this morning to N—" mentioning the nearest town. "I wanted some trifles from a draper's, and the shops were much better than I expected. Oh! Here come the children. They are bringing Salome with them."
Mrs. Fowler rose and greeted the lame girl very cordially, placing her in a chair next to her own. Salome was looking her best, neatly attired in a clean cotton frock. There was a flush born of excitement on her cheeks, and her brown eyes shone with a happy light as she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the present hour.
Tea was served beneath the lilac tree, such a luxuriant tea as Salome had never partaken of before, and everyone appeared determined that she should make a good meal—Gerald pointing out to her the most delectable of the dainties which he pressed her to eat, for in the depths of his selfish little heart, there was a warm spot for the lame girl who had so often given him flowers from her garden when he had certainly not deserved them.
Salome was inclined to be a trifle shy at first of Mr. Fowler. From what she had heard of him she had imagined he must be an exceedingly stern, strict sort of man, but he talked to her so kindly and pleasantly that she soon grew at ease with him, and answered all the questions he put to her unreservedly. She told him she had only been a member of the choir during the last six months, and explained that she had not known she possessed a really good voice until the Vicar had informed her that such was the fact.
"I always loved singing, even when I was a tiny thing," she said, "but I never thought of joining the choir till one day when Mr. Amyatt suggested it. He was passing our cottage, and heard me singing, and he came right in and said he would like me to come up to the Vicarage and let him try my voice. Father said I might go, so I did, and the next Sunday, I sang with the choir in church for the first time."
"You must not sing too much," Mr. Fowler remarked, "for you are very young, and might permanently injure your voice if you strained it now. You must nurse it a bit."
"That's what Mr. Amyatt says," Salome replied with a smile, "and I'm very careful."
"It is a great gift to have a beautiful voice." Mr. Fowler looked with kindly interest at his little guest as he spoke; then his eyes wandered to the crutches which she had placed on the ground beside her chair, and she caught the swift glance of sympathy which crossed his face, and from that moment, he stood high in her estimation.
"God is very merciful," he added softly, as though speaking to himself; "we are too apt to forget that He never sends a cross without its compensation."
Salome was perfectly happy sitting there under the lilac tree, though she felt all the while as though she must be in a wonderful dream. Mrs. Fowler, in her light summer dress, with her fair hair and her lovely blue eyes, looked like a queen, she thought. Salome was more and more impressed with her grace and charm on every fresh occasion on which she saw her. How proud Miss Margaret must be of her mother! And how happy Miss Margaret must be in such a beautiful home, with kind parents, and everything that heart could desire! And yet, what was the meaning of that wistful look on her face; and why was Mr. Fowler's countenance so grave, and almost stern in expression at times? Salome's eyes were remarkably shrewd. She noticed how attentive Mr. Fowler was to his wife, almost seeming to anticipate her wishes and read her thoughts; and she was surprised when he was called away for a few minutes to see that Mrs. Fowler talked with greater freedom in his absence, as though his presence put a restraint upon her.
As soon as all had finished tea, Margaret took Salome around the gardens, and afterwards led the way into the house. She showed Salome her own room, the walls of which were crowded with pictures and knickknacks. The lame girl had never seen such a pretty bedroom before as this one, with its little white-curtained bed, and white-enamelled furniture. Then Margaret opened a velvet-lined jewel case, and took out a small, gold brooch in the shape of a shell, which she insisted upon fastening into the neck of her visitor's gown.
"It is for you," she said, "I bought it with my own money, so you need not mind taking it. I told mother I was going to give it to you. I want you to wear it for my sake, Salome."
"Oh, Miss Margaret, how kind of you! Thank you so much. But ought I to take it? Are you sure Mrs. Fowler—"
"Oh, yes!" Margaret interposed eagerly. "Mother would like you to have it. She said she thought it would be a very suitable gift for you. It is pretty, isn't it?"
"It is lovely!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I shall value it always, Miss Margaret, for your sake," and there were tears of pleasure and gratitude in Salome's brown eyes as she spoke.
"I am so very glad you like it," Margaret said earnestly; "but now, come downstairs to the drawing-room."
Greystone appeared quite a palatial residence to the simple village girl, accustomed to her cottage home. She noticed how soft and thick were the carpets, how handsome was the furniture; and how everything in connection with the house had been done with a view to comfort. A sense of awe crept over her, as she cast one swift glance around the spacious drawing-room. Miss Conway was at the piano, but she ceased playing as the little girls entered; and Mrs. Fowler, who was standing by the open window conversing with her husband, turned towards them immediately and requested Salome to sing.
So Salome stood, leaning upon her crutches, in the centre of the room, and lilted, without accompaniment, a simple little song she had often heard from her dead mother's lips. It was a lullaby, and she sang it so sweetly and unaffectedly that her listeners were delighted, and Mr. Fowler was surprised at the beauty of the voice which had had so little training. She gave them several other quaint west-country ballads; and then, at Mrs. Fowler's request, sang, "Abide with Me."
"I like that best," Margaret said, as she drew Salome down on a sofa by her side. "Why, how you're trembling! And your hands are quite cold!"
"Poor child! We have made her nervous, I fear," Mr. Fowler remarked. "Used your mother to sing, my dear?"
"Yes, sir, sometimes, and father used to sing in the choir, but he doesn't now. If you please," she proceeded, glancing from one to the other hesitatingly, "I think I ought to go home. Father promised to meet me outside the gate at seven o'clock, and it must be that now."
"It is a little after seven," Mr. Fowler replied, glancing at his watch.
"Then I think I must go, sir."
"You must come again soon," Mrs. Fowler said eagerly. "Thank you so much, my dear, for singing to us. You have given us very great pleasure."
"I am very glad," Salome rejoined simply and earnestly, "and I should like to tell you how much I have enjoyed myself; and thank you for all your kindness to me."
True to his promise, Josiah Petherick was waiting for his little daughter in the road outside the entrance to Greystone. He was perfectly sober, and as Salome caught sight of his stalwart figure, her face lit up with pleasure.
