New Acquaintances.
WHEN Josiah Petherick came downstairs to breakfast on the following
morning, his face wore a furtive, sullen expression, as though he
expected to be taken to task for his behaviour of the night before.
On previous occasions, Salome had, by tears and sorrowing words,
reproached him for his unmanly conduct; but this morning she was
perfectly composed, and the meal was eaten almost in silence.
Afterwards, Josiah informed his little daughter that he should probably
be away all day mackerel fishing, and went off in the direction of the
beach. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and he looked forward to a
successful day's work.
Salome moved about the cottage with a very heavy heart. On account of
her affliction, it took her longer than it would have most people to
get over her household duties, so that it was past noon before she
had everything ship-shape, and was at leisure. Then she put on a pink
sun-bonnet, and went into the garden to look at her flowers, pulling
weeds here and there, until the sounds of shrill cries made her hurry
to the garden gate to ascertain what was going on outside.
Salome stood gazing in astonishment at the scene which met her eyes.
A boy of about six years old was lying on the ground, kicking and
shrieking with passion, whilst a young woman was bending over him,
trying to induce him to get up. At a short distance, a pretty little
girl, apparently about Salome's own age, was looking on, and laughing,
as though greatly amused.
"Gerald, get up! Do get up, there's a good boy!" implored the young
woman. "Dear, dear, what a temper you're in. You 're simply ruining
that nice new sailor's suit of yours, lying there in the dust. Oh,
Margaret—" and she turned to the little girl—"do try to induce your
brother to be reasonable."
"I couldn't do that, Miss Conway," was the laughing response, "for
Gerald never was reasonable yet. Look at him now, his face crimson with
passion. He's like a mad thing, and deserves to be whipped. He—"
She stopped suddenly, noticing Salome at the garden gate. The boy,
catching sight of the lame girl at that moment too, abruptly ceased his
cries, and, as though ashamed of himself, rose to his feet, and stood
staring at her. He was a fine, handsome little fellow, with dark-blue
eyes and fair curly hair; but, as Salome afterwards learnt, he was a
spoilt child, and as disagreeable as spoilt children always are. His
sister, who was like him in appearance, was a bright-looking little
girl; and her laughing face softened into sympathy as her eyes rested
on Salome's crutches.
"I am afraid my brother's naughty temper has shocked you," she said.
"He likes to have his own way, and wanted to spend a longer time on the
beach instead of going home. We have been on the beach all the morning
with Miss Conway—this lady, who is our governess. What a pretty garden
you have. We noticed it as we passed just now—didn't we, Miss Conway?"
Miss Conway assented, smiling very kindly at Salome.
"I had no idea flowers would flourish so close to the sea," she
remarked. "It is to be hoped the Greystone gardens will prove equally
productive."
"Oh, are you—do you live at Greystone?" Salome questioned, much
interested in the strangers.
"Yes," nodded the little girl, "we arrived last night. My father, Mr.
Fowler, has taken the house on a three years' lease. My mother is very
delicate; she has been very ill, and the doctors say the north coast of
Cornwall will suit her."
"Let me see your garden," said the little boy imperatively, coming
close to the gate, and peering between the bars.
"You should say 'please,' Gerald," his governess reminded him
reprovingly.
Salome invited them all to enter, and when they had admired the
flowers, Miss Conway asked if she might rest a few minutes on the
seat under the porch. She was a delicate-looking young woman, and
the tussle she had had with her unruly pupil had upset her. Gerald,
however, was quite contented now, watching a bee labouring from flower
to flower with its load of honey. His sister, Margaret, sat down by the
governess' side, whilst Salome, leaning on her crutches, watched them
shyly. There was a little flush of excitement on her cheeks, for it was
an unusual experience for her to converse with strangers.
"Who lives here with you, my dear?" Miss Conway inquired.
"Only my father, miss. Mother died five years ago. Father's a
fisherman; his name's Josiah Petherick, and I'm called Salome."
"What a quaint, pretty name," Margaret exclaimed. "And you have you no
sisters or brothers?"
Salome shook her head.
"Have you—have you always been lame?" Miss Conway questioned.
"Yes, miss, always. I can't get about without my crutches."
"How dreadful!" Margaret cried with ready sympathy. "Oh, I am, sorry
for you."
Salome looked gratefully at the speaker, and smiled as she made answer,
"You see, miss, I'm accustomed to being a cripple. Often and often I've
wished my legs were straight and strong like other people's, but as
they are not, I must just make the best of them. Mr. Amyatt says—"
"Who is Mr. Amyatt?" Miss Conway interposed.
"Our Vicar, miss. He lives in that big house near the church. He's such
a good, kind gentleman, you'll be sure to like him."
"Well, what does he say?" Miss Conway inquired with a smile.
"That God made me lame for some good purpose. I think myself He did it
because I should stay at home, and keep house for father," Salome said
simply. "Perhaps if I was able to get about like other people, I might
neglect father, and be tempted—"
She had been about to say "be tempted to leave him," but had stopped
suddenly, remembering that the strangers knew nothing of her father;
and she earnestly hoped they would never understand how miserable he
made her at times.
"As it is," she proceeded, "I do all the housework—I can take as long
as I please about it, you know—and I attend to my flowers besides."
"And have you always lived here?" Margaret asked.
