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"YOU'D BETTER MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS,SALOME PETHERICK."
"I've been to Greystone, Master Gerald," Salome returned quietly.
"To see Margaret, I suppose? She's ill, you know."
"Yes, and I am so grieved and sorry."
"Oh, I expect she'll soon be better!" Gerald remarked confidently.
"I hope so," the lame girl replied dubiously. "But the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs."
"Does that ever kill people, Salome?"
"Yes, Master Gerald, very often."
"But Margaret won't die, will she? You don't think that, do you?"
"No one can tell—but God. We must ask Him to take care of her. Oh, Master Gerald, see what has come of your ill conduct!"
"What do you mean?" he inquired in amazement. "It isn't my fault that Margaret's ill."
"Oh, yes, indeed it is! If you had not gone down to the beach on the night of the storm, she would not have got drenched to the skin and have caught such a dreadful cold. Oh, yes, it was your fault!" And Salome looked at him severely.
His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and his rosy cheeks paled as he gasped, "Oh, I never thought—I never thought—"
"No, I don't suppose you did, Master Gerald, or if you did, it was yourself you thought of and no one else," Salome cried indignantly. "You 're the most selfish little boy I know."
"You 're very unkind, and—and nasty."
"I daresay you think I am; but I love Miss Margaret, and I know you've been the cause of her illness. I wonder what your mother and father will say."
"Mother will say it was not my fault," Gerald declared stoutly. "I couldn't tell Margaret would be silly enough to go to look for me; and I think you'd better mind your own business, Salome Petherick," he concluded.
He was impressed by the lame girl's plain speaking, and put on a show of anger to hide the fact.
She shook her head at him gravely, as she turned away from the Vicarage gate and went down the hill.
When she reached home, she lit the fire and boiled the kettle for tea, and by that time her father had appeared upon the scene, having had a good catch of fish. His face grew grave when Salome told him of Margaret's illness, and he expressed great regret, for he was grateful to the Fowlers for the notice they had taken of his child. And he volunteered to go to Greystone later on and inquire for the poor little sufferer. This he accordingly did, and brought back the news that Dr. Vawdry had visited the patient again, and had declared her to be dangerously ill, but that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not yet come. The carriage had gone to N— to meet them at the railway station, as had been arranged, and they were expected very soon now.
"Don't take on so, my dear," said Josiah kindly, as he noticed Salome's brown eyes full of tears. "The little maid'll pull through, please God. I am grieved about her though—s'pose 'twas you," and he looked at his child with great affection as he reflected on the uncertainty of life. And because it would please her, and with the laudable desire of keeping her from dwelling too much on the thought of Margaret's illness, he spent the evening in her company, and that night his associates at the "Crab and Cockle" looked for him in vain.
Days of Sickness.
IT was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. and Mrs. Fowler reached Greystone that autumn night. Without waiting for assistance, the latter sprang out of the carriage and ran into the house, and almost into the arms of Miss Conway, who had come down from the sick-room to meet the travellers.
"What is this I hear about Margaret?" Mrs. Fowler inquired, excitedly clutching the governess by the arm, and scanning her pale countenance with anxiety. "I am told she is ill. It is nothing much, I suppose? What ails her? A cold?"
"She certainly did catch cold," Miss Conway rejoined in a grave tone, looking from Mrs. Fowler to her husband, who had quickly followed her. "She has been poorly for several days, but this morning she was taken much worse, and I sent immediately for Dr. Vawdry from N—. He has been twice during the day, and—and—" this in a faltering voice—"she is very ill with inflammation of the lungs. We are poulticing her; Ross is with her now, and—and—I'm so very glad you've come!" And, overwrought with anxiety, she burst into tears.
"Come into the drawing-room, Miss Conway," Mr. Fowler said kindly. "No, my dear," he continued, laying a restraining hand upon his wife who had turned to rush upstairs, "let us hear all details about Margaret first of all. Besides, you must not allow her to see you looking frightened and distressed."
"She would take no notice," Miss Conway said mournfully. "She recognises nobody, and is quite delirious. Dr. Vawdry says that need not alarm us, though, for it's frequently the case in inflammation of the lungs."
"What has caused her illness?" Mrs. Fowler asked, as she followed the others into the drawing-room.
