image004
SHE WENT TO THE FRONT DOOR TO MEET MR. FOWLER.
Early in the morning, a telegram arrived from Mr. Fowler saying he would be at home that night, and ordering the carriage to be sent to N— to meet him at the railway station. The governess made no secret of the fact that she had written to inform him of his wife's illness, and as Ross kept her own counsel, the other servants supposed their mistress to be suffering from one of the hysterical, nervous attacks to which she had been subject on her arrival at Greystone.
It was nearly eight o'clock before Mr. Fowler reached home. Margaret, who had spent most of the day on the beach with her brother, shrank sensitively from the thought of meeting her father. When she heard the carriage wheels nearing the house, she longed to run away and hide, but she knew it would never do to act in such a cowardly fashion as that. Appearances must be kept up, at any rate before the servants, so she went to the front door with Gerald to meet Mr. Fowler, and returned his loving kiss as quietly and composedly as though her heart was not beating almost to suffocation.
As she had anticipated, he immediately went upstairs to his wife's room, and it was not until much later, that she found herself with him alone. Then, after Gerald had gone to bed, he joined her in the garden, and strolled up and down the lawn by her side, his arm around her shoulders. For some minutes he did not speak, and she could not see the expression of his face, for there was no moon, and the stars gave but little light.
At last he said gravely, "Life is very hard, sometimes, Margaret."
"Yes," she agreed, adding with a little sob: "Oh, father, you left her in my care, but I did not know, and if I had, it would not have made any difference."
"No, no; I understand. She has told me everything herself."
"Oh, father, it is shocking! Think of the disgrace. Oh, you can't imagine how dreadful I feel about it!"
"I think I can," he replied sadly. "My poor child, I had hoped to have been allowed to keep this trouble from you, but God willed it otherwise. Have you seen your mother to-day?"
"No, father. She said she did not wish to see me."
"Ah, poor thing, she is ashamed to face you! If I were you, when you meet, I would not revert to—to her illness at all."
"I will not."
"I shall try and persuade Mrs. Lute to come and spend a few days with us, in order to cheer us all up."
"Oh, father, Mrs. Lute was the cause of all this trouble."
"I am aware of it; but her intention in offering your mother wine was an excellent one, she had no idea of working mischief. I shall simply explain to her that this is a teetotal household, and she is not the woman I take her to be if, after that, she refuses an invitation to visit us."
"Did you finish your business in London, father?" Margaret questioned.
"Not quite. It must stand over for a few weeks. I shall not leave home again for the present."
Though he spoke so quietly, Margaret knew her father must be very sore at heart. She had often wondered why her mother was more at her ease when not in her husband's presence, and now she understood the reason. Mrs. Fowler was conscious that he was always keeping a watch upon her, that he did not trust her, and dear though he was to her, she stood in awe of him.
Until her illness in the spring, he had always allowed her, her own way. But his alarm for her well-being once aroused, he had taken the reins of government into his own hands, and had shown her plainly that he meant his will to be law. She had always been a pleasure-seeking woman and fond of society; but, broken down in health, she had not found life at Yelton so utterly unbearable as she had anticipated. Her husband had devoted much of his time to her, and, thrown more in contact with her little daughter, she had begun to take a deeper interest in her than she had done before.
She had always been pleased to notice her beauty, but of late, she had discovered that Margaret possessed other and higher attractions—goodness and unselfishness—which she could not but admire. She saw the little girl had inherited many of her father's excellent qualities of mind and heart, and uneasily conscious of her own weakness of character, she was delighted that it was so. Unfortunately there had never been the same sympathy of feeling between Margaret and her mother as there had always been between the little girl and her father.
Now, as she strolled by Mr. Fowler's side up and down the lawn, she slipped her hand through his arm, whilst she leaned her head confidingly against his shoulder, as she said, "Father, I'm so very glad you've come home."
Josiah at His Worst.
THE afternoon subsequent to her husband's return, Mrs. Fowler was sufficiently well to come downstairs and lie on the sofa in the drawing-room. Margaret, who had gone back to her usual routine of work with Miss Conway, saw little of her mother during the next few days, and after Mr. Fowler drove to N— one morning, and brought Mrs. Lute home with him, Mrs. Fowler spent most of her time with her friend, and avoided her little daughter's society as much as possible.
Mrs. Lute, though she had been much astonished when Mr. Fowler had frankly explained to her that his was now a teetotal household, was far too well-bred a woman to question him concerning what his wife had called his "fad;" and though she had been accustomed all her life to the sparing use of stimulants, she could very well do without them, and was perfectly satisfied and happy at Greystone.
"So many people are teetotalers nowadays," she remarked pleasantly to Mr. Fowler on one occasion when she had been several days beneath his roof, "so really you are quite in the fashion."
"I wish I could think that," he replied, with rather a sad smile.
"Oh, one meets a great many people who are total abstainers!" she assured him. "Why, Miss Conway tells me she has always been one. It seems drink has been the cause of a great deal of trouble in her family. And your good Vicar here is a teetotaler too, so he informed me yesterday. He argues truly that he cannot teach what he does not practise. I was surprised to hear that even in this quiet little village drink is the curse of the place."
"I believe that is so. There are several notorious drunkards amongst the fishermen, and one in whom we, as a family, are much interested, on his daughter's account, is likely to join their ranks."
"You refer to that fine, strong man who took us out boating yesterday, I presume?"
"Yes; Josiah Petherick. He is a most reliable man when sober, but when he has been drinking—which often happens now, I fear—he is a perfect brute. I have been hearing many tales to his discredit lately, and this morning I was told on reliable authority in the village, that he spends nearly all his earnings at the 'Crab and Cockle' now, and begrudges the money for the household accounts. Last night, he went home more intoxicated than usual—actually mad drunk—and smashed up some of the furniture in his cottage, after which he turned his little daughter out-doors. The poor child was forced to beg a night's lodging from Mrs. Moyle at the village shop, and to-day, all Yelton is talking about it."
A faint exclamation of dismay caused Mrs. Lute and Mr. Fowler, who had been conversing in the garden, close outside the drawing-room window, to look around. They encountered Mrs. Fowler's shocked gaze. Hearing them talking, she had come to the window and had overheard all that had been said.
"Oh, Henry, that poor Salome!" she cried, her blue eyes full of tears. "Have you seen her to-day?"
"No; but the Vicar has. Hearing what had happened, he went down to Petherick's cottage the first thing this morning. Salome had just returned and was doing her utmost to put the place to rights, and her father had gone out in his boat in a very humbled, repentant state of mind, after having apologised to her for his abominable behaviour, and having promised he would not act so madly again."
Mrs. Fowler sighed, whilst Mrs. Lute said gravely, "Let us hope he will keep his word."
"He will not, without he gives up the drink," Mr. Fowler rejoined, with conviction in his tone. "No, he will go from bad to worse until, in one of his drunken frenzies, he will do something he will never cease to regret—perhaps some injury to his child."