"Well, have you had an enjoyable time?" he inquired, smilingly.
"Oh, yes," she answered, and proceeded to give him a detailed account of all she had seen, and heard, and done. He admired Margaret's gift, and was secretly much gratified at the attention and kindness his little girl had received from the new-comers. Much to her relief, he accompanied her past the "Crab and Cockle," though it must be admitted, he cast a longing glance in the direction of the open doorway through which the stale odour of tobacco and beer was stealing forth as usual. And when they reached home, he followed her into the cottage, and continued the conversation whilst she set about getting supper. She feared he would take himself to the inn as soon as the meal was over, but, instead, he sat down under the porch and gazed thoughtfully out to sea.
"That Mr. Fowler's a rare hand to talk," he remarked presently, when his little daughter joined him. "That comes of being educated, I s'pose. He can argue a bit, he can."
"Can he?" Salome looked surprised. "How do you know, father?" she inquired.
"'Cause I was foolish enough to try to argue with him, my maid!"
"Oh! When was that?"
"This morning, on the beach."
"Oh!" she cried again, more and more astonished. "What did you argue about, father?" She ventured to ask.
"Drink!" was the brief reply. And there was that in Josiah's manner which forbade further questioning.
Salome nestled silently close to her father's side, her head resting against his arm, as she thought how nice it was to have him there with her, quite himself, and how dearly she loved him. She listened to the murmur of the sea, and tried to count the stars appearing in the sky, whilst Josiah recalled the argument he had had with Mr. Fowler, in which, he was obliged to admit, he had come off worst. At last, a deep sigh from Salome drew his attention to her, and he asked what was amiss.
"Amiss?" she echoed in astonishment. "Nothing."
"But you sighed, my dear."
"Did I? Then it must have been for joy. I'm perfectly happy, perfectly! And so I should always be, if there was no such place as the 'Crab and Cockle' in Yelton."
"Well, Salome, I've not been there to-night."
"No, you have not, dear father," she answered affectionately, "and that's why I'm so perfectly happy. My mind's at rest!"
An Afternoon's Outing.
MR. FOWLER was obliged to breakfast at seven o'clock, which was an hour-and-a-half before the usual breakfast hour at Greystone, on the morning following Salome's visit, as it was his intention to catch the first train to London from N—, and in order to do that he would have to leave home before eight o'clock, and drive several miles. His journey had been discussed on the previous night, and he had said good-bye to Miss Conway and the children then. But, when he entered the breakfast-room as the clock struck seven, he found his little daughter awaiting him.
"Why, Margaret!" he exclaimed in pleased surprise as he kissed her. "I did not expect to see you, my dear! You are not generally an early bird."
"I'm afraid I am rather sleepy-headed in the mornings, as a rule," she confessed, "but I made up my mind last night that I would have my breakfast with you to-day, dear father, and see you off. Now do try to eat as much as ever you can," she added practically, as the servant appeared with a tray holding a couple of covered dishes and the coffee-pot.
Mr. Fowler laughed, as he seated himself at the table with Margaret opposite to him, and said he would take her advice.
"I am sorry I have to go," he remarked, "but I have no choice in the matter, as my lawyer wants to consult me upon important business. I shall leave your mother in your charge, Margaret."
"In my charge?" Margaret said inquiringly, looking surprised. "But she is not ill now, father! See how cheerful and bright she was last night. And she has taken several walks. Oh, she is heaps better and stronger than she was! I don't think you need worry about her."
"Perhaps not; but, nevertheless, I want you to devote as much of your time as you can to her during my absence. I have spoken to Miss Conway, and she has consented to give you a holiday till I return. Had I not seen you this morning, Miss Conway would have explained my wishes to you. I desire you to accompany your mother when she drives out, and when she goes into the village, or down to the beach—in short, make yourself her companion, my dear, until I return. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father, I think so," Margaret replied, impressed by his serious tone. "I expect mother will be dull when you are gone, so I will do my best to brighten her up!"
"That's a good child!"
"Only, sometimes she much prefers to have Gerald with her to me!"
"I would rather she had you. Remember what I have said, Margaret. I hope I shall not be away very long, but it will of course depend upon circumstances."
Mr. Fowler made an excellent breakfast, and afterwards went upstairs to say good-bye to his wife, whilst Margaret waited for him in the hall. He kissed his little girl tenderly on his return, then, it being quite time for him to leave, entered the carriage which was waiting at the door, and was driven off. Margaret felt a little depressed as she listened to the sound of the carriage wheels dying away in the distance, for she was exceedingly attached to her father, and home did not seem like home without him.
Knowing her mother must be awake, she went upstairs, and knocked at her bedroom door. On being told to come in, to her surprise, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of getting up to breakfast.
"But do you feel well enough?" Margaret asked, for up to the present Mrs. Fowler, having been an invalid, had always breakfasted in her own room at Greystone.
"Oh, yes!" was the quick response. "I'm tired of being treated like a sick person! What a beautiful, bright morning it is, and not so hot, is it? Your father will have a fine day for his journey."
"He did not want to go at all!"
"No. But that was foolish of him!"
"I think he did not like the thought of leaving you, mother. He feared you might be ill whilst he was away."
"Oh, I am not likely to be ill again," Mrs. Fowler declared sanguinely. "I mean to throw off my invalid-ish ways now, and surprise your father on his return. Send Ross to me, Margaret, to help me dress."
"Shall I help you, mother? Do let me. I am sure I can do your hair as well as Ross."
Mrs. Fowler hesitated, but finally decided in favour of Ross; so Margaret went in search of her. Ross was a well-mannered, good-tempered young woman who waited upon Mrs. Fowler, and did the mending and sewing of the household. She expressed surprise and pleasure on hearing that her mistress intended getting up and joining the family breakfast-table.
"It shows how much stronger she feels, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've often thought if she would bestir herself more she would be better in health and spirits."
