"Abide with Me."
THE Fowlers had been six weeks at Greystone, when, one evening towards
the end of July, Mrs. Fowler, who was daily improving in health,
accompanied Margaret and Miss Conway to the church, and wandered about
the ancient building, reading the inscriptions on the monuments, whilst
her little daughter had her music lesson. By-and-by she strolled into
the graveyard, and, seating herself on the low wall which surrounded
it, gazed far out over the blue expanse of ocean, which was dotted with
fishing boats and larger crafts, on this calm summer evening.
The churchyard at Yelton was beautifully situated, commanding a view of
the whole village straggling nearly down to the beach, whilst on the
eminence beyond the church was Greystone, against a background of green
foliage.
"Everything is very lovely," Mrs. Fowler said to herself, "and the air
is certainly most invigorating. I feel almost well to-night. Who comes
here? Why, this must be Salome Petherick!"
It was the lame girl who had entered the churchyard, and was now
approaching the spot where Mrs. Fowler sat. She paused at the sight of
the figure on the wall, and a look of admiration stole into her soft,
brown eyes. She had never seen such a pretty lady before, or anyone so
daintily and becomingly dressed.
Mrs. Fowler, who had shrunk with the nervous unreasonableness of a sick
person from being brought into contact with the cripple girl, now that
she was actually face to face with her, was interested and sympathetic
at once. She smiled at Salome and addressed her cordially.
"I think you must be Salome Petherick?" she said. "Yes, I am sure you
are!"
"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, accompanied by a shy glance of pleasure.
"My little girl has spoken of you so often that I seem to know you
quite well," Mrs. Fowler remarked. "Come and sit down on the wall by my
side, I want to talk to you."
Then as Salome complied willingly, she continued, "Does it not tire
you to climb here every evening, as they tell me you do, to listen to
the organ? The church is a good step from where you live. That is your
home, is it not?" and she indicated the cottage nearest to the sea.
"Yes," Salome assented, "it does tire me a little to come up the hill,
but I love to hear music. After Miss Margaret has had her organ lesson,
Miss Conway generally plays something herself."
"Does she? Then I hope she will do so to-night. But my little daughter
is still at the organ, so we will remain where we are until she has
finished. Meanwhile we will talk. They tell me you live with your
father, and that he is often away fishing. You must lead a lonely life."
"Yes, ma'am, indeed it is very lonely sometimes," Salome acknowledged,
"but I don't mind that much. I have plenty to do, keeping the cottage
clean and tidy, and preparing father's meals, mending his clothes, and
seeing to the flowers in the garden."
"How busy you must be. And you have lost your mother, poor child."
Salome pointed to a green mound at a little distance, whilst her brown
eyes filled with tears.
"She was such a good mother," she said softly, "oh, such a very good
mother! And I was such a fretful, tiresome child. I used to grieve her
so often, and I can't bear to think of it now."
She paused, but, encouraged by the sympathy on her companion's face,
she continued, "She used to be so patient with me when I was naughty
and grumbled because I was not able to run about and play like other
children. And, until she lay dying, I never thought how sorry I must
have made her, and what a selfish girl I'd been. Then, I would have
given anything if I'd been different, but it was too late." And the
repentant tears streamed down Salome's cheeks.
"Don't grieve," said Mrs. Fowler, a little huskily, for she was much
touched at the other's evident remorse.
"I am sure Miss Margaret never treated you, ma'am, as I used to treat
my mother!" Salome exclaimed.
Mrs. Fowler was silent as she acknowledged to herself that Margaret
had always been patient and considerate when she had been an exacting
invalid.
"I suppose your father is out in his fishing boat?" she asked by way of
changing the conversation.
"No, ma'am," Salome replied, the look of grief deepening on her face.
"Let us go into the church and hear Miss Conway play," Mrs. Fowler
said, rising as she spoke. "I hear Margaret's lesson is at an end. Ah,
here comes the Vicar. How do you do, Mr. Amyatt?"
"I am glad to see you are better, Mrs. Fowler," the Vicar exclaimed.
"What, you here, Salome? Don't go away; I want Mrs. Fowler to hear you
sing."