Mrs. Fowler sank into a chair looking pale and perturbed, whilst her husband and friend drifted into another channel of conversation. The news she had heard about the Pethericks had upset her, and when, a short while later, Margaret entered the room, the first question she put to her was to ask if she had seen Salome that day.
"No, mother," the little girl answered. "Why?" she added, struck by the almost frightened expression on Mrs. Fowler's face.
She listened in silence, her colour alternately coming and going, to all there was to tell, then exclaimed "Oh, I am sorry! Poor Salome! And it rained heavily last night. Perhaps she will come up to the church this evening to hear me practise the organ. Oh, I hope she will! When are you coming to hear me play again, mother?"
"Oh, some time! Perhaps when Mrs. Lute has gone."
"Wouldn't Mrs. Lute come too?"
"Oh, I don't think you play well enough—" Mrs. Fowler paused abruptly, conscious of the hurt look on her little daughter's countenance. She had avoided Margaret lately, and Margaret had noticed the fact with acute pain. What had she done that her mother should abstain from meeting her gaze? An insurmountable barrier seemed to have sprung up between mother and child.
Margaret's heart was full of bitterness as she turned away and left the room. She had endeavoured to show no feeling but that of love for her mother since her recent indisposition, but it had been impossible for Mrs. Fowler not to remark a slight difference in her manner, of which Margaret was unconscious herself. She thought she read reproach in the little girl's eyes, and shrank sensitively from being alone with her. She was ashamed in the presence of her own child.
Had Margaret grasped the truth of the situation, she would have judged her mother less harshly; but failing to do so, she was deeply pained, and told herself that her mother liked her less than ever. Upon Gerald, Mrs. Fowler lavished all her affection. She would listen to his chatter untiringly, talking gaily in return; and, however much he teased her, she always found excuses for him.
Miss Conway did not give Margaret a music lesson that evening, for Mrs. Fowler requested her to accompany Mrs. Lute and herself for a walk, and to bring Gerald with her, so Margaret went alone to the church.
She practised for an hour, then dismissed the boy who had blown the organ for her, and was leaving the church when she caught sight of a small figure huddled up in a corner of a pew near the west door. It was Salome.
"Is it you, Salome?" Margaret cried, hastening to her side, and laying her hand tenderly upon her shoulder. The lame girl lifted her bowed head, and in the dim light, Margaret saw she had been weeping, though there were no tears in her brown eyes now, and her lips were curved in a smile.
"I've been asleep," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go without speaking to me, Miss Margaret. I came in whilst you were practising, and I was tired. I—I had little rest last night."
"I know—I've heard," Margaret returned hurriedly, as the other paused in confusion.
"Have you, miss? I'm glad of that, for now I shan't have to tell you, and I'd rather not talk of it."
"Of course you would rather not."
"I was tired," Salome proceeded; "so tired and worn out, that I couldn't help crying. My poor legs ached so—but oh! not so badly as my heart. The pain here—" clasping her hands against her breast—"was almost more than I could bear. Then I fell asleep, and I was dreaming when you awoke me."
"I hope it was a pleasant dream," Margaret said softly.
"Oh, very pleasant! I thought it was evening time—getting almost dark as it is now—and service was going on in the church. I could hear father's voice singing with the choir. You can't imagine what a deep, beautiful voice father has, Miss Margaret. I was listening to it when you awoke me. But I'm glad you happened to catch sight of me, though you did disturb my dream. Is anything wrong, miss?" And the lame girl's brown eyes peered anxiously at her companion.
"I am not happy," Margaret confessed with a sigh.
"Mrs. Fowler is not ill again?" Salome questioned in concerned tones.
"No, no; she is perfectly well. We have an old friend visiting us, and that makes it pleasant for mother."
"I saw a strange lady in church with you on Sunday, miss; and father took her out in his boat with Mrs. Fowler. She treated him very handsomely, he said; but I wish she hadn't."
"Why?" Margaret asked in surprise.
"Because he spent the money she gave him in drink at the public-house, and that was the beginning of the trouble last night. There, I didn't mean to talk of it, but, naturally, it's uppermost in my mind."
"Of course it is. Did you—did you get wet last night?"
"Dripping to the skin," Salome admitted. "But Mrs. Moyle—God bless her!—took me in and gave me dry clothes, and a bed too. But oh, I couldn't sleep for wondering what father was up to at home. You can never be certain what a drunken body will not do. How selfish I am, though, to talk so much of myself. Won't you tell me what troubles you, Miss Margaret?"
"No, Salome, I can't," was the low response. "It's something I can never speak of."
"Then try not to think too much about it, miss," the lame girl advised. "If I were you, I'd tell my trouble to God, and leave it to Him. That's what I do with mine."
"By your trouble, you mean your father?" Margaret inquired diffidently.
"Yes, miss. Do you remember saying to me that night you and I had been sitting in the porch, and father had come home drunk—'May God help you, Salome'? I think you saw God was the only One who could help me; and I want to remind you of those words of yours, because maybe He's the only One who can help you too! Why, how dark it's getting think, miss, we had better go."
She reached for her crutches as she spoke, and swung herself out of the pew into the aisle. Margaret followed her silently through the west door into the churchyard. It was nearly dark, for it was September now, and the evenings were shortening fast; but whilst they lingered at the churchyard gate, the edge of the moon appeared in the eastern horizon, and slowly sailed upwards into the cloudless sky, illuminating the old grey church, surrounded with the graves of the quiet dead, and shedding its pale light on the little village and the broad surface of the peaceful sea.
"How beautiful!" cried Margaret. "It is the harvest moon, so father said last night. But, Salome, it is late for you to be out alone. Shall I walk part of the way home with you?"
"Oh, no, thank you, miss! I shall be perfectly safe. Besides, it's quite light now the moon has risen. Good night, miss."
"Good night, Salome."
Margaret went back to Greystone in a very thoughtful frame of mind. She considered that her friend was not half so depressed as she herself would have been under similar circumstances, not reflecting that Salome's trouble had come upon her by slow degrees. It had taken five years to change Josiah Petherick from a sober, God-fearing man into the desperate drunkard who had turned his only child out-doors last night.
Meanwhile, Salome, as she swung herself down the hill, wondered what could be amiss with Miss Margaret. She had grown deeply attached to the pretty, fair-haired girl, who had, from the first time they had met, treated her with the greatest kindness and consideration. She had given her several lessons in the art of knitting, and the lessons had given pleasure to teacher and pupil alike; and both were much interested in the progression of the sock which Margaret was rather laboriously making under the other's instructions.