Miss Conway wiped away her tears, and in a few minutes was sufficiently composed to explain all that had happened. When she had finished her story, Mr. Fowler inquired, "Where is Gerald now?"
"In bed and asleep, I am thankful to say," Miss Conway answered. "Mr. Amyatt had him at the Vicarage until eight o'clock, when he brought him home. He begged me to allow him to sit up to see you, but I insisted on his having his supper and going to bed."
"Quite right." Mr. Fowler's face was very stern, and he would not meet the glance of his wife's appealing eyes. "We see now the result of indulgence," he added emphatically. "Had Gerald been taught obedience and consideration for other people, this trouble would never have come upon us."
Mrs. Fowler quailed beneath the mingled reproach and reproof of her husband's tone; for once she had no excuse to make for her favourite child. She had spent a very pleasant time in London, where she had met many old friends, including Mrs. Lute; but she had not been sorry to return to Greystone, acknowledging to herself that the quiet, healthful life there suited her. With her husband's presence to strengthen her, it had not been so very difficult to refuse stimulants when they had been offered to her. She was fully conscious of her own weakness now, and no longer deceived herself, as she had formerly done, with the fallacious idea that a little wine or spirit was good for her.
When she recalled how, during her husband's brief absence from home a few weeks previously, she had been tempted from the mere fact of having taken one glass of wine to purchase a bottle of brandy, and drink it by stealth, she was obliged to confess that total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors was the only course for her to adopt to prevent the ruin of her happiness, and that of those she loved. At Greystone, she felt she was out of temptation's way. The news of her little daughter's illness, which had been imparted to her and Mr. Fowler at N—, had startled and shocked her immeasurably; and she had begged the coachman to drive home as quickly as possible, which he had accordingly done.
Margaret was lying in a kind of stupor when her parents entered her bedroom, and they were careful not to disturb her. Mr. Fowler saw she was very ill, and his heart ached as he bent over her and listened to her laboured breathing. Glancing at his wife, he was astonished at the expression of her countenance, for, like everyone else, he had never thought she had cared for Margaret overmuch. But all the mother's love was alive in Mrs. Fowler at that moment, shining in her blue eyes, and illuminating her fair face with additional beauty.
Anxious days and nights followed, during which Margaret lay between life and death. Her mother constituted herself head nurse, and showed wonderful ability in that capacity. Naturally a nervous, excitable woman, it was quite wonderful how she put a check upon her feelings, and was calm, and capable, and seemingly untiring. It was nothing to Margaret, at that time, who was attending to her, for she was utterly unconscious, sometimes in a drowsy condition, sometimes murmuring distressfully, going over again all that had happened on the night of the storm, always with the impression in her mind that Gerald had been drowned.
"Who will tell mother?" she demanded again and again in an agony of grief. "She loves him so! He is her favourite."
Meanwhile Gerald had been taken to task by his father for his conduct on the night of the storm. Mr. Fowler took no steps to punish him, but he talked to him so seriously, and pointed out to him that he was responsible for his sister's illness, that Gerald was reduced to tears, and for the first time in his life, on seeking his mother's support and sympathy, he found both lacking.
"The blame is all yours," she told him gravely. "What your father has said to you is perfectly true."
"Oh, mother, don't you think Margaret will get well again?" he asked with quivering lips, for beneath a veneer of selfishness, he owned an affectionate heart, and he was really much attached to his sister.
"Only God knows that," was the solemn reply.
"That's what Salome Petherick says," he remarked tearfully. "She was here inquiring for Margaret at the back door this morning. She comes every day, and she said all I could do was to pray."
"She was right, Gerald; your sister is in God's hands. The doctor can do nothing for her—he has acknowledged that; but oh, my son, pray for her! Pray for her!"
The little boy was greatly impressed by the solemnity of his mother's tone, and impetuously flinging his arms around her neck, he assured her, he would be a better boy for the future, and that he would pray to God to make his sister well. He was having a holiday from lessons, for Miss Conway was assisting Mrs. Fowler and Ross with the nursing, and so he spent most of his time with his father, from whom he had begged and obtained forgiveness for his past misbehaviour.
"Yes, I forgive you, Gerald," Mr. Fowler had said sadly. "But you see, wrongdoing always brings its own punishment," he had added, noting the little boy's troubled countenance, and making a shrewd guess as to the state of his feelings with regard to Margaret.