Gerald grumbled loudly when he discovered that he was to do lessons whilst his sister was to have a holiday. Why should Margaret be allowed nice drives with their mother when he was obliged to stay at home and work. It was most unfair, he declared; and it may be imagined that poor Miss Conway had rather a trying experience with her younger pupil on the first day of his father's absence, when, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret drove to N—, and left him at home.
The road to N— lay through some most beautiful scenery, and Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Now they were on an open common where the few trees to be seen were stunted and grown one-sided, a fact which puzzled the little girl until it was explained to her that the keen breeze blowing across the Atlantic was accountable for it, then she remarked that the bare side of the trees was the one which faced the sea; now they had left the common and were going down bill into a sheltered, wooded coomb, and by-and-by the road led upwards again till the town of N— was reached, situated almost at the top of the hill.
At the entrance to the town, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret got out of the carriage, and walked up the main street—Fore Street it was called—looking into the shop windows. They had paused outside a small china shop in which was some pretty pottery, when a familiar voice addressed them in accents of pleasure and surprise.
"Can I believe my eyes? Who would have thought of meeting you here!"
Turning instantly they confronted a handsome, middle-aged lady, dressed as a widow, whose comely face was wreathed in smiles. She was called Mrs. Lute, and had been a near neighbour of theirs in London.
"Oh, how glad I am!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "It is good to see you again! Are you staying in the neighbourhood?"
"Yes; I have taken a furnished house at N— for two months. I saw it advertised, came to see it, and the result is that here I am! Why, how well you look! And you were such a wreck when you left town! Margaret, too, is looking all the better for the change of air! I suppose you are still at Yelton?"
"Oh, yes! Why haven't you been to see us?"
"I have only been here a week. But, come, walk home with me, and have a cup of tea."
"I should like to, but I have some errands to execute. Oh, Margaret!" And Mrs. Fowler turned to her little daughter eagerly. "Surely you could do the errands! See, here is the list of what I want on this paper! Is your home far from here?" she inquired of Mrs. Lute.
"No, you must have passed it—a thatched, whitewashed house, with a porch covered with clematis and roses."
"Oh, yes, I noticed it!" Margaret cried. "Mother, why don't you and Mrs. Lute drive back in the carriage, and I will join you as soon as I have done the shopping?"
Thus it was arranged. Margaret was quite excited at meeting an old acquaintance, for Mrs. Lute had long been on the friendliest terms with her neighbours in town. She was one of the kindest of women, and had been exceedingly sympathetic during Mrs. Fowler's serious illness in the spring.
When Margaret had executed her list of errands, she made her way to the whitewashed house, outside which the carriage was waiting; and on being shown into the drawing-room which faced the road, found her mother and Mrs. Lute seated there conversing happily.
"How warm the poor child looks!" the latter exclaimed. "Sit down in this comfortable chair, my dear, and let me give you some tea; or would you rather have a glass of wine, for you look tired, and—"
"Oh, no, thank you!" Margaret interposed hastily.
"Just as you like, my dear; but I persuaded your mother to take a little wine; I thought it would do her good after her long drive, and I think it has refreshed her. Here's your tea, my dear! Help yourself to cream and sugar, and do try this cake."
"Thank you, Mrs. Lute."
Margaret was startled for the moment to hear her mother had been drinking wine, remembering how her father had refused to allow her to take it. She thought Mrs. Fowler should have declined it; but the matter soon passed from her mind as Mrs. Lute began to question her about Yelton.
"Everyone tells me it is a charming little village," Mrs. Lute said, "but your mother is not enthusiastic about it. I think she is beginning to feel the lack of society. I have been telling her she should be satisfied to have regained her health. She is looking wonderfully well."
Margaret, glancing at her mother, agreed with Mrs. Lute. No one would have guessed at that moment that Mrs. Fowler had been an invalid so lately, for there was a pink colour in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were shining with a happy light. She was as glad as was Margaret to meet their old friend.
"You must pay us a visit at Greystone as soon as my husband returns," she said hospitably, "and then you will be able to form your own ideas of Yelton and its inhabitants. Margaret has struck up a friendship with a lame girl, Salome Petherick by name, and I believe Gerald has picked acquaintance with several fishermen."
"Salome's father is a fisherman," Margaret remarked; "and oh, Salome has the most beautiful voice you can possibly imagine, hasn't she, mother?"
"She certainly has. When you come to visit us, Mrs. Lute, you shall hear this Cornish singing-bird. Poor girl, she is a sad cripple, yet she makes herself very useful, attends to her father's cottage, and even does gardening!"
"She uses a pair of crutches as a rule," Margaret explained, "but when she is gardening, she somehow manages to hop about on one, so that she has a hand free to work with. Poor Salome! Her father drinks, and that is a great trouble to her."
"I should think so, indeed!" Mrs. Lute commented. "She ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge. Total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people."
"Father says," Margaret was beginning, when Mrs. Fowler somewhat abruptly changed the conversation by inquiring for a mutual friend in town. It struck the little girl that her mother did not wish her to air her father's teetotal views, so during the homeward drive she recurred to the subject.
"Mother, I was going to tell Mrs. Lute that we are all teetotalers now," she said. "Don't you want her to know?"
Mrs. Fowler hesitated and frowned slightly, refraining from meeting her little daughter's gravely inquiring gaze.
"I suppose she will have to know, if she comes to stay with us at Greystone," she responded in tones of annoyance. "I had forgotten your father's fad when I invited her."
"Oh, mother, don't call it a fad!" Margaret cried distressfully.
"That's what it is, child! Mrs. Lute is accustomed to take wine, yet no one can say she is not a strictly temperate woman. Your father, I do not doubt, would like her to be a total abstainer. Such nonsense! He used not to be so fastidious!" And Mrs. Fowler looked quite angry.
Margaret made no answer. She had perfect faith in her father's judgment, but she felt herself incapable of arguing the matter from his point of view.
On reaching home they found a telegram from Mr. Fowler, acquainting them with his safe arrival in London. As Mrs. Fowler read it, the displeasure left her face for a softer, gentler expression.