The "Crab and Cockle" was lit up brightly as Salome passed by, and she sighed as she heard the hoarse murmur of voices within, for she imagined her father to be there; but great was her surprise on reaching home, to find him in the little yard at the back of the cottage bathing his face at the pump. When he came into the kitchen, she noticed not only that he was intoxicated, but that he had a cut on his cheek, and one eye was turning black. She asked no questions, however, for she saw he was in one of his worst moods; so she lit the lamp in silence, and proceeded to set the supper on the table. Presently, he remarked that he had quarrelled with someone, and they had come to blows.
"'Twas Silas Moyle—" he was beginning, when, in her surprise, she interrupted him.
"Silas Moyle!" she echoed, for the baker was a steady, peace-loving man.
"Yes," he nodded; "the canting humbug!" He looked at her sullenly, even resentfully, she thought; and she trembled with fear as she noticed his shaking hands and quivering lips.
Then he burst forth into a volley of oaths, and she gleaned that he was angry with her for having sought refuge with the Moyles on the preceding night. He stormed against her, against Silas and his wife, against everyone, in short, who had remonstrated with him that day. Apparently, his neighbours had been telling him some plain home truths which had not been pleasant hearing.
"Oh, father, don't say any more!" Salome pleaded in great distress. "Oh, please don't swear so frightfully! What could I do? You turned me out of my home, and I did not know where to go, except to Mrs. Moyle's. Oh, don't speak of her like that! It was out of pure kindness she took me in. You would not have had me spend the night out of doors in that lashing rain, would you? Oh, father, you are cruel indeed!"
The reproach in her sorrowful eyes enraged him beyond measure.
"You dare stand up for those who insult your father!" he shouted in a fury; and clutching her by the shoulder, he shook her savagely, then flung her from him with some violence. Losing her hold of her crutches, they fell to the ground; and staggering forward with a frightened cry, she knocked her forehead against a corner of the mantelpiece, and the next moment, lay white and unconscious at her father's feet.
A Brief Repentance.
IT was about half-past nine o'clock that same night, that the Vicar of Yelton opened the Pethericks' garden gate, and stepping determinedly up the path, rapped at the door of the cottage.
Returning from an evening's fishing an hour previously, he had been stopped in the village, on his way home, by Silas Moyle, who had poured into his ears an excited tale about Josiah, whom Silas had taken upon himself to remonstrate with upon his cruel conduct to his daughter on the previous night, with the result that Josiah, inflamed with drink, had struck him, and had received in return a black eye and an injured cheek.
"You know, sir, I'm a man of peace, and don't hold with brawling," Silas had said; "but I own I lost my temper to-night. Josiah's a regular blackguard when he's drunk."
"It was foolish to remonstrate with a drunken man," Mr. Amyatt had answered. "Had you spoken to him in his sober moments, your words might have had a very different effect. Where is Josiah now?"
"Gone home, swearing vengeance against me, sir. My great fear is, that he'll do some harm to poor Salome."
That had been the Vicar's fear, too. So, instead of going straight to the Vicarage as he had intended, he had retraced his footsteps to the Pethericks' cottage, and now stood waiting for admittance at the door.
As no one answered his knock, he rapped louder and listened. For a few moments there was silence; then came the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps, and Josiah opened the door and demanded hoarsely who was there.
"It is I, Petherick," the Vicar answered, stepping uninvited across the threshold.
"Where is your daughter?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon the fisherman, who stood staring at him in a dazed fashion.
Receiving no reply, he turned into the kitchen, an exclamation of horror and dismay breaking from his lips, as he caught sight of the small, slight figure of the lame girl lying near the fireplace. Very tenderly, he lifted her and placed her in the one easy-chair in the room, calling to Josiah to bring some water immediately.
"Water!" questioned Josiah stupidly. "What for? She's dead. She's been dead this half-hour or more; but I haven't dared touch her. Salome, Salome! I've killed you, my poor maid! Your own father's killed you, Salome;" and flinging himself on his knees at his daughter's side, Josiah wept like a child.
"Don't be foolish, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said sternly. He had been feeling Salome's pulse, and had ascertained that it beat, though feebly. "She's not dead, but she has fainted. Come, be a man. Pull yourself together, and fetch some water at once."
"Not dead," Josiah cried excitedly. "Are you sure? Then, God be thanked for that!" He rose from his knees, and went into the yard, returning in a few seconds with a basin of water.
Very gently, the Vicar bathed Salome's white face until her eyelids flickered and a faint colour stole to her lips. Josiah, sobered by fright, explained what had happened, not sparing himself, but declaring he would not have injured a hair of his daughter's head, if he could have helped it, for Mr. Amyatt must know how much he loved her.
"Tush, Petherick!" the Vicar responded impatiently, mingled pity and disgust in his tone. "Don't talk to me of your love for Salome. A nice way you have of showing it. Last night, you turned her out of doors in torrents of rain—"
"I was drunk," Josiah interposed hastily. "She riled me, she did, with her tears, and—"
"Having been drunk is no excuse," Mr. Amyatt interrupted in his turn. "Not content with your scandalous conduct last night, you must continue your unmanly behaviour to-day and knock Salome down, and—"
"No, no," said a weak voice at this point. It was Salome who spoke. She had regained consciousness, and was sufficiently herself to understand what was going on. "No, no," she repeated, "it was an accident. He did not mean to hurt me."
"I shook her, and—and pushed her," Josiah admitted, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. "I meant her no harm, sir, but I was rough, and—oh, Salome, can you ever forgive me?" And the wretched man turned appealingly to the little figure in the easy-chair.
"Yes," was the faint response. "I—I don't think I'm much hurt."
"Are you in pain?" Mr. Amyatt asked gently.
"No, sir; but my forehead is very sore. I must have knocked it in falling."
"Yes, poor child, I see you did; there is a big bruise coming."
"I suppose I fainted?" she inquired, looking wistfully from the Vicar to her father, who was regarding her in gloomy silence.
"Yes, that was it, you fainted," Mr. Amyatt replied. "But you are much better now; and after a good night's rest, I have no doubt you will be almost yourself again."
Salome glanced at her crutches, which were lying on the ground. Mr. Amyatt picked them up and placed them against her chair.
"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, lifting her brown eyes shyly to his face, which expressed so plainly his sympathy and concern. "I think I shall be all right now," she added. "Thank you for being so kind."
"Does that mean you wish me to go?" he queried with a smile. "Well, I don't know that I can do any good by remaining longer. Good night, my dear."
He took Salome's small, thin hand and pressed it reassuringly, then beckoned to her father to follow him to the door.
"You must have someone in to see to that poor child to-night, Petherick," he said gravely. "Can you call upon assistance from one of your neighbours?"
Josiah shook his head doubtfully.
"Then, shall I ask Mrs. Moyle to look in and help get Salome to bed?" the Vicar suggested.
A dull, shamed flush rose to the fisherman's face, and he began to stammer something about not knowing whether Mrs. Moyle would come inside his doors, seeing he had quarrelled with her husband only that evening; but the Vicar cut him short.