The servants crept quietly about the house speaking in hushed tones, for the angel of death seemed hovering near; and those who loved Margaret Fowler waited and watched unwearyingly. A second doctor from Plymouth had visited the patient. But he had agreed with Dr. Vawdry that nothing more could be done for her, and that it was merely a question of whether or not her strength would hold out and vanquish the disease.
At last, the crisis came. And then, the glad news that the little sufferer was sleeping quietly and naturally was whispered through the house, and spread to the Vicarage, and from thence to the village, where Salome Petherick heard the good tidings in Silas Moyle's shop, and returned home with a joyful, thankful heart.
The golden, autumn days were passing swiftly now, and there was a sharp feeling in the air in the morning, but a few hardy flowers lingered in Salome's garden; a big bush fuchsia which grew beneath the kitchen window was still in bloom, and the verbena close to the porch had not commenced to shed its leaves, whilst the white chrysanthemums which flourished year by year in the shelter of the wall which protected the garden on the side nearest to the sea were in full flower. The lame girl gathered a posy, and took it up to Greystone, where she left it at the back door with a request that it might be given to Miss Margaret, if she was well enough to receive it. She declined an invitation to rest awhile, saying she must hurry home to get her father's tea.
So it came to pass, that when Margaret awoke from her refreshing sleep, she was conscious of a delightful perfume, and opening her eyes, they rested on a homely nosegay, composed of chrysanthemums, intermingled with sprigs of verbena, and drooping fuchsia sprays. The flowers lay on the counterpane, but when she tried to put out her hand to reach them, she found she could not. Then the bed curtain stirred, and she saw a face bending over her—a beautiful face full of love and a great joy.
"Mother," she said weakly.
"Yes, my dear," was the soft reply. "You have been ill, but you are better, and have had such a nice, long sleep. I want you to drink this milk and then go to sleep again."
Mrs. Fowler slipped her arm beneath the pillow, and gently raised the little girl's head, whilst she held a cup to her lips. Margaret took a few sips of milk, but refused more.
"The flowers," she said, as her mother laid her head down again.
"Salome sent them to you with her love."
Mrs. Fowler placed the nosegay close to Margaret's hand, and her thin fingers fastened around the stems of the flowers, then her tired eyes closed, and she slept once more.
From that hour, Margaret commenced to recover. For days, she was too weak to move hand or foot—too weak almost to think; but by-and-by, with returning strength, she began to notice more what was going on around her. The tormenting thought that Gerald was dead had left her entirely, and she was conscious that it had been her mother who had nursed her so tenderly all along, and not a figure of her imagination as she had at first thought.
She watched Mrs. Fowler with an inquiring expression which that lady failed to interpret, but which made her both anxious and uneasy. It was as though Margaret wondered at her solicitude, and was trying to find a reason for it. And as the little girl grew better, it was quite apparent that she preferred to have Miss Conway or Ross in attendance upon her to Mrs. Fowler. It was always—"Don't trouble, mother, Ross will do it," or "Miss Conway will read to me, I know." Till, deeply hurt, Mrs. Fowler made up her mind that she had for ever destroyed her little daughter's affection. And once Margaret had loved her so dearly, too!
On the first occasion on which the patient was allowed to sit out in a chair by the fire, Mrs. Fowler wrapped her in a dressing-gown made of quilted silk which she had brought home for her from London. Margaret expressed great pleasure in the pretty garment, and called everyone's attention to it. Her father sat with her for a short while, and Gerald, at his earnest request, was permitted ten minutes of her society.
"How white you look!" the latter exclaimed, regarding her with awe. "And your eyes are so big! But you're heaps better, aren't you, Margaret?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered, smiling brightly.
"That's right. I prayed to God to make you well, and so did everyone, I think."
"That was very kind of everyone," Margaret murmured, much touched.
"Josiah Petherick's drunk nearly every night now," Gerald next informed his sister. "I heard Mr. Amyatt tell father so."
"Oh, dear!" cried Margaret in much distress. "Poor Salome!" At that moment, she caught her mother's eyes, and the sensitive colour flooded her face from chin to brow. Noticing the painful blush, Mrs. Fowler turned away, and walking to the window, gazed out unseeingly, her mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts.