"How thoughtful he always is!" she exclaimed.
She was in exceedingly good spirits all the evening, and retired to rest apparently perfectly well; but about midnight, Margaret was awakened by a sound in the room, and starting up in bed, found her mother standing by her side in her night-gown, with a lighted candle in her hand.
"What is it, mother? Are you ill?" The little girl inquired in alarm.
"No, but I am nervous, and cannot sleep! I wish your father had not gone! Did I frighten you? I hope not. I felt I must have company."
Margaret was greatly astonished, for the thought had continually crossed her mind during the day that Mrs. Fowler was relieved at her husband's absence. She jumped out of bed immediately, and led her mother back to her own room.
"I will stay with you to-night, dear mother," she said gently. "You won't feel nervous then."
So mother and daughter lay down side by side, but not to sleep as yet, for the latter was restless and sighed continually.
"You are sure you are not ill?" Margaret asked with loving anxiety.
"No, I am not ill, but I am very unhappy," was the response in a tone of great sadness. "Oh, child, I wish you had a better mother!"
"You are the dearest mother in the world," Margaret cried earnestly.
"But very far from being the best. I am very troubled—no, I cannot tell you what about. No, you couldn't help me. No one can."
"Yes, God can, mother," Margaret reminded her; then she quoted softly—
"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,Help of the helpless, O abide with me."
Mrs. Fowler caught her breath with a little sob; but doubtless, the words of Salome's favourite hymn comforted her, for presently, Margaret knew by her regular breathing that she had fallen asleep.
The little girl lay awake wondering what trouble her mother could possibly have, or if she was only nervous and imaginative; and it was not until the first streaks of dawn peeped into the room that she slept too.
An Awful Thing.
WHEN Margaret awoke, she was alone. At first she was surprised to find herself in bed in her mother's room, but in a few moments, she remembered how that happened to be the case. Before, however, she had time to dwell much upon the matter, the door opened and her mother entered, fully dressed, bearing a breakfast tray in her hands, which she placed on the dressing-table.
"Have I overslept myself?" Margaret inquired. "I am so sorry."
"You need not be, my dear," Mrs. Fowler replied, smiling as she came to the bedside and kissed her little daughter. "You had a disturbed night on my account. How foolish it was of me to be too nervous to sleep alone! I blame myself for spoiling your rest. But, see, I have brought your breakfast, so sit up and eat it at once; after you have had it, you can dress and come down on the beach with me."
Mrs. Fowler looked alert and well. She talked brightly whilst Margaret was taking her breakfast, and pulling a letter out of her pocket, which she had received from her husband by the morning's post, read it aloud. It merely told of his journey to town, and concluded with his love to the children, and a hope that Mrs. Fowler would take care of herself.
"I shall not tell him how silly I was last night," she said. "I suppose I cannot be quite so strong as I thought. My late illness played sad havoc with my nerves. It is such a glorious day, Margaret, that I am sure we ought to spend it out of doors."
Margaret assented willingly, and went to her own room to dress. By-and-by, she and her mother strolled down to the beach, and passed a pleasant morning in the welcome shade of a big rock. And in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of again driving to N—.
"Won't you be very tired, mother?" Margaret asked dubiously. "You mustn't overdo it, you know."
"Oh, I will be careful, my dear!" Mrs. Fowler rejoined. "But I want to get some things I forgot yesterday. Meeting Mrs. Lute so unexpectedly put everything else quite out of my head. Miss Conway and Gerald can accompany us."
It was not such a pleasant drive as the one of the previous day, for Gerald was tiresome, and continually stood up in the carriage to look at different objects of interest which attracted his attention. Miss Conway begged him to sit still, but he would not obey her. And, at last, he was jolted into his mother's lap, much to her annoyance and to his amusement. She declared she wished she had left him at home, and that it would be a long time before she would take him for a drive again. Whereupon, he only laughed, for he did not believe she meant what she said.
"Are you going to see Mrs. Lute, mother?" Margaret inquired as they neared the town.
"No, not to-day. I will get out at the bottom of Fore Street, and you others shall drive on a little farther and return for me. No, I will not have you, Gerald! You are to stay with Miss Conway and your sister."
Mrs. Fowler spoke with decision in her tones; she was evidently determined to do her shopping alone.
Accordingly, she got out of the carriage at the entrance to the town, and the others saw her go into a grocer's shop as they were driven on. When the carriage returned a quarter of an hour later, she was standing waiting outside the same shop. The shopman came out and placed a parcel in the carriage, then Mrs. Fowler took her seat and gave the order—"Home." She seemed lost in deep thought during the remainder of the drive, and spoke but seldom, paying slight attention to the conversation the others carried on. She was evidently glad to reach Greystone.
"I expect she is really very tired," Margaret reflected, "but does not like to confess it." And she was confirmed in this opinion when she saw how quiet and languid Mrs. Fowler appeared during the evening. She did not request Miss Conway to play to her as she usually did, but lay on the sofa with a book in her lap, yawning occasionally as though weary of the day, so that neither Margaret nor the governess were surprised when she declared her intention of going to bed early. She would not hear of Margaret sleeping with her, however, but kissed both of her children good night in the drawing-room, and told them not to disturb her when they went upstairs to bed.
It was only eight o'clock when Mrs. Fowler retired for the night. At half-past eight Gerald was put to bed, after which Margaret and her governess sat down together to their supper. Each seemed rather depressed, Miss Conway even more so than her little pupil.
"It is so dull without father," Margaret sighed. "I hope he will not stay away very long. Oh, dear! I think mother is very, very tired to-night, don't you? I am afraid she has been doing too much."
"I hope not," was the serious reply. "You did not walk far this morning, did you?"
"Oh, no! We were sitting down on the beach most of the time. Mother read the newspaper and talked and seemed all right then."
"Did you see anything of Salome Petherick?"