Salome smiled, and blushed. She followed the others into the church
and seated herself in a pew near the door, whilst the Vicar pointed
out beauties in the architecture of the building to his companion,
which she had failed to notice. Miss Conway was at the organ, playing
"The Heavens are telling," and when the last notes died away the Vicar
beckoned to Salome, who swung herself up the aisle on her crutches,
and, at his request, consented to sing.
"I will play the accompaniment," Miss Conway said, smiling
encouragingly at the lame girl, who felt a little shy at being called
upon to sing alone. "What shall it be?" she inquired.
"Whatever you please, miss," Salome answered.
"Oh, no! You must choose," the Vicar declared decidedly.
"Then I will sing 'Abide with Me.'"
Mrs. Fowler and Margaret considerately withdrew to a side seat so that
the sight of them should not embarrass the singer, and Mr. Amyatt
followed them. Salome stood a little behind Miss Conway, who softly
played the accompaniment of the hymn:
"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."
Salome's fresh, sweet voice rang clearly through the dim church, and
its tender tones touched the hearts of her audience. She was very fond
of "Abide with Me," for it had been her mother's favourite hymn, and
to-night she sang her best.
"Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."
The beautiful voice died lingeringly away, and for a few minutes there
was a complete silence. Then Mrs. Fowler rose, and coming eagerly
forward, took Salome by the hand, whilst she thanked her for giving her
such a "rare treat" as she called it.
Margaret was delighted to see what a favourable impression her lame
friend had evidently made upon her mother, and great was her surprise
when, on their all adjourning to the churchyard, Mrs. Fowler asked
Salome to come and see them at Greystone.
"I think you would be able to get as far as that, don't you?" she said
with a winning smile. "I should like you to come and sing to me. Will
you, one evening?"
"Oh, yes," Salome replied. She had never been inside the doors of
Greystone in her life, though she had often desired to see what the
house was like, having been told it was a fine place.
"Then that is settled. I shall expect you."
Mrs. Fowler nodded and turned away, followed by Miss Conway, and
Margaret who looked back to wave her hand in farewell as she
disappeared through the churchyard gate. The Vicar accompanied them
thus far, then turned back to speak a few words to Salome. The village
lad who had been employed to blow the organ had taken a short cut
homewards over the low wall.
"You sang remarkably well to-night," Mr. Amyatt said, "I felt quite
proud of my pupil. You showed excellent taste, too, in the hymn you
chose. It was most suitable for the occasion. I wonder if you know the
circumstances under which that hymn came to be written?"
"No," Salome rejoined, shaking her head, "I don't know, sir."
"Then I will tell you. It was composed more than fifty years ago
by a sick clergyman of the name of Lyte, at a little fishing town
called Brixham, in South Devon. He had become so seriously ill that
the doctors had ordered him abroad for his health's sake, and, after
service on the Sunday evening, prior to his leaving England, he went
down to the sea-shore, sad at heart, for he was convinced that he
had spoken to his parishioners, who were very dear to him, for the
last time. He was sorrowful and low-spirited, but, by-and-by, the
remembrance that his Saviour was ever near to help and sustain him
brought him consolation. After watching the sunset, he went home, and
immediately wrote the beautiful hymn you sang to-night."
Salome had listened with deep interest, and she exclaimed earnestly:
"Oh, Mr. Amyatt, I am glad you have told me this. I shall love 'Abide
with Me' better than ever now."
The Vicar smiled, then pointed towards the sea, over which a soft
summer mist was creeping.
"It is time for you to go home," he reminded her. "Where is your father
this evening?"
"At the 'Crab and Cockle,' sir."
He shook his head sadly, but refrained from questioning her further.
He saw she was thinner than she had been a few months previously, and
wondered if she was sufficiently well fed, or if Josiah Petherick
expended the money he should have spent on his home, on the friends he
met at the inn. As he watched the little girl swinging herself slowly
down the hill by the aid of her crutches, he felt very grieved and
troubled on her account.
"What a curse this drink is!" he thought. "And it's a curse that creeps
in everywhere, too."