Meanwhile, Gerald chattered on, passing from Josiah to other of the villagers, until Mrs. Fowler, suddenly remembering that Margaret must not be allowed to overtire herself, interrupted the conversation, and sent the little boy away, promising he should come and sit with his sister again to-morrow.
"Remember to give my love to Salome the next time you see her," Margaret said. "Tell her, I hope we shall meet again soon."
Then, as the door shut on her brother, she sighed, and her mother guessed aright by the sad expression of her face that her thoughts were troubled ones and anything but conducive to peace of mind.
The Shadow Lifted.
NOVEMBER was an unusually mild month that year, so that Margaret, during her convalescence, was enabled to take long drives without any risk of catching cold. On one occasion, Salome Petherick was invited to accompany her and Mrs. Fowler when they drove to N—. And it was pleasant to see how the lame girl's countenance shone with happiness as, forgetful of her worries for the time, she enjoyed the novelty of viewing hitherto unknown scenery, for she had never been beyond walking distance of Yelton before.
"It was quite pathetic to watch the varying expressions on the poor little thing's face," Mrs. Fowler confided to her husband afterwards. "She shall accompany us again, if all's well. Have you noticed how she has changed lately? The first time I saw her, she had such a pretty brown complexion, and now she is so pale, and her eyes so big and hollow. I wonder what ails the child."
"Privation and trouble, I'm afraid, judging from what I hear," Mr. Fowler responded gravely. "She is badly fed, works hard, and is always grieving on her father's account."
Mrs. Fowler sighed. She was deeply interested in Salome, but there seemed little she could do for her. The idea crossed her mind that she might remonstrate with Josiah concerning his treatment of his little daughter, but she shrank sensitively from doing so.
Meanwhile, there was little fishing being done at Yelton during those mild November days, when the ocean was as smooth as a duck pond, and there was not a breath of wind blowing, so that Josiah and his boon companions had plenty of time on their hands. The "Crab and Cockle" had most of their society, and their homes suffered in consequence.
One night, after the inn was closed and most of the inhabitants of Yelton had gone to rest, the alarming cry of "Fire!" was heard. And men, women, and children dressed with all speed, and rushed out of doors exclaiming, questioning, and running against each other in their excitement and hurry.
"Fire! Fire! Oh, help; for mercy's sake, help my father!"
It was the lame girl who had raised the alarm, and who now stood outside Silas Moyle's shop, her face livid with terror. She managed somehow to explain that it was her home that was on fire, and that her father, on his return from the "Crab and Cockle," had clutched at the table-cloth which had covered the kitchen table, and had thus upset the lamp and caused the conflagration.
On hearing this, there was a general rush in the direction of the Pethericks' cottage, but Silas Moyle, who had now arrived upon the scene, insisted upon Salome's staying with his wife, and lingered to inquire what had become of Josiah.
"He's at home," Salome wailed. "I couldn't get him to leave; he was pouring buckets of water on the fire; but oh! He couldn't put it out, it was spreading terribly. Please, Mr. Moyle, do go and see that he's all right. He isn't sober, and oh, I'm so afraid for him."
"There, there, don't you take on," said Mrs. Moyle, kindly. "Silas'll see to Josiah. Come you in, my dear," and the good woman led Salome into the parlour behind the shop and placed her in an easy-chair.
Meanwhile, willing hands were helping Josiah in his attempts to put out the fire. But assistance proved of no avail, and in less than two hours the Pethericks' cottage was actually gutted, and all their possessions had been burnt. It had been impossible to save anything, for the woodwork of the cottage being old, and the roof of thatch, the flames had spread with great rapidity. Daybreak found Josiah, sober enough now, staring disconsolately at the four stone walls which was the only portion of his home that was left intact. He was feeling inexpressibly shocked, for his furniture was not insured, and he realised that he and his little daughter had nothing in the world but the clothes they were wearing. What was he to do? He could not tell, and he groaned in despair, as he looked at the smoking ruins, and the erstwhile trim garden, now spoilt by the trampling of many feet.
"This is a bad business, Petherick."
Turning at the sound of a voice addressing him, he saw Mr. Amyatt. The Vicar had been there some time, but Josiah had not noticed him amongst the rest.
"Ay," was the gloomy response. "I'm ruined—that's what I am."
"I daresay your landlord will rebuild the cottage, for no doubt it is insured."
