The Fowlers at Home.
"PULL down the blind, Margaret. The sun is streaming right into my
eyes."
The speaker, Mrs. Fowler, was lying on a sofa in the handsomely
furnished drawing-room at Greystone. She was a young-looking,
very pretty woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; and she was most
fashionably dressed. One would have thought her possessed of everything
that heart could desire, but the lines of her face were discontented
ones, and the tone of her voice was decidedly fretful. The only
occupant of the room besides herself was her little daughter, who put
down the book she had been reading, and going to the window, obediently
lowered the blind.
"There," she said, "that's better, isn't it? I won't pull the blind
down altogether, mother, for that would keep out the fresh air, and you
know the doctors said the sea breeze would be your best tonic. I do
think this is a lovely place, don't you?"
Mrs. Fowler agreed indifferently; and her little daughter continued,
"Such a beautiful view we have right over the sea. And doesn't the
village look pretty, and the old grey church? There are such a quantity
of jackdaws in the tower. Mother, do you know, from my bedroom window,
I can see the cottage where that poor lame girl lives? When you are
strong enough, I'll take you to visit Salome."
"I don't want to see her, Margaret. I don't like looking at deformed
people, and I cannot think why you should feel so much interest in this
Salome."
"I have seen her several times now, and I like her so much. The Vicar
has told me a lot about her, too. She lost her mother five years ago,
poor girl!"
Margaret paused, and glanced a trifle wistfully at the daintily-clad
figure on the sofa, wondering if she was lame like Salome, whether
her mother would cease to care for her altogether. Mrs. Fowler never
evinced much affection for her daughter, whatever her feelings may have
been, though she was pleased that she was growing up a pretty little
girl, and took an interest in dressing her becomingly. But Gerald was
her favourite of the two children, and upon him she lavished most of
her love. She was fond of her husband, though she stood in awe of him.
He was kind and attentive to her, but often grew impatient at the
persistent way in which she indulged their little son.
Mrs. Fowler had led a gay life in London for many years; but latterly,
she had been in very indifferent health, and after an attack of severe
illness, which had left her nerves in a shattered condition, Mr. Fowler
had insisted on shutting up their house in town, and settling in the
country. He had accordingly taken Greystone, and dismissing their old
servants had engaged new ones, who received their orders from himself
instead of from their mistress.
During the first few weeks of her residence at Greystone, Mrs. Fowler
had indeed been too ill to superintend the household; and though
she was now better, she was far from strong, and was glad not to be
troubled about anything. Margaret was very sorry for her mother, whose
sufferings were apparent to everyone, for she started at the slightest
unexpected sound, and the least worry brought on the most distressing
headache.
"Would you like me to read to you, mother?" the little girl inquired.
"No, thank you, Margaret. What is the time?"
"Half-past three."
"Where is Gerald?"
"Miss Conway has taken him down to the beach; she promised him this
morning he should go, if he was good and attentive during lesson time.
He likes talking to the fishermen."
"Dear child! I hope they will not teach him to use bad language, though
I expect they are a rough set."
"I don't think so, mother. Mr. Amyatt says they are mostly sober,
God-fearing men; of course, there are exceptions—Salome Petherick's
father, for instance, often gets intoxicated, and it is a terrible
trouble to her."
"Does she complain of him to you?" Mrs. Fowler queried.
"Oh, no, mother! It was Mr. Amyatt who told me. We were talking of
Salome, and he said her father was very violent at times, quite cruel
to her, in fact. Do you know, I think father's right, and that it's
best to have nothing whatever to do with drink."
Lately, since the Fowlers had left London, Mr. Fowler had laid down a
rule that no intoxicating liquors of any description were to be brought
into the house. He had become a teetotaler himself, for very good
reasons, and had insisted on the members of his household following
suit. No one had objected to this except Mrs. Fowler, and now she
answered her little daughter in a tone of irritability.
"Don't talk nonsense, child! I believe a glass of wine would do me good
at this minute, and steady my nerves, only your father won't allow it!
I haven't patience to speak of this new fad of his without getting
cross. There, don't look at me so reproachfully. Of course what your
father does is right in your eyes! Here, feel my pulse, child, and
you'll know what a wreck I am!"
Margaret complied, and laid her cool fingers on her mother's wrist. The
pulse was weak and fluttering, and the little girl's heart filled with
sympathy.
"Poor mother," she said tenderly, kissing Mrs. Fowler's flushed cheek,
and noticing her eyes were full of tears. "Shall I ring and order tea?
It's rather early, but no doubt a nice cup of tea would do you good."
"No, no! It's much too hot for tea!" And Mrs. Fowler made a gesture
indicative of distaste, then broke into a flood of tears.
Margaret soothed her mother as best she could; and presently, much to
her satisfaction, the invalid grew composed and fell asleep. She was
subject to these hysterical outbursts, and as Margaret bent anxiously
over her, she noted how thin she had become, how hectic was the flush
on her cheeks, and how dark-rimmed were her eyes.
"She does indeed look very ill," the little girl thought sadly. "I
wonder if she is right, and that some wine would do her good, and make
her stronger; if so, it seems hard she should not have it. I'll go and
speak to father at once."
To think was to act with Margaret. She stole noiselessly out of the
drawing-room, and went in search of her father. He was not in the
house, but a servant informed her he was in the garden, and there she
found him, reclining in a swing-chair, beneath the shade of a lilac
tree. He threw aside the magazine he was reading as she approached, and
greeted her with a welcoming smile.
Mr. Fowler was a tall, dark man, several years older than his wife;
his face was a strong one, and determined in expression, but his keen,
deep-set eyes were wont to look kindly, and he certainly had the
appearance of a person to be trusted.