"Nothing, though we stood outside her garden several minutes looking at her flowers. I suppose she was busy in the cottage. Oh, Miss Conway, how I do wish Salome's father was a teetotaler! I was telling Mrs. Lute about him yesterday, and she said Salome ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge."
"I did not know that Mrs. Lute was a teetotaler," Miss Conway exclaimed, looking rather surprised.
"She is not. Indeed, she offered me a glass of wine."
"You did not take it?" the governess interposed hastily.
"Oh, no!" A painful blush rose to Margaret's cheeks as she remembered that her mother had not declined the same offer. "Mrs. Lute said total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people," she added.
"She is quite right," was the grave response.
There was silence for a few minutes. Miss Conway was asking herself what was the reason of her pupil's evident confusion, and Margaret was hoping she would not be questioned as to its cause.
"I have been a teetotaler all my life," Miss Conway proceeded presently. "My father had a great horror of drink because his own father had been a drunkard, and he had suffered much on that account. It is sad to think that there is scarcely a family that does not possess at least one member given over to the vice of drinking to excess. Oh, Margaret! Mr. Fowler was right when he laid down the rule that no intoxicants should be brought into his house."
"I am sure he was right," Margaret agreed heartily, "though everyone does not think so. Mother calls it a fad—"
"Did your mother—" The governess hesitated momentarily, scarcely knowing how to put the question which trembled on her lips. "Perhaps you will think I have no right to ask you," she continued hastily, "but, believe me, Margaret, it is no idle curiosity which prompts me. Did your mother have any wine at Mrs. Lute's yesterday?"
Margaret nodded gravely, observing her companion anxiously in order to read by her countenance what she thought. She was prepared to see her exhibit surprise, and perhaps disapproval, but Miss Conway appeared absolutely frightened, and her very lips turned white. She made no remark in response however, but when she kissed her pupil ere they separated for the night, there was marked tenderness in her manner and in her voice as she said, "God bless you, dear Margaret. You look tired out yourself. Try to have a good night's rest."
The little girl was very sleepy, so, almost as soon as her head was on the pillow, she was in the land of dreams. But such unhappy, disturbing dreams they were. She imagined her mother was very ill, and that her father could not be sent for, because no one knew his address, and that she was in terrible grief and perplexity. At length, frightened and shaking in every limb, she awoke, and sprang out of bed with a shriek. The conviction was strong upon her that something was wrong with her mother, and she felt compelled to go and ascertain what was amiss. Lighting a candle, she took it up and hurried to Mrs. Fowler's room. A sigh of deep thankfulness escaped her lips as she found everything quiet there. Softly she stole to the bedside and saw her mother lying asleep, one hand beneath her cheek, her fair hair strewn over the pillow. Margaret thought how pretty she looked, and carefully shaded the candle with her hand as she gazed at the sleeper with love and admiration in her glance; but it would have taken more than the feeble rays of the candle to awaken Mrs. Fowler from that deep, dreamless sleep.
Margaret would have liked to have kissed her mother's flushed cheek, but feared to disturb her; so she contented herself with pressing her lips to the soft, white hand which lay outside the counterpane, then stole back to her own room as quietly as she had left it, and after putting out the candle crept back to bed. She felt she could rest with an easy mind now, and was no longer disturbed by distressing dreams.
The following day Mrs. Fowler did not go far. She appeared depressed and out of sorts until after tea-time, when her drooping spirits revived, and she spent the evening under the lilac tree with Miss Conway, whilst the children played croquet on the lawn. Suddenly she remembered that a letter she had written to her husband had not been posted, and suggested that Margaret and Gerald might take it to the post-office.
"I'm afraid it's too late to catch to-night's post," she said regretfully, "but never mind. Your father will not be anxious, as he heard this morning. Still, you may as well post it. Dear me, what could have made me so forgetful!"
So Margaret and Gerald hurried off to the post-office, which was only two doors from the village inn, from which it was divided by Samuel Moyle's shop.
After posting the letter, they went into the shop to purchase some sweets, and whilst they were there, Josiah Petherick came out of the "Crab and Cockle," much the worse for drink, and staggered past on his way home.
Mrs. Moyle, a rosy-cheeked dame, so stout that she appeared to be almost as thick as she was long, went to the door to stare after Josiah, whilst her husband, who was attending to the requirements of his customers, shook his head gravely and prophesied that "such a drunken beast," as he called him, "would come to a bad end," adding, with a touch of real feeling, "Ah, I'm sorry for that poor motherless maid of his!"
Margaret returned to Greystone very sad at heart, full of the lame girl's trouble, and informed her mother and Miss Conway of the state Josiah was in; whilst Gerald, who had been more amused than disgusted, began to imitate the drunken man's rambling walk, a proceeding which his governess promptly put a stop to by grasping him forcibly by the shoulder and making him stand still.
"For shame!" she cried with unusual severity in her tone. "How can you make fun of the unhappy man? Poor wretch! Never make a joke of a drunkard again."
"Well, I won't," Gerald returned. "I meant no harm. Please let me go, Miss Conway. I promise you I won't do it again."
"No, I do not think you meant any harm," the governess admitted. "You acted thoughtlessly, I know. But you must never laugh at what is wrong—remember that."
"Isn't it terrible for poor Salome, mother?" Margaret said sadly.
"Very," Mrs. Fowler replied. "It would be better for her if she had no father at all."
"Oh, mother!" Margaret cried in shocked tones. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes, I do. What can her father be, but a perpetual shame and trouble to her?"
"But she loves him so dearly."
"I don't know how she can!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed vehemently. "But, there, don't let us talk of Josiah any more. Of course, the letter was too late for to-night's post?"
"Oh, yes. But I posted it all the same. I wonder when father will be home."
"Not till the end of the week, I expect. It's getting chilly; we will go in." And rising, Mrs. Fowler moved towards the house, the others following.
Margaret's thoughts were all of Salome during the remainder of the evening. And before she went to rest, she prayed earnestly that God would give His help and protection to the lame girl, and reward her patience and love in His own good time.