"What's the good of a cottage without furniture?" Josiah demanded almost fiercely. "Salome's homeless, an' through me. I ought to be thrashed."
"Salome can bide with my missus," Silas Moyle interposed at that point. "She's a handy maid, and can make herself useful, an' you'll be able to get a lodging somewhere, Josiah, for the time; but you'd best come along with me now, an' get a bit of breakfast."
Josiah hesitated. He was very grateful to the baker for his kindness, but he dreaded the meeting with Salome. He felt more ashamed of himself than he had ever done in his life before, and as he turned his back on the smoking ruins, he pictured the pretty, thatched cottage of which he had been so proud once upon a time. There he had brought his young bride, there Salome had been born, and his happy married life had been spent, and there his wife had died. Josiah rubbed his hard, brown hand across his eyes as memory was busy with him.
"Come," said Silas, "pull yourself together, man. Let's go and get some breakfast. Your little maid's wanting you, I'll warrant."
Such proved to be the case. For the minute Salome saw her father, she threw herself into his arms, and whispered how thankful she was that he was safe, and that nothing mattered besides—nothing.
The first person to convey the news of the fire to Greystone was the postman, and great was the excitement when it became known that the Pethericks' cottage had been burnt down. Mr. Fowler started off immediately, with Gerald, to learn all particulars, and, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler, at Margaret's earnest request, went to see Salome. She found the little girl in better spirits than she had anticipated, though her brown eyes grew very wistful when she talked of her late home.
"All my plants are trampled into the ground," she said, "but, never mind, father's safe, and that's the chief thing. I was so afraid for him."
"And so you are to remain here?" Mrs. Fowler questioned, glancing around Mrs. Moyle's little parlour, which was a picture of neatness and cleanliness.
"Yes, ma'am, for the time. Mrs. Moyle has kindly asked me to stay."
"And your father?"
"He's going to find out if our landlord will rebuild the cottage, and if so, father will get a lodging somewhere in the village. The worst of it is, all our furniture is burnt; but father says he'll be able to replace it by degrees, he hopes."
After leaving Salome, Mrs. Fowler thought she would like to see the ruined cottage, so she turned her footsteps in that direction, and found Josiah leaning over the garden gate in conversation with the Vicar. The former would have moved away on her approach, but she stopped him, and explained that she had been to visit his little daughter.
"I'm so sorry for you both," she told him kindly. "It is terrible to be burnt out of house and home."
"It was my doing," Josiah confessed. "Maybe you've heard how it happened?"
"Yes," she admitted, "you caught hold of the table-cloth, and pulled over the lamp, did you not?"
The fisherman nodded, whilst the Vicar regarded him attentively.
"I've been talking to Petherick very seriously," the latter said. "And have been trying to induce him to become a teetotaler and sign the pledge. I do earnestly entreat you, Petherick, to take warning by last night's work."
"Why won't you take the pledge?" Mrs. Fowler asked, her fair face alternately paling and flushing. "I am sure it would be for your happiness and well-being if you did. And you should consider Salome. Oh, drink is a terrible curse! It kills all one's best qualities, and ruins one's self-respect."
"I'm ashamed of myself," Josiah acknowledged, "but think how folks would laugh if I took the pledge. I'll be a teetotaler if I can; but no, I won't pledge myself to it."
"Oh, don't say that!" Mrs. Fowler cried imploringly. "Think the matter over. I believe if you took the pledge, you would keep it, for I am sure you are a man of your word."
Josiah's face expressed irresolution. He had solemnly vowed to himself that he would never touch intoxicating liquors again, so deeply had the past night affected him, but he hated the idea of taking the pledge, whilst Mr. Amyatt realised that his so doing would be the only thing which would hold him to his determination to abstain from drink.
"I'm going to give up drink," Josiah declared decidedly, at length, "but I won't take the pledge. I understand everyone's a teetotaler at Greystone," he continued, as Mrs. Fowler was about to speak again, "but, excuse me, ma'am, I don't suppose you've signed the pledge, have you?"
"No," Mrs. Fowler acknowledged, "I have not."
Josiah was silent. He was evidently thinking, "Then, why should I?"
Mrs. Fowler was silent too, and Mr. Amyatt regarded her a trifle curiously, for he saw she was struggling with some strong emotion. Presently she said very quietly, "I have made up my mind. I will certainly take the pledge."