"I know all about that, Petherick. Silas Moyle told me the tale himself not an hour ago. I heard it with great regret, for Silas is a sincere well-wisher of yours, and he and his wife would do anything in the world for your little girl. You had better let me send Mrs. Moyle to you—that is, if she will come; perhaps she will not. Shall I be the bearer of an apology from you to Silas?"
"I'm sorry I hit him," Josiah acknowledged truthfully.
"Shall I tell him that?"
"If you please, sir. I admit, I deserved what he gave me. Oh, sir, I've had a fine fright this night! I thought I'd killed Salome."
"You might have done so."
"Then I should have been a murderer," Josiah groaned. "I'm a bad lot, sir, that's what I am."
He seemed perfectly sober now, so Mr. Amyatt spoke a few solemn words to him, imploring him, for the sake of his little daughter, to give up the drink, and take the pledge. Josiah declared he would think seriously about doing so, and went back to Salome, whilst the Vicar hurried in search of Mrs. Moyle.
At first, that good woman, kind-hearted and fond of the lame girl though she was, said nothing would make her enter the doors of one who had so insulted her husband as had Josiah. But, on Silas adding his entreaties to the Vicar's, she gave in and betook herself to the Pethericks' cottage, where, after having assisted Salome upstairs, and put her to bed, she declared her intention of remaining for the night. She was not going to leave "that poor motherless lamb," as she called Salome, "in the house alone with a maniac."
Josiah Petherick did not look much like a maniac, however, as he sat in the kitchen listening to Mrs. Moyle's scathing remarks as she put away the supper things. He was in a wonderfully subdued and repentant frame of mind, and sat with his elbows on the table and his aching head resting in his hands. At last, he could bear his companion's home thrusts no longer, and exclaimed, "Good gracious, woman, do you imagine I don't know what a beast I am?"
"Well, if you do know it, why don't you turn over a new leaf?" she inquired. "I mind what a steady young fellow you used to be. You're too easily led, that's what you are. Make up your mind to give up the drink."
"I can't—not entirely; it's got too strong a hold on me," he confessed.
"That's the way of it. Well, you'll have to choose between drink and Salome—that's my opinion—for you're killing her by slow degrees."
Josiah started; but Mrs. Moyle did not pursue the subject further. She told him he had better go to bed, and make no noise to disturb his daughter. Accordingly, he took off his boots and crept upstairs in his stockinged feet, whilst Mrs. Moyle, having put out the lamp, and ascertained that the door of the cottage was securely fastened, returned to Salome, whom she found sleeping peacefully.
The next day, Josiah put himself in the way of Silas Moyle, and actually apologised to him for having struck. And Silas was magnanimous and forgave him, though it must be admitted, he regarded the other's black eye and swelled cheek with a sense of satisfaction. They were marks that would remain to remind Josiah of his ill conduct for some days to come.
Salome was poorly for nearly a week, and the first occasion on which she showed herself in the village, she was met on all sides by commiserating looks and words which showed her plainly that everyone was quite aware that her father had been the cause of her accident. The sympathy thus evinced towards her, though kindly offered, cut her to the heart, and she returned home utterly miserable.
During the days which followed, Mr. Amyatt made several ineffectual attempts to induce Josiah to take the pledge. No, Josiah said, there was no need for him to do that; but he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf, nevertheless, and the Vicar would see that he could take his glass of beer like other men and be none the worse for it. The Vicar shook his head at that, but Josiah was not to be moved, so the matter was, perforce, dropped.
Margaret was the first of the inmates of Greystone to hear of Salome's accident. Mrs. Moyle gave her full particulars of it one morning when she had an errand at the shop. And before going home, she went to inquire for her lame friend, whom she found sitting in the porch of the cottage with such a bright, hopeful expression on her pale countenance, that she was surprised, and remarked upon it.
"Oh, I am ever so much better!" Salome assured her with a smile.
"Are you really?" Margaret asked anxiously. "You have a nasty bruise on your forehead."
"Oh, that's nothing, indeed, miss! Have you heard how it happened? They haven't made you believe father did it on purpose, have they? He wouldn't hurt me for anything, if he could help it. Oh, Miss Margaret, I do believe father means to be steadier for the future!"
"Is he going to be a teetotaler, then?" Margaret inquired eagerly.
"No—o," was the dubious reply, "I'm afraid not; but he says he won't take more beer than is good for him. Oh, I know he has said that lots of times before, but I believe he really means it now. Indeed, he has been quite different these last few days—more like what he used to be when dear mother was alive."
This was quite true. Mrs. Moyle's words that he would have to choose between drink and Salome had made a strong impression upon Josiah, and had caused him to notice how much thinner and paler his little daughter had become of late. His conscience reproached him on her account, for he knew that she was not very strong, and that she worked hard, besides which, his unsteady habits were a constant trouble to her. In his repentance, he felt capable of denying himself anything for her sake—except drink, and that, he solemnly vowed he would take sparingly.
Seeing that Salome was so hopeful that her father meant to live a sober life for the future, Margaret had not the heart to express the doubts which occupied her mind; but on her return to Greystone, she saw, by Mr. Fowler's grave face when she explained the situation to him, that he did not believe Josiah's repentance would be lasting, and trembled for the safety and happiness of her little lame friend.
"Don't you think he means to keep his word, and not get intoxicated again?" she questioned.
"Oh, yes!" Mr. Fowler replied, "I think he means all he says. But I feel sure, if he does not give up drink altogether, it will soon have the mastery over him again. I believe he loves Salome very dearly, but he loves drink even better than his little daughter, or he would be willing to give it up for her sake. Poor Salome! I greatly fear she has more trouble in store for her with that father of hers."
This proved to be the case. For before a fortnight had quite elapsed since Salome's accident, Josiah was drinking heavily again, and spending his evenings at the "Crab and Cockle," as he had done of old. His repentance had been of brief duration; and the lame girl's face grew pinched, and her dark brown eyes larger and sadder, as her father squandered more and more of his earnings at the village inn; whilst Silas Moyle grumbled when the Pethericks' bread account remained unpaid, and would have stopped the supply, but for Salome.
"The poor little maid looks half-starved as it is," he remarked to his wife when she expressed surprise that he took no steps to obtain his rights. "Josiah's drinking what ought to be spent on his child; but it shall never be said that we begrudged her bread."
Mrs. Fowler and Salome.
WHEN Mrs. Lute returned to N—, she asked and obtained permission for Margaret to visit her. The little girl had not appeared very well lately, and it was thought a change would do her good, which it certainly did, for she came back at the end of a fortnight decidedly better in health and spirits.
Mrs. Fowler greeted Margaret on her return with no very great show of pleasure, though secretly, she was delighted to see her looking so well. She never told her how glad she was to have her at home again, or that she had missed her, as she had actually done. And consequently, Margaret was not a little disappointed, and the kiss she gave her governess was far warmer than the one she imprinted on her mother's fair cheek—a fact Mrs. Fowler did not fail to notice.