"Drink is an awful thing," was her last waking thought that night, as she crept into her little, white-curtained bed, and laid her head down on the soft pillow. "I only wish poor Salome's father could be brought to see what an awful thing it is."
The Blow Falls.
IT was nearly noon, and quietude reigned over Yelton. The fishermen were all at sea, whilst their wives were busy with their domestic duties within doors, and the children were at school. The village looked actually deserted as Margaret Fowler walked soberly by the "Crab and Cockle." Not a living soul was in sight, and there was no one in Silas Moyle's shop, not even behind the counter, where Mrs. Moyle was generally to be found. Margaret strolled on to Josiah Petherick's cottage, and there was Salome seated in the porch, knitting rapidly whilst she sang to herself in a low, soft undertone. The lame girl's face lit up with a bright smile of pleasure at sight of Margaret, and she turned to reach the crutches by her side.
"Oh, please don't get up!" Margaret cried quickly. "I'll sit down in the porch with you for a little while, if I may. How nice it is here!"
"Yes. Isn't it a beautiful day, miss? Such a fine breeze! All the fishing boats are out. Father was off at daybreak this morning. I got up to give him his breakfast; so that's how it is my work's finished so early."
"What are you making?" Margaret asked, noticing the thick, navy-blue fingering which Salome was knitting.
"A jersey for father, miss. He'll want a new one against the winter."
"What! Do you mean to say you knit your father's jerseys? How clever of you!"
The lame girl smiled and blushed as she responded, "Mother taught me to knit when I was a very little girl, but it was not until after her death that I learnt to make father's jerseys. Mrs. Moyle taught me the way."
"Mrs. Moyle? The baker's wife, do you mean?"
"Yes, miss; she's always most kind to me."
"She looks good-natured," Margaret remarked. "Mother is not very well," she proceeded to explain, "so she is lying in bed this morning, and Gerald is at his lessons with Miss Conway, so I thought I would look you up, Salome."
"I am very glad to see you, miss. But I am sorry to hear Mrs. Fowler is ill."
"She is not ill exactly—at least, I hope not. She complained of a bad headache, so Ross advised her to remain in bed and rest. It worries me if she's not well, now father's away."
"Then Mr. Fowler is not back yet, miss?"
"No. We expected him to stay away only a few days, but his business is keeping him longer than he thought it would, so he will not be at home till next week. It is so dull without him."
"I daresay it is, miss."
"Before he went, he told me he left mother in my charge, and that's why I'm so anxious about her. You know, she was very, very ill before we came here. I never saw her for weeks then, and—oh, it was a terrible time!"
"It must have been," Salome said sympathetically.
"How bright you look to-day!" Margaret exclaimed presently, after observing her companion in silence for several minutes.
"I feel bright," the lame girl acknowledged with a smile, "for I know father'll come home sober by-and-by, when the fishing boats return, and that's enough to make one happy."
"How brave you are, Salome!" And Margaret wondered if she had Salome's trouble, whether she would ever be happy for a day or even an hour.
The other shook her head. She did not think she was brave at all, but she took the sunshine of her life gratefully, and tried not to remember the hours of gloom.
"I wish I could knit," said Margaret, as she watched the lame girl's busy fingers.
"Why don't you learn, miss? Then you might knit your father's socks."
"Do you think I could?"
"Oh, yes, with a little practice. Would you—would you like me to teach you?" Salome asked somewhat diffidently.
"Oh, I should be so much obliged to you if you would! Oh, thank you! I'll buy some wool and knitting needles the very next time we drive to N—. But I'm afraid you'll find me a very stupid pupil."
"I can't believe that, miss. Besides, knitting is quite easy—of course it takes time to learn to knit fast. You can get knitting needles and wool at Mrs. Moyle's shop; she keeps a very good supply."
"Does she? That's capital! Oh Salome, whatever has happened to that rose-bush by the gate? Why, it's smashed off close to the ground! What a pity!"
"Yes," was the response, spoken in a low, pained tone.
"How did it happen?" Margaret asked concernedly, noticing the tears had sprung into her companion's brown eyes.
"Father did it."
"Oh! Not on purpose?"
"No, no! He—he fell over it. He was sorry—afterwards; but I'm so grieved, because mother planted that rose-bush herself not long before she died, and now it is quite ruined."
"Oh, I am sorry!" Margaret cried.
"It was an accident; but—but it wouldn't have happened, if he'd been sober. He's as upset about it as I am now—he is indeed. He valued that rose-bush for mother's sake."
"Salome, why don't you try to persuade your father to take the pledge?" Margaret inquired very seriously.
"I've tried heaps and heaps of times."
"And he won't?"
"No. Father says he hates teetotalers. I can't think he does really, though. Only, he likes drink, and he won't give it up."
"It's very selfish of him. He ought to consider you. But, there, I won't run out against him, for I know you're very fond of him. Perhaps, he'll be different some day."
"I pray every night that God will make him a sober man. He used to be so steady when mother was living. Mr. Amyatt will tell you the same. It seems so dreadful that her death should have changed him so. It was the trouble, I suppose, and having no one to speak to at home but me that drove him to the 'Crab and Cockle' first along; then he grew to like the drink, and now he can't bear the thought of going without it. Did you know Mr. Fowler spoke to father about it, miss?"
"No; did he?"
"Yes, he did indeed. They had an argument, and I fancy from father's manner that he was impressed by what Mr. Fowler said."
Long the little girls talked, until Margaret declared she really must go, or she would be late for dinner. She hurried back to Greystone, to find that her mother was not up yet. On the landing, at the top of the stairs, she met Ross, who had that minute come from Mrs. Fowler's bedroom door.
"Is mother's head no better?" Margaret inquired concernedly.
"I'm afraid not," Ross answered. She looked somewhat perturbed, the little girl thought. "I've not seen the mistress since breakfast-time, miss," she proceeded hurriedly, "for she said she wished to be undisturbed, and now she has locked her door."
"Locked her door!" Margaret echoed in utter astonishment.