"You!" Josiah exclaimed in amazement. "You, ma'am!"
"Yes," Mrs. Fowler rejoined, "it is the right thing for me to do, and you must do the same. Why should you object if I do not?"
"You must give in now, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said quickly, "if Mrs. Fowler is ready to do this for your sake—"
"I will do it for his sake, and for my own, and for the sake of all those we love," she interposed. "Oh, think of Salome!" she said earnestly to Josiah. "You have brought her untold trouble, and have made her homeless all through drink. Look at this ruined cottage, and reflect that but for the kindness of the Moyles, your child would be without shelter and food. How can you hesitate?"
"I don't, ma'am."
"Then, if I take the pledge, will you?" Mrs. Fowler inquired eagerly.
"Yes," Josiah answered, "I don't see that I can say 'no' to that."
An hour later, Mrs. Fowler entered the drawing-room at Greystone, where her little daughter was seated alone near the fire, reading. Margaret put down her book, whilst her mother, who had removed her walking garments, sank rather wearily into an easy-chair.
"I have been talking to your father, my dear," Mrs. Fowler said with a smile. "I suppose, like him, you want to hear about Salome first of all," and she proceeded to give an account of her interview with the lame girl, and to explain the arrangement that had been made for her to remain with the Moyles for the present.
"And did her father really set the cottage on fire?" Margaret inquired.
"Yes. He was intoxicated, and pulled off the lamp in clutching at the table-cloth. It is fortunate neither he nor Salome was burnt. My dear, I have a piece of news for you."
"Yes?" Margaret said, interrogatively, as Mrs. Fowler paused.
"Josiah Petherick has consented to take the pledge, and I am going to take the pledge too!"
"Mother!"
Mrs. Fowler gave a brief account of her interview with the fisherman and Mr. Amyatt, to which her little daughter listened with breathless interest. When she had ceased speaking, Margaret went to her side and kissed her.
"Oh, child!" cried Mrs. Fowler, encircling the slender form with her arms. "Do you really care for me? I thought I had for ever forfeited your love and respect. My dear, I never properly valued your affection until I feared I had lost it. I have been a selfish mother, but, please God, I'll be different in the future. When I faced the possibility of losing you, it nearly broke my heart."
"Oh, mother! And I feared you did not like to have me with you! I thought—"
"Was that why you shrank from me? Margaret—" and Mrs. Fowler spoke very impressively. "There has been a black shadow over my life for a long, long time. It stood between me and your father, between you and me, and even between my soul and God. I believe, and pray that it is gone."
The little girl pressed her lips again to her mother's cheek, and though she made no reply, that gentle kiss, so tenderly and lovingly given, was the seal of a better understanding between these two who had been slowly drifting apart. And neither was likely to doubt the other's affection again.
Happier Days.
ONCE more, it was summer time. Eight months had elapsed since the night when the Pethericks' home had been destroyed by fire. And in the place of the old thatched dwelling, a modern red-brick cottage had been built, which, though certainly not so picturesque as the former one, was very comfortable, and possessed a bow window to its little parlour, which was the envy and admiration of all the villagers. Already young ivy plants had been placed against the bare, red walls; and the garden had been coaxed into good order, and was now making a fine show with its summer flowers.
The cottage was barely furnished, for though to the amazement of all Yelton, Josiah had become a pledged teetotaler, and had in very truth turned over a new leaf, he had not been able to earn much money during the winter months. And when the new home had been completed a fortnight previously, he had only been in a position to purchase a few cheap articles of furniture which were absolute necessaries, such as beds, and cooking utensils.
One beautiful June evening, Salome sat inside the bow window from which there was an uninterrupted view of the beach, and the wide expanse of sea, her busy fingers knitting as usual, her fresh, sweet voice trilling a merry song. She was blissfully happy, for at that moment she had not a care in the world. Her father, now he had really given up drink, was kind and considerate as he had been in her mother's lifetime, and was doing all he possibly could to make up to her for the sorrow he had caused her in the past.
God had been good to her, she told herself, for He had answered her earnest prayers on her father's behalf. And her love and patience, so often sorely tried, had not been in vain.
A step on the gravel path caused Salome to raise her eyes from her work, and her face lit up with a glad, welcoming smile as she saw Margaret Fowler coming to the door.