"I have forfeited her respect and affection," thought the mother bitterly.
"She does not care for me, she never did," thought the child.
So the estrangement between the two grew, till it was patent to everybody. Perhaps Mr. Fowler and the governess guessed the cause of it; but the servants blamed their mistress, and declared she was so wrapped up in Master Gerald, that she had no love to spare for her daughter.
On her return to Greystone, Margaret resumed her organ lessons; but she was obliged to practise in the afternoons now, as the evenings were dark.
The golden touch of autumn was upon everything; the orchards were being cleared of their fruit; and the village children scoured the country around Yelton for blackberries, and sloes, and mushrooms. At the end of September, the fine weather broke up, and was followed by the equinoctial gales, which did great damage in the Greystone gardens, the fierce wind tearing up shrubs by the roots, and the heavy rains beating down the summer flowers which had lingered late in bloom. Mr. Fowler braved the fury of the elements, and was out of doors every day; but the weather was too rough for the other inmates of Greystone, who remained in the house till the gales had passed.
Thus it was, that Margaret and Salome did not see as much of each other as they had done hitherto. But one fine October afternoon, the former paid the latter a visit, and was shocked to see how worried and ill her lame friend was looking.
The truth of the matter was, the bad weather had prevented any fishing being done, and Josiah Petherick, having no money in hand, it had been extremely short commons for him and Salome. Of course, Salome did not intimate this to Margaret, she would have been ashamed to do so; she merely said, when questioned, that she had not been very well, and turned the conversation to Margaret's late visit to N—.
"Mrs. Lute gives up the house shortly, and returns to London," Margaret explained. "But she likes Cornwall so much, that she says she shall try to come again next year, if not to N—, then perhaps to some place near. By the way, Salome, mother and father are going to London for a few days soon. Shan't we be lonely at Greystone without them? Mother says she hopes you will come and see her before she goes. Will you?"
Salome assented. She liked Mrs. Fowler, who had always been very kind to her, and admired her as much as she had ever done; she considered her the nicest, prettiest lady she knew.
So one afternoon, a few days later, found the lame girl entering the Greystone grounds. She approached the house slowly, marking the havoc the late gales had worked, and went around to the back door, where she inquired of the servant who opened it in response to her knock, if Mrs. Fowler was at home. She was answered in the affirmative, and invited into the big, front kitchen to wait, whilst it was ascertained if the mistress was disengaged at present.
"Sit down, my dear," said the cook—a stout, middle-aged woman, with a round, red face, and a pair of sharp though not unkindly eyes. "There, take that easy-chair and rest yourself; maybe the pull up the hill has tired you."
She fetched a glass of milk and a big slice of cake, which she placed before her visitor. "You'll be better after a little refreshment," she added. "I know the mistress would wish you to have it."
"Oh, thank you!" Salome replied gratefully, flushing with pleasure, for she had had a scanty dinner. She drank the milk and ate the cake, and did certainly feel better afterwards.
"Miss Margaret's out," the cook remarked. "She's gone for a walk with Miss Conway and Master Gerald. But I daresay, she'll be back before long. She'd be sorry to miss you, my dear, for you're a rare favourite of hers, I can tell you."
Salome smiled happily, as she replied, "I am so glad to hear you say that, for I love her dearly. I expect you're very fond of her yourself, aren't you?"
"I believe she's a general favourite—but no, I'm wrong there. There's one in the house who doesn't appreciate her, and that's her own mother. Yes, you may well look surprised, but I assure you it's true. Mrs. Fowler doesn't make half as much of Miss Margaret as she does of Master Gerald—tiresome boy that he is. She wanted to take him to town with her, if you please, but the master won't allow that. I heard them talking about it in the garden. 'We'll take Margaret, if you like,' he said. 'No,' said she, 'I don't want Margaret.' She never does want her, and that's the fact, and yet, I believe there's not anything Miss Margaret would not do for her."
The cook, who was an extremely garrulous person, paused breathlessly for a few moments, then proceeded: "And such a pretty, nice-mannered little girl Miss Margaret is too. I declare it's a shame her own mother shouldn't love her more. It puzzles me, that it does, why it should be so."
Salome had listened in pain and surprise, wondering if this accounted for the sad expression which she had so often noticed on Margaret's pretty face. Was this the trouble that could not be told?
Before, however, she had time to make a reply, Ross entered the kitchen, and said her mistress would like Salome to join her in the drawing-room.
The lame girl found Mrs. Fowler alone, sitting by the fire, for though the weather was not actually cold, the day was dull, and the warmth was pleasant. Mrs. Fowler was very glad to have a visitor, and made Salome sit down near her and talk.
"My husband and I are going up to town the day after to-morrow," she said, "and I wanted to see you before I went. You must stay until the others return and have some tea."
Salome explained that the cook had already given her milk and cake; but Mrs. Fowler smilingly declared she knew she would be ready for tea when tea-time came, which would not be for another hour. She continued to talk pleasantly and easily, whilst the lame girl listened; and by-and-by, when Salome was questioned kindly and sympathetically as to the reason of her wan looks, she confessed, with some hesitation, however, that it was very tight times with her and her father at home.
"The weather has been so bad that no boats have been able to go out," she said; "and—" lowering her voice and colouring scarlet—"father's been worse than usual lately, and—and—he owes money to Silas Moyle, and how can we ever hope to pay it, if he spends so much at the 'Crab and Cockle'? It almost seems as though he doesn't care. And every day, I'm afraid Silas will say he won't let us have any more bread. Oh, it's dreadful—it's all through the drink, ma'am. Father'd be such a dear, good father if it wasn't for that."
"And you really love him in spite of the way in which he goes on?" Mrs. Fowler asked wonderingly.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I do!" was the earnest reply. "Whatever father did, I think I should love him just the same."
"I don't know how you can, I'm sure; I believe if I were you, I should lose all patience with him. Think how selfish he is, how inconsiderate for your comfort, how violent—"
"Ah, but that's only when he's been drinking!" Salome interposed hastily. "Father isn't like that really; it's only when the drink's in him, that he's all you say. If he would but give up the drink, he and I should be as happy as the day is long. Oh, I shall never cease hoping and praying that some day he may become a teetotaler! If I could get him to take the pledge, I believe all would be well."
"Meanwhile, he is wearing you to death, poor child. Well, don't cease to pray for him. God knows he needs all your prayers."
Mrs. Fowler sighed deeply, whilst she gazed sadly and thoughtfully into the fire. She was silent so long that Salome thought she must have forgotten her presence; but suddenly she glanced at her with a smile and asked, "How is Margaret getting on with her knitting?"
"Oh, very well, ma'am!" was the reply. "But I am afraid she will not come so frequently now the winter days are at hand. Besides, father is oftener at home."