"Yes, miss, I was born in this cottage."
"Doesn't the sea make you mournful in the winter?"
"Oh, no! It's grand then, sometimes. The waves look like great
mountains of foam. This is a very wild coast."
"So I have heard," Miss Conway replied. "I should like to see a storm,
if no ship was in danger. I suppose you never saw a wreck?"
"Yes," said Salome with a shudder; "only last autumn a coasting vessel
ran ashore on the rocks, and the crew was lost. You will notice in the
churchyard many graves of people who have been drowned."
"We have always lived in London until now," Margaret explained, "so
we shall find life in the country a great change. I don't know that I
shall dislike it during the summer, and Gerald is simply delighted with
the beach; I expect he'll insist on going there every day, so you'll
often see us passing here. Gerald generally gets his own way, doesn't
he, Miss Conway?"
"Yes," the governess admitted gravely, looking rather serious.
"My mother spoils him," Margaret continued. "Oh, you needn't look at me
like that, Miss Conway, for you know it's true."
At that moment Gerald ran up to them. He was in high good-humour, for
he was charmed with Salome's garden; but his face clouded immediately
when Miss Conway remarked it was time for them to go home.
"No, no," he pouted, "don't go yet, Miss Conway. Stay a little longer."
"But if we do, we shall be late for luncheon, and then your father will
be displeased."
"You shall have this rose to take home with you," Salome said, in order
to propitiate the child, and prevent a disturbance. She gathered, as
she spoke, a beautiful pink moss-rose, and offered it to him. "Wouldn't
you like to give it to your mother?" she suggested, as he accepted her
gift with evident pleasure.
"No," Gerald rejoined, "I shan't give it to mother, I shall keep it for
myself."
His sister laughed at this selfish speech; but the governess' face
saddened as she took her younger pupil by the hand, and after a kind
good-bye to Salome, led him away.
"May I come and see you again?" Margaret asked as she lingered at the
gate.
"Oh, please do, miss," was the eager reply. "I should be so glad if you
would. I really am very lonely sometimes."
"So am I," the other little girl confessed with a sigh; and for the
first time Salome noticed a look of discontent on her pretty face. The
expression was gone in a minute, however, and with a smiling farewell
Margaret Fowler hastened after her governess and Gerald.
These new acquaintances gave Salome plenty of food for thought; and
when her father returned in the afternoon she greeted him cheerfully,
and told him that the family had arrived at Greystone. He was in good
spirits, having caught a nice lot of mackerel; and acting on his
daughter's suggestion, he selected some of the finest, and started for
Greystone to see if he could not sell them there. Meanwhile, Salome
laid the tea cloth, and got the kettle boiling. In the course of
half-an-hour her father returned, having sold his fish.
"I saw the cook," he informed Salome, "and she said any time I have
choice fish to sell, she can do business with me. It seems she manages
everything in the kitchen; she told me the mistress doesn't know what
there's to be for dinner till it's brought to table."
"How strange!" Salome cried. "But I forgot, Mrs. Fowler has been ill,
so perhaps she is too great an invalid to attend to anything herself."
"I don't know about that, I'm sure. It's likely to be better for us,
Salome, now Greystone is occupied. Why, you're quite a business woman,
my dear! I should never have thought of taking those mackerel up there,
but for you. I should have let Sam Putt have the lot, as usual."
Sam Putt was the owner of a pony and cart. He lived in the village,
and often purchased fish, which he conveyed to a neighbouring town for
sale, hawking it from door to door.
Josiah continued to converse amicably during tea-time; and afterwards
he went into the garden, and turned up a patch of ground in readiness
for the reception of winter greens. To Salome's intense relief, he did
not go to the "Crab and Cockle" that evening; but, instead, as soon as
he had finished his gardening, suggested taking her for a sail.
"Oh, father, how delightful!" she cried, her face flushing with
pleasure. "Oh, I haven't been on the water for weeks! It will be such a
treat!"
So father and daughter spent the long summer evening on the sea, much
to the contentment of both; and the sun had set before they returned to
Yelton.
Salome chatted merrily as, their boat safely moored, she followed her
father up the shingly beach; but on reaching their garden gate, Josiah
paused, glancing towards the swinging sign-board outside the "Crab and
Cockle," still visible in the gathering dusk.
In a moment, Salome read his thoughts, and cried involuntarily, "Oh,
father, not to-night! Not to-night!"
"What do you mean, child?" he asked with a decided show of displeasure
in face and tone.
"I mean, I want you to stay at home with me to-night, father! Do, dear
father, to please me! I—I can't bear to see you as—as you are sometimes
when you come back from the 'Crab and Cockle'! Oh, father, if you would
only give up the drink how happy we should be!"
"How foolishly you talk!" he cried irritably. "It is not seemly for a
child to dictate to her father!"
"Oh, father, I mean no harm! You know I love you dearly! It's supper
time. Aren't you hungry? I'm sure I am."
Josiah admitted he was, too, and followed his daughter into the
cottage. He did not leave it again that night, for his good angel
proved too strong for him; and when he kissed his little daughter at
bedtime, his manner was unusually gentle, whilst the words he uttered
sent her to rest with a very happy heart: "God bless you, child! I
don't know what I should be but for you, Salome. You grow more like
your dear mother every day you live."