"Don't get up," Margaret called to her, "I'll let myself in, if I may," and a minute later she entered the room, her fair countenance aglow with health and happiness. She seated herself in the bow window opposite to Salome, and glanced around the bare, little parlour with smiling eyes undimmed by any shadow of trouble now. "I've been practising the organ," she said. "Mother and father have been listening, and criticising my performance. They both think I've improved wonderfully of late."
"Indeed you have, Miss Margaret," Salome agreed heartily.
"Mother and father have gone home; but I thought I would like a chat with you. I like this bow window, don't you?"
"Yes, miss; it makes the room so light and airy. I'm afraid the place looks very bare, though, with no carpet, and no furniture but that deal table and these two chairs."
"Never mind. I daresay you'll add to your stock of furniture later on."
"That's what father says. We must try to pick things together gradually again. People have been so kind to us, you can't imagine how kind. Mrs. Moyle gave us her old dinner set, and some odd cups and plates; and Mr. Amyatt's housekeeper sent down some bedding from the Vicarage—of course Mr. Amyatt must have told her to do so. Then your dear mother, miss! See what she has done for us. Why, she made us a present of the very chairs we're sitting on, and—"
"Oh, yes, I know!" Margaret interposed. "I think there's little mother wouldn't do for you, Salome."
"But the best thing she ever did, was when she induced father to take the pledge. I am sure he would never have done so, if she had not set him the example. Oh, miss, I believe he regretted it, at first; but now, I'm certain, in his heart, he knows it has been his salvation. He isn't like the same man he was a year ago. Look at him now," pointing to a stalwart figure seated on the beach bending over a fishing net. "Last summer, you wouldn't have found him content to mind his business like that, he'd have been at the 'Crab and Cockle' drinking. I little thought when I heard Greystone was taken, what kind friends you all would be to father and me."
"And I little thought when I first saw you leaning over the garden gate, Salome, how much you would do for me."
"I!" cried the lame girl, opening her dark eyes wide in astonishment. "Why, I've done nothing, I've had no opportunity—"
"Ah, you don't know all! I've learnt a great deal from you, I have indeed, though you mayn't know it—a great deal besides knitting," Margaret said with a smile. "It was you who taught me, by your self-sacrificing love for your father, what love ought to be—faithful and long-suffering. That was a lesson I never learnt till I met you."
Salome looked earnestly at her companion's expressive face, and was emboldened to put a question that had trembled on her lips many times of late:
"That trouble you spoke to me about, Miss Margaret—is it gone?"
Margaret nodded in silence.
"I'm so glad," said Salome, simply.
"Do you remember Mrs. Lute, the lady who stayed with us at Greystone last summer?" Margaret questioned presently. "Yes. Well, we are expecting her to visit us again. And mother says she hopes your father will be able to take us out boating frequently, because Mrs. Lute is so fond of being on the water. And mother feels safer with your father than with anyone else, because he knows the coast so well. You know, mother is still a little nervous at times."
"But she is wonderfully better, isn't she?"
"Oh, yes. Look! Surely I see Miss Conway and Gerald talking to your father on the beach. When they pass here, I'll join them, and we can walk home together."
"How Master Gerald does grow!" Salome exclaimed. "And he has so improved too! That's come about since your illness last autumn, miss. He was in a terrible state of distress then."
"So mother has since told me," Margaret replied. "Yes, he has improved; he's much more obedient than he used to be; Miss Conway was saying, only this morning, how little trouble she has with him now."
The truth was, Mrs. Fowler had come to understand that her foolish indulgence had been likely to ruin her little son. And though she loved him no less, she wielded a firmer sway over him, and upheld his governess' discipline. With the result that he was a much more contented little boy than he had been, when he had had his own way. He still sometimes gave way to exhibitions of violent temper, but he was growing ashamed of these paroxysms, and they were becoming less and less frequent.
When Miss Conway and Gerald left the beach, Margaret said good-bye to Salome, and joined the governess and her charge as they were passing the cottage.
"We've been talking to Josiah Petherick," the little boy informed his sister, "and I've been telling him that Mrs. Lute's coming. Do you know, Margaret, that Josiah is going to be in the choir?"