"Is anything wrong, my dear?" he inquired quickly, noticing that she
looked depressed. "Where is your mother?"
"Asleep in the drawing-room, father. She has had one of her crying fits
again, and that exhausted her, I think. She seems very poorly, and
low-spirited, doesn't she?"
"Yes; but she is better—decidedly better than she was a few weeks ago.
I have every hope that, ere many months have passed, she will be quite
well again. There is no cause for you to look so anxious, child."
"But she is so weak and nervous!" Margaret cried distressfully. "I was
wondering if she had some wine—"
The little girl paused, startled by the look of anger which flashed
across her father's face. He made a movement as though to rise from the
chair, then changed his intention, and curtly bade her finish what she
had been about to say.
"It was only that I was wondering if she had some wine, whether it
might not do her good," Margaret proceeded timidly. "She told me
herself she thought it would, and if so—you know, father, you used to
take wine yourself, and—"
"Did your mother send you to me on this mission?" he interrupted
sternly.
"No. I came of my own accord."
"I am glad to hear that. But I cannot give my consent to your mother's
taking wine, or stimulants of any kind; they would be harmful for her,
the doctors agree upon that point. You have reminded me that I once
drank wine myself, Margaret. I bitterly regret ever having done so."
"Why?" she asked wonderingly, impressed by the solemnity of his tone.
Then her thoughts flew to Salome Petherick's father, and she cried,
"But, father, you never drank too much!"
"I was never tempted to drink to excess, for I had no craving for
stimulants. It is small credit to me that I was always a sober man;
but people are differently constituted, and my example may have
caused others to contract habits of intemperance. The Vicar here is a
teetotaler from principle. He tells me that the force of example is
stronger than any amount of preaching. Lately, I have had cause to
consider this matter very seriously, and I am determined that never,
with my permission, shall any intoxicating liquors be brought inside
my doors. The servants understand this: I should instantly dismiss
one who set my rule at defiance. As to your mother—" he paused a
moment in hesitation, the expression of his countenance troubled, then
continued—"she is weak, and still very far from well, but, in her heart
of hearts, she knows I am right. Do not tell her you have broached this
subject to me. Come, let us go and see if she is still asleep."
"You are not angry with me, father?" Margaret asked, as she followed
him into the house.
"No, no! I am not, indeed!"
Mrs. Fowler awoke with a start as her husband and little daughter
entered the drawing-room. Mr. Fowler immediately rang for tea, and when
it was brought, Margaret poured it out. At first, Mrs. Fowler would not
touch it, but finally, to please the others, drank a cupful, and felt
refreshed. A few minutes later, Mr. Amyatt was shown into the room,
and she brightened up and grew quite animated. Margaret and her father
exchanged pleased glances, delighted at the interest the invalid was
evincing in the conversation.
"I think I shall soon be well enough to go to church on Sundays," Mrs.
Fowler informed the Vicar. "My husband tells me you have a very good
choir."
"Yes, that is so," Mr. Amyatt replied. "We are decidedly primitive in
our ways at Yelton, and have several women in our choir, notably Salome
Petherick, the lame girl with whom your daughter has already become
acquainted."
"Oh, yes. Margaret has been telling me about her. She sings in the
choir, does she?"
"Yes. She has a beautiful voice, as clear and fresh as a bird's! I
train the choir myself, for our organist comes from N—, a neighbouring
town, several miles distant."
"By the way," said Mrs. Fowler with a smiling glance at Margaret, "my
little girl is very desirous of learning to play the organ, and her
governess would teach her, if you would allow her to practise on the
organ in the church. Would there be any objection to that plan, Mr.
Amyatt?"
"None whatever," was the prompt reply.
"Oh, thank you!" Margaret cried delightedly.
"You will have to employ Gerald to blow for you," Mr. Fowler remarked
with a smile.
"I am sure he will not do that!" the little girl exclaimed. "He is far
too disobliging."
"Margaret, how hard you are on your brother," Mrs. Fowler said
reproachfully.
"Am I? I don't mean to be. Oh, here he is!"
Gerald came into the room with his hat on his head, but meeting his
father's eyes, removed it instantly. After he had shaken hands with the
Vicar, his mother called him to her, pushed back his fair locks from
his forehead, and made him sit by her side on the sofa whilst she plied
him with sweet cakes. He was her darling, and she indulged him to his
bent. When the governess entered the room, having removed her hat and
gloves, there were no sweet cakes left. Mr. Fowler rang the bell for
more, and upon the parlour-maid bringing a fresh supply, declined to
allow Gerald to partake of them, at which the spoilt boy pouted and
sulked, and his mother threw reproachful glances at her husband.
Mr. Amyatt watched the scene in silence, wondering how anyone could
allow affection to overcome judgment, as Mrs. Fowler had evidently
done, as far as her little son was concerned, and marvelling that Mr.
Fowler did not order the disagreeable child out of the room. When the
Vicar rose to go, his host accompanied him as far as the garden gate,
and they stood there talking some while before, at last, the Vicar said
good-bye, and started down the hill towards the village.
The Fowlers had now been several weeks in residence at Greystone,
but, up to the present, Mr. Amyatt had been their only visitor. Mrs.
Fowler had not been outside the grounds surrounding the house yet,
but talked of going down to the beach the first day she felt strong
enough to attempt the walk. The children, however, had made several
acquaintances among the fisher-folk, and a great liking had sprung
up between Margaret and Salome Petherick, for, though one was a rich
man's daughter and the other only a poor fisherman's child, they found
they had much in common, and, wide apart though they were to outward
appearances, they bade fair to become real friends.