"Yes, and she won't open it, miss. I was going to ask Miss Conway what I should do—"
Not waiting to hear the conclusion of the sentence, Margaret ran to her mother's bedroom door and tried to open it. The handle turned, but the door remained closed. She rapped sharply with her knuckles and listened; then, receiving no answer, knocked again.
"Who there?"
It was her mother's voice that asked the question; but something in its tone fell discordantly upon the ears of the listeners and did not lessen their uneasiness.
"It is I—Margaret. Let me in, mother dear."
"You can't come in; go away."
"But, mother, I want to know how you are. Is your head better?"
"Yes—no."
"Please let me in. Why have you locked the door?"
"I wish—to be alone."
At that moment Miss Conway appeared upon the scene. She turned white as death when the situation was explained to her, and begged Margaret to go away, and let her try to persuade Mrs. Fowler to unlock the door.
"No, no," cried the little girl. "Something must be amiss with mother, or she would never act so strangely. Mother, mother, let me in," and she knocked at the door louder than before.
There were sounds inside the room of some one moving about, then the door was opened, and Mrs. Fowler, clad in a dressing-gown, with her hair streaming over her shoulders, appeared in the doorway.
"What do you all want—coming here—disturbing me?" she questioned irritably; then she lurched forward, and would have fallen on her face, if Miss Conway had not sprung to her assistance and caught her.
"Oh, she has fainted!" Margaret cried, terribly frightened and distressed.
With the help of Ross, who was looking pale and scared, the governess succeeded in dragging Mrs. Fowler across the room, and laying her upon the bed; and then turned to her little pupil and told her to shut and lock the door. Wondering greatly, Margaret obeyed. Returning to the bedside, she looked from one to the other of her companions in mingled astonishment and reproach, for neither was making the least attempt to bring Mrs. Fowler back to consciousness. The tears were streaming down Miss Conway's cheeks, and Ross was murmuring—"I never guessed it. No, I never guessed it."
"Oh, can't you do anything?" Margaret cried distractedly. "Oh, she is very ill!" And she bent over her mother, then suddenly drew back. Mrs. Fowler's cheeks were unusually flushed; she was breathing heavily, and upon her lips hung the smell of spirit. Margaret experienced a sensation as though an icy hand had gripped her heart. She looked inquiringly at Miss Conway, who avoided her glance, then her eyes travelled slowly around the room. On the dressing-table was a nearly empty brandy bottle, and by its side a glass.
With an exceedingly bitter cry, Margaret realised the truth. Her mother was not ill—that is, not in the way she had supposed—but intoxicated. The blow had fallen, and everything was now plain to her.
As in a dream, she heard Ross whispering to Miss Conway that she had never suspected her mistress of this, that she had never had such a shock in her life before, and listened to Miss Conway's answer that she herself would remain with Mrs. Fowler, and that the servants must be told she was ill. Then, the governess put her arms around her pupil and kissed her, begging her to be a brave girl. And all the while, Margaret was experiencing a strange feeling of unreality, as though she was living through a horrible nightmare. She watched Miss Conway fling the windows open wide, and place a blanket carefully over her mother's unconscious form, and the conviction grew upon her, that though the governess was deeply grieved, she was not surprised and shocked as she herself was and poor Ross who looked almost scared to death.
Suddenly the governess pointed to the brandy bottle and appealed to the maid.
"Did you supply her with that?" she questioned sternly.
"No, miss, on my word of honour, I did not," Ross replied earnestly. "I never knew she had it; she must have kept it under lock and key."
There was absolute truth in the girl's voice; and Miss Conway looked puzzled.
"I can't make it out—how she obtained it, I mean," she said at last. "Ross, I think you had better leave your mistress to me for the present. I rely upon you not to speak of this downstairs. And Margaret—" the governess's voice softened to the tenderest pity—"will you take care of Gerald for the rest of the day? Tell him his mother is very poorly, and that he may have a half-holiday. You could take him down to the beach this afternoon. God help you to bear this trouble, poor child!"
Margaret made no response. Ringing in her ears were words her father had spoken to her when they had been discussing Salome's trouble. "We cannot tell how much our patience and love may be tried, nor what trials and troubles the future may hold for us. We can only pray that God will strengthen us in our time of need."
Had her father anticipated this hour for her? She could not tell, but she thought it more than likely.
Meanwhile, Miss Conway was leading her to the door, begging her to put a brave face on matters, and to go down to dinner without her.
"I feel my duty is here, my dear," she said impressively. "If any one questions you about your mother, you can truly say she is ill. Oh, Margaret, pray for her; she is greatly to be pitied!" And so saying, the governess opened the door and pushed her little pupil gently outside.
For a few minutes Margaret stood perfectly still. Then the sound of Gerald's voice in the hall below reminded her that she must, as Miss Conway had said, put a brave face on matters. So she went downstairs and delighted her brother by promising to take him down to the beach. She was conscious that the burden of a great sorrow was upon her, and she felt bowed down with an intolerable weight of shame. But she devoted herself assiduously to Gerald for the remainder of the day; and it was not until nearly nine o'clock, when her charge was in bed and asleep, that she dared give way to her grief. Then, in the privacy of her own room, she flung herself upon the bed and wept as though her heart would break.
Mr. Fowler's Return.
"MARGARET! Oh, my dear little girl! Do not grieve so terribly. You will make yourself ill, if you go on like this."
Margaret tried to stifle her sobs at the sound of the kind, pitying voice, and turned a swollen, tear-stained countenance towards Miss Conway, who had come in search of her. She longed to ask for her mother, but for the present, she was incapable of speech. Her governess, however, read aright her questioning eyes, and said reassuringly, "Your mother is better, my dear. She regained consciousness some time ago, since when she has had a cup of tea, and is now asleep. Ross is with her at present."
Miss Conway drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, then she took one of her little pupil's hands and pressed it softly. "I have sent for your father," she continued; "after—after what has happened I considered it was my duty to do so. I did not think there was any necessity to alarm him by a telegram though, so I wrote by to-night's post and—explained. He will get my letter in the morning, and probably return home at once. So, dear Margaret, if all's well, he will doubtless be here to-morrow evening."