In the village that afternoon, he had been told that Mr. Fowler had
summarily dismissed a groom who had been discovered with a bottle of
beer in the stable, and he had listened to various comments upon the
strict notions of the master of Greystone. Most of the villagers were
inclined to think that the man's fault in disobeying his master's rule
that no intoxicating liquor should be brought on the premises might
have been overlooked, as it was his first offence, whilst some few
argued that Mr. Fowler had acted rightly.
As Salome passed the "Crab and Cockle" on her way home, she heard
sounds of hilarity within, and recognised her father's voice singing
a rollicking sea song. She sighed, remembering how, during his wife's
lifetime, Josiah had been a member of the church choir; it appeared
unseemly to her that a voice which once had been raised to the praise
and glory of God should lend itself to the entertainment of a set
of half-drunken men in the bar of a public-house. As she paused,
involuntarily listening, a whiff of foul air, laden with the mingled
odour of smoke and beer, was wafted before her nostrils from the open
doorway, and she moved on with a sickening sense of shame and disgust,
her heart heavy as lead, her eyes smarting with tears. Oh, hers was a
hard life, she thought bitterly.
Arrived at home, she laid a frugal supper of bread and cheese, and soon
afterwards her father reeled up the garden path and into the kitchen.
Sitting down at the table, he helped himself to bread and cheese in
silence, and commenced eating, whilst his little daughter took her
accustomed place opposite to him.
"Where've you been?" he questioned. "I saw you pass the inn."
She told him how she had spent the evening, explaining that she had
sung at the Vicar's request, and that Mrs. Fowler had invited her to
Greystone.
"I won't let you go there!" he cried. "I hate those new people! What
did Mr. Fowler do yesterday, but dismiss as honest a chap as ever
lived, at a moment's notice, just because he'd got a bottle o' beer in
the stable! An' the man wasn't drunk either! No, you shan't go nigh
folks as treats their servants like that."
"Oh, father!" Salome exclaimed, disappointedly. She was wise enough,
however, not to pursue the subject. After a brief silence, she asked,
with some timidity, "Father, have you any money? Because, when Silas
Moyle left the bread this afternoon, he said he couldn't supply us with
any more unless you paid him what you owe."
Silas Moyle was the one baker of the place, and the owner of the
village shop, in which his wife served. Josiah Petherick had formerly
paid ready money for everything, but latterly he had been spending at
the "Crab and Cockle" what should have gone into Silas Moyle's pocket.
This was an additional trouble to Salome, but her father did not appear
to care. He was enraged, though, when he heard what the baker had
said, and, as his creditor was not present to bear the brunt of his
indignation, Salome had to stand it instead. She turned white when he
swore at her, and sat perfectly still whilst he abused her roundly, but
when he called her extravagant she began to protest.
"Father, that's not fair of you! I'm as careful as ever I can be. We're
obliged to have bread! Won't you see Silas yourself? Perhaps he'll
continue to supply us, if you can arrange to pay him part of what we
owe. Of course, he wants his money."
"He's another of your teetotal humbugs!" sneered the angry man.
"He isn't a humbug at all!" Salome retorted hotly, her indignation and
sense of justice overcoming her fear of her father; "but he did say he
wasn't minded to wait for his money when it was being squandered with
that drunken crew at the 'Crab and Cockle.' Oh, father, it was terrible
for me to hear that, and I couldn't contradict him!"
With a fierce oath, Josiah pushed back his chair and rose from the
table, declaring things had come to a pretty pass when his own
daughter, a mere child, thought fit to discuss him with outsiders.
Salome broke into passionate weeping at this, whereupon he flung
himself out of the kitchen, and the next minute she heard his footsteps
in the garden.
"He's gone to the 'Crab and Cockle' again," thought the unhappy little
girl. "Oh, how could he swear at me like that? Oh, how shall I bear
it!" Presently she arose, put away the supper things and then sat down
by the open window to wait, as she knew she would have to do, until
the inn door was closed for the night, and her father would return.
By-and-by, the soft lap, lap of the sea had a soothing effect upon her
troubled spirit, the peacefulness of the summer night stole into her
soul, and she murmured to herself the words of consolation she had sung
an hour or so before in the dim, old church:
"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."