Mrs. Fowler nodded. She put her hand into her pocket and drew therefrom her purse, as she inquired, "How much is it your father owes Silas Moyle?"
"Nearly eighteen shillings," Salome admitted. "I know it's a lot of money," she added deprecatingly.
"A lot of money!" Mrs. Fowler echoed with a faint, amused smile as she opened her purse and took out a sovereign. "Here, my dear," she said, pressing the coin into her visitor's hand, "you will be able to pay your bread account now. Yes, it is for you—a present—put it in your pocket."
Salome was so astonished that she could find no words in which to speak her thanks; but her expressive eyes spoke for her, and told how deeply thankful she felt. She tied the sovereign up in one corner of her handkerchief, which she placed inside the bosom of her frock for greater safety. And then, having overcome her first sensation of intense surprise, she exclaimed, "Oh, ma'am, thank you! How good and kind you are! Oh, what will father say when he knows! It will be such a relief to be able to pay Silas Moyle, for we never owed him quite so much before. Oh, I shall be grateful to you as long as ever I live!"
"There, there, say no more about it. I am glad it is in my power to lift a little of the load of trouble from your young shoulders; your heaviest trial is beyond the reach of human aid. But oh! Go on loving your father, child, if you can, for he must want all your affection, I am sure."
To Salome's astonishment, she saw there were tears in Mrs. Fowler's blue eyes, and that her face was quivering with strong emotion. Before more could be said, however, Gerald flung open the door and rushed into the room, followed at a more decorous pace by his sister and Miss Conway, and a little later the master of the house appeared upon the scene.
No one would hear of Salome's leaving, till she had had tea, so she remained. And afterwards, she willingly consented to sing, so that it was quite dark before she left Greystone; and Mrs. Fowler insisted on sending a servant to see her home in safety.
Josiah Petherick was not sober that night, but the next morning, his daughter told him of the present Mrs. Fowler had made her, and expressed her determination of paying the baker that day. Nor would she hear of her father's settling the account, for, alas! she knew that he was not to be trusted. And that if she let him have the money, he would be more likely to betake himself to the "Crab and Cockle" than to Silas Moyle's shop.
"The truth is, you won't trust me," he said bitterly.
"I can't, father," she answered, the sound of tears in her voice. "You know I can't. Mrs. Fowler gave me the money on purpose for our bread account, and I must know it's paid. Oh, it was kind of her!"
"Yes, it was," he admitted, adding with unexpected candour, "There never should have been need for her to do it; but your father's a good-for-naught. Yes, Salome, that's what everybody says. Folks pity you an' blame me. I know Mrs. Fowler has done this for your sake."
"And for yours too, father. Oh, yes, I am certain of that. She told me to go on loving you, and—"
"Did she though?" Josiah interposed in extreme surprise. "Well, you do amaze me. She's a real kind lady, anyway, and has proved herself our true friend."
A Stormy Night.
"HARK! What's that, Miss Conway? It sounds like a dog howling. There it is again!" And the speaker, Margaret Fowler, put down the book she had been reading, and rising from her chair by the fireplace, went to the window, and peered into the darkness.
The governess and her two pupils were spending the hours between tea-time and supper in the schoolroom at Greystone. A very pleasant apartment it was, comfortably carpeted and curtained, with a bright wood fire burning in the grate. Miss Conway glanced up from her needlework as Margaret spoke, whilst Gerald ceased playing with the cat on the hearthrug and listened for a few moments.
"I don't hear anything," the latter said.
He turned his attention to his playfellow again, but puss was tired and had no desire to prolong the game. In vain, he dangled a piece of string before her eyes to entice her to spring at it. She had had enough of him, and sat on the hearthrug, complacently washing her face and blinking in the firelight.
"Selfish thing!" he exclaimed, "I—oh, yes, I do hear something now!" And he joined his sister at the window.
The sound which fell upon the ears of the listeners was like the low wail of some animal in distress. Margaret's fair cheeks paled as she listened, for there was something eerie in the faint, indistinct sound.
"I don't think it's a dog," said Miss Conway doubtfully. "No, I believe it's the wind rising. If so, we shall have a wild night. Let us open the window and make certain what it is."
They did so; and then ascertained that it was indeed the wind which they heard. The night was pitch dark, with heavy clouds overhead. It had been a still, sombre, autumn day, with that hush in the air which generally portends a storm. Now, the wind was rising, whilst the breakers could be heard dashing against the base of the cliffs.
"Yes, it is only the wind," Miss Conway decided. "How mournful it sounds. Shut the window, children, and come back to the fire. How thankful we should be that we have a good roof over our heads! Gerald, don't tease the cat, my dear; she doesn't want to play any more."
"Josiah Petherick said this afternoon that we were going to have a storm," Gerald remarked. "I saw him on the beach, tarring his boat. None of the fishermen had gone to sea."
"I suppose they considered the weather too uncertain?" Miss Conway interrogated.
"Yes," the boy replied. "Father says they are all very weather-wise. I don't mind a storm, do you, Miss Conway? I wonder if there will be a wreck."
"Oh, I sincerely trust not!" the governess exclaimed hastily.
"I should like to see a wreck," Gerald informed her. "Josiah Petherick has seen several, and he has saved the lives of heaps of people. He must be a very brave man. I don't believe he's afraid of anything. Can't we have our supper upstairs to-night instead of in the dining-room? It's so jolly and cosy here."
Miss Conway assented. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were in London, and the house seemed dull without them. Margaret had taken up her book again; but she was not reading, for the sound of the rising gale distracted her attention and made her feel restless and uneasy.
"If we have a storm, perhaps there will be a wreck," Gerald proceeded presently. "It is so dark, that I should not be surprised, should you, Miss Conway, if a ship ran on the rocks?"
"Oh, Gerald, pray don't suggest such a probability!" she cried, with a shudder.
"If there was a wreck, would you let me go down to the beach?" he inquired eagerly. "Say you would, Miss Conway!"
"I shall certainly say no such thing. If there was a wreck—which God forbid!—I should insist on your remaining in the house. Nothing would induce me to give you permission to go out in a storm. But we need not speak of it. Ring the bell, Gerald, and I will order supper."
The boy obeyed, though with a cloud on his brow; he realised argument was of no avail when his governess spoke in that decided tone. After supper, he went to bed at his usual time, and forgetful of the rising storm, and the prospect of a wreck, was soon asleep. Miss Conway and Margaret sat up till ten o'clock, alternately talking and listening to the wind, which was now howling dolefully around the house, almost driving in the window-panes, and mingling its sobs and wails with the angry roar of the sea; and then they, too, retired to their respective rooms. The gale increased in fury however, and then came the rain.
Meanwhile, the villagers were all alert, for there was little rest for anyone at Yelton on such a night as this, with a westerly gale raging, and the sea like great walls of foam. The fishermen hesitated to seek their beds, whilst some of the most venturesome braved the furious wind and the heavy rain, which was now descending in torrents, and kept watch by the sea-shore, their hearts anxiously expectant, as they recalled similar occasions when their assistance had been required to help those in peril on the sea.