The little girl was glad to hear this; but at the same time, she dreaded meeting her father with this new knowledge concerning her mother weighing on her mind. Her sobs had ceased now, and she could speak collectedly.
"Miss Conway, do you think Ross has told the other servants?" she asked anxiously.
"I am sure she has not, nor do I believe she will. Ross is a thoroughly good girl, and most sincerely attached to your mother. At first, I confess, I suspected her of having procured that—that poison, but I was quite wrong! Mrs. Fowler bought the brandy herself, the afternoon we drove to N— with her. Do you remember we drove on whilst she went into a grocer's shop? She obtained it there. Oh, it is a shame that grocers should be allowed licences for supplying intoxicating liquors! Poor soul, she has been telling me how sorely she was tempted! Oh, Margaret, this all comes of Mrs. Lute's offering her that glass of wine! She had not touched a stimulant since her illness till then, and had almost lost her craving for drink. That glass of wine, however, was too much for her, and she felt she must have more. I need not dwell on the result."
"Oh, Miss Conway, how shameful, how degrading!" Margaret cried passionately. "Oh, to think that mother should be like that! Oh, no wonder father wished us all to be teetotalers!"
She covered her flaming face with her hands and shuddered. "How long—how long have you known this—about mother?" she inquired hesitatingly.
"Many months. Since—oh, long before her illness."
"Was that illness—"
"Caused by drink? Yes. Oh, my dear, I see you guess it all. Your father hoped you would never know. He trusted that the complete change from life in town to the quietude of the country, where Mrs. Fowler would meet comparatively few people of her own class, and where he believed she would be free from temptation, would ultimately cure her of the fatal habit she had acquired of drinking to excess, and I believe that would have been the happy result, if you had not unfortunately met Mrs. Lute. Little does Mrs. Lute—good, kind creature that she is—dream of the mischief she has wrought. Your poor mother is full of grief and remorse now; and oh, so shocked that you should have seen her to-day. She knows I have written to Mr. Fowler, and you can imagine how she is dreading his return; yet she knows he will not be hard upon her. He loves her too well for that!"
Margaret felt at that moment that her affection for her mother was being swallowed up by a sickening sensation of disgust. She had always loved her very dearly; and had been so pleased and happy when people had admired her for her beauty and winning ways. Even when Mrs. Fowler had openly shown her preference for Gerald of her two children, the little girl, though often hurt, had never evinced any jealousy or resentment. She had accepted the fact that Gerald was her mother's favourite, and had loved her none the less on that account. But now, her love was being tried very severely.
The remembrance of Mrs. Fowler as she had last seen her, lying on the bed with flushed cheeks, breathing stertorously, was absolutely revolting to her. She had many times asked herself how Salome could continue to love her drunken father; now, she asked herself, was it possible that she could continue to love her drunken mother? Oh, the horror of the thought that one so gentle and refined should be on a par with Josiah Petherick, fellow-victim to a disgraceful, degrading sin!
Perhaps Miss Conway guessed some of the thoughts which were passing through her companion's mind, for she watched her anxiously, and presently remarked, "I daresay, you can faintly imagine how your poor mother is feeling now. She had hoped to keep the secret of her weakness and sin from your knowledge. Your father, too, will be terribly troubled when he hears you have learnt the truth; but I do not doubt, dear child, that God in His wisdom has ordered all for the best. You will understand now, as you never did before, how much Mrs. Fowler needs all your love and devotion. You can help her, if you will, to the restoration of that self-respect which, once lost, is so hard to regain. You can show her, by loving her as unfalteringly as Salome loves her erring father, that she can rise above this habit which has done so much to ruin her health, and happiness, and earn everyone's respect and her own as well!"
Miss Conway paused, and there was a solemn silence which Margaret at length broke by saying with a sob, "I do love mother, I do indeed."
"I am sure of it. Mrs. Fowler is a very sweet, lovable woman!"
"Yes," Margaret agreed. "See what a lot of friends she had in town, and how popular she was! She was always going about—"
"Yes, dear, I know," the governess interposed, "and that was how it was she commenced taking stimulants. She used to get tired with her constant gaieties, and then she would take a glass of wine, or some other intoxicant, to revive her, until she grew to like stimulants, and took more and more. The craving increased, and she drank to the injury of her health, yet no outsiders guessed it. Then she had nervous attacks, followed at last by a serious illness. The doctors told your father she was killing herself, and immeasurably horrified, he took the only course he saw could save his wife—became a teetotaler himself, and insisted that his household should follow suit. Mrs. Fowler knew he was acting wisely, and for her sake, but she would not admit it. However, she found total abstinence from all intoxicants was restoring her to health, and had made up her mind never to touch a stimulant again when temptation was put in her way, and she fell. God grant she may prove stronger in the future. Now, my dear, tell me, have you had any supper?"
"No," Margaret replied, "I am not in the least hungry."
"Oh, that's nonsense! You must eat whether you are hungry or not. Come with me."
Margaret demurred at first, but her governess overruled all her objections. And after she had bathed her tear-stained face, the two went downstairs and had supper together. Miss Conway did not leave her pupil again until she saw her comfortably tucked up in bed for the night; then she kissed her, bade her try to sleep well, and left her to herself.
And Margaret did sleep well, absolutely worn out with excitement and grief, whilst the governess spent the night in Mrs. Fowler's room. At daybreak, Ross came to take Miss Conway's place, and found her mistress sleeping tranquilly.
"She looks more like herself, miss, doesn't she?" she whispered gladly.
"Yes," Miss Conway answered; "I should let her sleep as long as she will."
She did not say what a harrowing time she had endured during that night watch, or how Mrs. Fowler had implored her to give her a stimulant, and had declared she would die without it. But she went away quietly to her own room, and before she lay down to rest, prayed earnestly to Almighty God for the unhappy woman, whom she pitied from the depths of her heart.