"No. Salome did not tell me; but I left her rather hurriedly when I saw you coming. I know he used to be in the choir before—"
"Before he took to drink," said Gerald, finishing the sentence as she paused in hesitation. "Well, he doesn't drink now; wasn't it a good thing he gave it up? I like Josiah, he's so brave, and he knows such a lot about the sea, and ships."
They had left the village, and were ascending the hill towards Greystone, now and again pausing, to look back the way they had come.
"I don't think the Pethericks' new cottage is half so pretty as their old one, do you, Miss Conway?" Gerald asked, appealing to the governess.
"Perhaps not—in spite of the bow window," she replied. "But the colour of the bricks will tone down with time."
"Salome is very contented," remarked Margaret, "but then she would be that anywhere, I believe. She is wonderfully happy, and looks so well."
"Yes," Miss Conway agreed, "a regular nut-brown maid; and, last autumn, she was such a pale, little soul. Mrs. Moyle was telling me yesterday how much she misses her. The Moyles have been good friends to the Pethericks."
Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were seated beneath the lilac tree when the children and the governess entered the grounds. Gerald was the first to spy his parents; and he raced across the lawn to them; and informed them that he had told Josiah of their expected guest, and had bidden him clean his boat in readiness for use.
When Mrs. Lute arrived on the morrow, she was agreeably surprised to note the improvement in Mrs. Fowler's health, and complimented her upon her "Cornish roses," as she called the bright colour in her friend's cheeks, whilst Margaret listened with secret satisfaction and happiness, and meeting her father's eyes, saw that he was delighted, too.
Mrs. Fowler was no longer the neurotic, dissatisfied invalid who had been brought to Greystone almost against her will; but a bright, companionable woman, taking a lively interest in her household, and anxious for the welfare of those she loved. She and her little daughter had been drawn very closely together during the past few months; and they had discovered that they had many interests in common. Both were devoted to music, and Mrs. Fowler had of late fallen into the habit of accompanying Margaret to the church to hear her practise on the organ; and there, often, Salome would join them, and sing at the earnest request of the others her favourite hymn.
It was Gerald who, when the family at Greystone was at breakfast on the morning after Mrs. Lute's arrival, began to talk of Josiah Petherick. Mrs. Lute had not heard the exciting story of the fire, and the little boy told it with considerable gusto, afterwards explaining what the new cottage was like.
"You have missed the chief point of the story, Gerald," his father said, when at length the tale was brought to a conclusion.
"Have I, father?"
"Yes. You have not told how being burnt out of house and home affected Josiah." He turned to Mrs. Lute as he added: "The man has not touched a drop of any kind of intoxicating liquor since."
"Well done!" she exclaimed heartily. "That is news worth hearing. I have so often wondered this past winter how those Pethericks were getting on. The sad, pale face of that lame girl haunted my memory for many a day. And, do you know, when I got home, I thought so much of the many discussions we had had upon the drink question, with the result that I came to the conclusion that I had been wrong all along. And that because I only took stimulants sparingly myself, I had no right to put temptation in the way of others; and so, I've banished intoxicating liquors from my house altogether. What do you say to that?"
There was a murmur of surprise mingled with commendation, and everyone agreed that Mrs. Lute had done well. Certain it was that she had acted from the best possible motive—consideration for her fellow-creatures. She was one of the kindest of women; and the thought that she might do harm to a weaker brother or sister by allowing stimulants to be used in her household had never crossed her mind, until she had visited at Greystone, and the master of the house had unfolded his new principles to her. Thinking the matter over quietly afterwards, she had seen that he was right.
And now it is time for us to say good-bye to this little village by the Cornish sea. But we will linger a moment to take a farewell glimpse of those whose lives we have followed for one short year as they are gathered together one Sunday evening in the old grey church. The Vicar has finished his sermon, and has given out the hymn with which the service will be brought to a close, and in another minute the congregation is singing "Abide with me."
Margaret, from her position by her mother's side, can easily distinguish Salome's clear, bird-like notes, and Josiah Petherick's deep, bass voice; and as she joins in the well-known hymn, her soul rises to the throne of God in a fervent prayer of thanksgiving and joy. The church is growing dim and shadowy in the evening light; but the black shadow that threatened to ruin the happiness of two homes has fled; and there is no cloud on Margaret Fowler's fair face, whilst the lame girl's voice has a ring of triumph in its tone as she sings the concluding words of the beautiful hymn—
"Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."
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