In the Pethericks' cottage, Salome stood by the kitchen window, listening to the storm, and patiently waiting for her father. He was not at the "Crab and Cockle," she was certain of that, but on the beach; and she felt no anxiety about him. He was accustomed to rough weather; and on such a night as this, she knew he would be his true self—brave, fearless, and reliable. As was her custom when alone, she was singing softly:
"Lead us, heavenly Father, lead usO'er the world's tempestuous sea;Guide us, guard us, keep us, feed us,For we have no help but Thee,Yet possessing every blessingIf our God our Father be."
Seen by the subdued light of the lamp in the centre of the table, the little girl's face wore a look of great contentment. For the time, she had forgotten how troublous was her life, as her soul rose on the wings of faith to an altitude which set her far above the trials of this world. She sang the hymn from beginning to end in a soft undertone, with the wailing wind for an accompanyment; then, opening the window, she thrust out her head and listened. She heard hurrying footsteps passing the cottage, and men's hoarse voices shouting.
"Who goes there?" Salome cried. "Is anything amiss?"
"I hope nothing is wrong," she thought, as she received no answer; "but I suppose they are obliged to shout to make themselves heard."
She tried in vain to pierce the darkness.
"If a vessel had been in distress, the crew would fire guns, or send up rockets," she reflected.
The rain beat against her face, so she drew back from the window, which she shut, and turned her attention to the fire, remembering that her father would certainly return drenched to the skin. Suddenly the cottage door was flung open, and Margaret Fowler, hatless, and with her fair hair hanging around her face, stood before her.
"Oh, Salome!" she gasped breathlessly. "Is he here? Have you seen Gerald?"
"No, miss. What is wrong?"
"We've lost Gerald, and I thought he might have come here. All the servants are looking for him, and Miss Conway too. Oh, what shall we do? He went to bed as usual, and was fast asleep at ten o'clock, but when Miss Conway peeped into his room half-an-hour ago, to see if the storm had disturbed him, his bed was empty. He had dressed, and we believe, he must have gone out."
"Perhaps he is somewhere hiding in the house," Salome suggested. "Surely he would not go out on a night like this."
"Yes, I think he would. He wanted so much to see a wreck—he seemed to have made up his mind there would be one to-night—and he is quite fearless."
"I expect he is safe. Oh, how wet you are, Miss Margaret!"
"Yes, and the wind blew away my hat coming down the hill, but no matter. Oh, where can Gerald have gone? I believe he must be on the beach."
"If he is, father will be sure to notice him and take care of him," Salome said consolingly. "Don't be frightened, miss; I feel sure Master Gerald will come to no harm."
"If he does, it will kill mother!" Margaret cried, despairingly. "She loves him so dearly. No, I mustn't stay; I must go and find Gerald if I can;" and opening the door, she rushed away into the darkness again.
After a few minutes of indecision, Salome put on her jacket, tied a shawl around her head, and leaving the cottage door unlocked, hastened towards the beach. She had not gone far, however, before she came upon a group of fishermen, one of whom was her father. She explained that the little boy from Greystone was missing from his home, but no one had seen him. Her father was vexed that she had ventured out in such a storm, and peremptorily ordered her to return.
"I'll look around an' see if I can find Master Gerald," he said. "But he'll come to no harm, I warrant."
"Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that!"
It was Margaret who spoke. She had been led in the direction of the group by the sound of voices; and clutched Josiah by the arm to steady herself, as a fierce gust of wind nearly took her off her feet.
"Do you go back with Salome, miss," he said. "This is no fit place for you two little maids. I promise I'll look for Master Gerald, and find him, too, if he's hereabouts."
"Oh, thank you!" Margaret replied earnestly.
She was really nearly done up with battling against the wind and the rain, so she raised no objection to returning with Salome. The little girls reached the cottage in safety, and upon entering, found Miss Conway in the kitchen. Having knocked in vain at the door, she had tried to open it, and finding it unlocked, had gone in; she too had thought it possible that Gerald might be there.
"If he's on the beach, father will find him, you may depend upon that," Salome assured her. "And he will bring him straight here. I fear you will both catch dreadful colds," and she glanced commiseratingly from Margaret to the governess.
"We shan't mind that, so long as Gerald is safe," Margaret returned. She was shivering and her teeth were chattering, as much with fright on her brother's account as with cold. "Oh, Miss Conway, what shall we do if anything has happened to him? Mother will never forgive us if—"
"Dear Margaret, don't be morbid; neither you nor I have been to blame," Miss Conway reminded her. "If harm has come to your brother, it has been through no fault of ours. Who would imagine that he would deliberately get up and dress and steal out of the house unknown to anyone? Whatever the result of this mad freak of his proves to be, will have been his own doing."
"It is terrible to think what may have happened to him. The wind is high enough to blow him into the sea if he is really on the beach. Oh, mother will hate the sight of me for ever, if Gerald is drowned!" And Margaret burst into tears.
"Don't, dear, don't!" Miss Conway said imploringly.
"You know it is true," Margaret cried passionately. "If I was killed, mother would not care—not much; but Gerald is as the apple of her eye."
Before any answer could be made to this, the cottage door opened, and Josiah strode into the kitchen, bearing Gerald in his arms. He had discovered the little boy crouched in the shelter of a boat which had been drawn high up on the beach, out of the reach of the tide.
"There is no wreck," Gerald said disgustedly, as Josiah set him down on the floor, "and I'm cold and wet, and should like to go home."
Trouble at Greystone.
FOR once, Gerald had gone too far, as he discovered on the following day, when, for punishment, his governess insisted on keeping him locked up in his bedroom. In vain, he cried and protested against such treatment, Miss Conway was like adamant, and the boy had perforce to endure twenty-four hours of solitary confinement with no one to speak to, no one to play with, and nothing to do. A more salutary mode of punishment could not have been devised; and in consequence, Gerald appeared at the breakfast-table on the morning following his imprisonment, in a subdued and repentant frame of mind. He said he was sorry for his past conduct; but he could not extract a promise from either Miss Conway or Margaret that his father should not be informed of the anxiety and trouble he had caused the whole household.
Margaret had caught a severe cold on the night of the storm, and spent the next few days shivering over the schoolroom fire, too unwell for lessons. Gerald's escapade had been a shock to her; she was overwrought and languid, and when, on the morning of the day that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were expected home, she began to dress she felt so shaky that she went back to bed again.
"Not up yet, Margaret?" asked Miss Conway's voice outside the door, half-an-hour later.
"No," was the reply. "I am so sorry, but my cold is very bad, and I have such a dreadful headache."
The governess entered the room immediately on hearing this and approached the bed. After kissing Margaret with affectionate concern, she felt her pulse and declared her to be a little feverish.
"Stay where you are, my dear," she said kindly. "Why, you're shivering. Ross shall bring you a hot-water bottle for your feet and light the fire; then, I have no doubt, if you lie in bed and nurse your cold, you will soon be better."
"I am so vexed, because mother and father are coming home to-night," Margaret sighed.
"I daresay you will be well enough to get up by the evening," Miss Conway responded hopefully. "I shall be with Gerald as usual, but I shall tell Ross to devote herself to you. If you want me, do not hesitate to send for me."
Margaret could eat no breakfast, but she took a few sips of the milk Ross brought her a short while later, and afterwards fell into an uneasy sleep. The maid, moving about softly, lit the fire and dusted the room, then turned her attention to the flushed face on the pillow.
"Poor little thing, she does look poorly," she murmured. "And it's all on account of that tiresome child, Master Gerald. 'Tis a shame of the mistress to spoil him so; everyone can see but her that she's ruining him, allowing him his own way as she does."
Margaret moved restlessly and began to mutter. Ross bent over her, and caught the sound of Gerald's name. She laid her cool hand softly against the little girl's cheek and felt how it burnt.
"She's very feverish," she thought. "I do hope she isn't going to be really ill. A nice home-coming it will be for master, if she is. I wonder if the mistress would trouble much?"
Roes moved away to the fireplace, and taking up some sewing-work, stitched industriously, every now and again glancing towards the restless sleeper.
Suddenly the little girl uttered a shriek and sprang up in bed, whereupon Ross dropped her work and hastened to the bedside.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, putting her arms around Margaret's quivering form. "You've had a bad dream, I expect—but it was only a dream. See, now, don't tremble so, you're perfectly safe with Ross."
"Where's Gerald?" Margaret demanded in a strange, hoarse voice.
"Doing his lessons with Miss Conway."
"Where's Gerald?" the little girl reiterated.
Ross repeated her former answer, but it did not appear to satisfy Margaret.
"Let me go and look for him," she said in a tone of distress.
"No, dear; you're not well, you must lie down again."
"You won't let me go!" Margaret struggled a minute in Ross' restraining arms, then sank back on the pillow. "I know why you won't let me go," she cried; "he's dead. He's drowned."
"No, no, darling, he's perfectly safe. Dear Miss Margaret, you've been dreaming."
"He's drowned!" the little girl insisted. "And who's going to tell mother? Oh, it will kill her!"
"Miss Margaret, I solemnly declare Master Gerald's living and well," said Ross, growing more and more concerned. "I wouldn't tell you a story, why should I? You're poorly, dear, and you've had a bad dream."
But Margaret wandered on: "Listen to the rain beating against the window, and the wind howling. And Gerald is out in it all! If he is on the beach, he will be blown into the sea. Look at that great wave! Oh, it has carried him away!" and she uttered a heartrending cry.
"It is a lovely day," Ross assured her; "the sun is shining, and the sea is quite blue and calm. You've been dreaming about the storm, miss, and fancying all sorts of horrors that never happened."
Margaret's blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon Ross' face, but she evidently had not followed what the woman had said, for after a short silence she began to mutter distressfully about Gerald again.
Ross was now exceedingly alarmed. She rang the bell, and sent for Miss Conway, who, in her turn, tried to pacify the sick child. But Margaret paid no more attention to her governess than she had to Ross.
"I am afraid she is going to be very ill," Miss Conway said in much distress. "All her trouble seems to be about her brother. Fetch him, Ross; perhaps the sight of him will satisfy her."
So Gerald was brought to his sister's bedside. He was somewhat frightened when told Margaret was ill; but in obedience to Miss Conway, he stooped over the bed to kiss her. She, however, pushed him away with feverish strength, and covered her eyes with her hand.
"Take him away!" she cried. "What is that strange boy doing here?"
"It's Gerald, dear Margaret," said the governess softly. "Your own brother come to show you that he is quite well, and—"
"No, no; Gerald's drowned, I tell you! Oh, what will mother say? She loves him so."
At this point, Gerald, realising that there was something very strange and unusual about his sister, began to cry, and was hurried out of the room.
Thoroughly shocked, Miss Conway sent a groom to N— immediately, to fetch a doctor; and within a few hours, the news had spread through the village of Yelton that the little girl at Greystone was very ill. Mr. Amyatt, as soon as he heard the tidings, considerately invited Gerald to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage; and Salome Petherick arrived at the back door of Greystone in the afternoon to make inquiries.
The cook, who had been stewing beef-tea, insisted on Salome's coming inside and resting in her easy-chair.
"Mrs. Moyle told me of Miss Margaret's illness," the lame girl said, her face expressive of the deepest concern. "I hope it is nothing serious?"
"I am afraid it is, my dear," was the grave rejoinder. "It's inflammation of the lungs. Dr. Vawdry has been here from N—, and he's coming again this evening. He says she's very ill; and if Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not been returning to-night, they'd have been telegraphed for. Oh, dear, dear, I do trust the poor child's life may be spared! She's not been well for days, not since the night of the storm, when Master Gerald led us all such a dance after him. He's the one to be blamed for this. For once, I should think the mistress would see that."
And the woman poked the fire viciously, as though the act was a vent for her feelings. "She's the nicest, sweetest, little creature I ever knew is Miss Margaret," she proceeded, "with always a kind word for us servants. Ross says she doesn't recognise anyone; she didn't know Master Gerald, and her incessant cry is that he is drowned. If only Miss Conway had turned the key in his bedroom door on the night of the storm. She kept him locked up the next day, and it broke his rebellious spirit—quite. She'd soon get him under subjection if his mother didn't pamper him so. Don't you take on, now, about Miss Margaret, my dear; maybe she'll get over this attack all right. She's young and healthy, and she'll have good nursing, and everything money can buy. I ordered some lean, gravy beef the minute I heard she was ill, but the doctor won't allow her anything but milk and soda water, so there's plenty of strong beef-tea going begging, and you'd better have a cupful. Will you have bread with it? Yes. I'm sure it will do you good."
Salome was very glad of some refreshment. She took the beef-tea, whilst the cook talked on without waiting for replies; but when she rose to go, having learnt all there was to know, her heart was very heavy indeed. Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she passed out of the Greystone grounds, and commenced her descent of the hill. As she went by the church, she wondered if she would ever hear Miss Margaret practising on the organ again.
And she was so engrossed with her sorrowful thoughts, that she was startled when, on reaching the Vicarage gate, a voice addressed her from inside. "Hi, Salome! Where have you been?"
She paused and looked at the speaker, Gerald Fowler, who was peering at her laughingly between the bars of the gate. The boy was in high spirits at being the Vicar's guest, and he had not been informed that his sister was really seriously ill. He had been frightened when Margaret had failed to recognise him, but the impression he had then received had passed, and he was delighted at having this unexpected holiday.