Salome's Humiliation.
JOSIAH PETHERICK sat on the beach mending his fishing nets in the
shade of a tall rock. It was intensely hot, and there was scarcely a
ripple on the glassy sea, whilst the sky was a broad canopy of blue.
Josiah was thinking deeply. That morning, consequent on the information
his daughter had given him on the previous evening, he had been to
interview Silas Moyle, and had induced the baker to allow him further
credit. Never in his life before had Josiah found himself in such
a humiliating position, and he felt it all the more because it was
entirely his own fault. He had always prided himself on being able to
pay his way, and now he was not in the position to do so.
Glancing up from his work presently, the fisherman saw three figures
come down to the beach—a lady, a gentleman, and a small boy clad
in a sailor's suit and broad-brimmed straw hat. He knew them to be
Mr. and Mrs. Fowler and their little son. He had often held lengthy
conversations with Gerald, who was always delighted to talk with anyone
who could tell him about the manifold wonders of the sea, but he had
never spoken to either of the boy's parents. Despite his disapproval of
the strict teetotal principles of the master of Greystone, he regarded
that gentleman with considerable interest, and when Mr. Fowler strolled
up to him, and inquired from whom a boat might be hired, he answered
him civilly, "You can have a boat from me, if you like, sir; but
there's no wind for sailing to-day."
"Perhaps you would row us around those high rocks yonder. My wife has a
fancy to see what lies beyond that point."
Josiah assented willingly, seeing an opportunity of earning a few
shillings; and so it came to pass that he spent a very pleasant and
lucrative morning, returning home to dinner in the best of spirits.
"The new folks at Greystone have a liking for boating," he informed
Salome; "and see here," tossing a half-crown as he spoke upon the
table, "give that to Silas Moyle when he calls with the bread this
afternoon."
The lame girl's face brightened as she took up the coin, and looked at
her father questioningly.
"I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fowler and Master Gerald pass here on their way to
the beach," she said. "Did you take them out in your boat, father?"
"Yes. They treated me very fairly, I must admit that, an' Mrs.
Fowler—she seems a nice lady—spoke of you."
"Did she?"
"She said you had a lovely voice, an' that she was looking forward to
hear you sing again. I say, Salome, I shouldn't like to disappoint her,
so if she really wants you to go and see her, you may—" and Josiah,
mindful of all he had said on the preceding night, avoided meeting his
little daughter's eyes as he made this concession.
"Oh, thank you, dear father," she cried. "I should like to go to
Greystone so much."
"That little Master Gerald is a tiresome monkey," Josiah remarked. "He
wouldn't sit still in the boat at first, though his mother kept on with
him. At last his father spoke, an' after that, there was no need to
tell him to be quiet again. Mr. Fowler looks a man as would have his
own way."
"Master Gerald is very disobedient, I know," Salome said, "and
sometimes his governess has great trouble with him. Miss Margaret says
her mother spoils him."
"Then, 'tis a good job he's got a father who doesn't."
After dinner, Josiah went on with his interrupted work of mending his
fishing nets, whilst Salome tidied up the cottage and waited for Silas
Moyle.
The baker looked gratified as he took the half-crown the lame girl
tendered him, for he had not expected to be paid even a small part of
his account.
"That's right," he said, as he pocketed the money; "it appears I did
some good by speaking yesterday. Look here, my dear, you must try to
keep that father of yours up to the mark. Can't you make him stay at
home of an evening?"
The little girl shook her head, and looked distressed as she replied,
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Moyle."
"He's not at the 'Crab and Cockle' now, I s'pose?"
"No, he's on the beach mending his nets; and this morning he took Mr.
and Mrs. Fowler and their little boy for a row in his boat."
"It's a pity Mr. Fowler can't get your father to his way of
thinking—about drink, I mean. I say the new folks at Greystone set an
example that many in Yelton might follow with advantage. Theirs is a
teetotal household, I'm told."
"So I've heard," Salome responded.
Silas Moyle nodded kindly, and took himself off, whilst Salome locked
up the cottage and joined her father on the beach. She told him the
baker had been pleased to receive the half-crown, and then tactfully
changed the subject. Josiah and his daughter were always excellent
friends when the former had not been drinking.
"Look!" Salome exclaimed suddenly, "There's Master Gerald. Why, he
seems to be alone. He sees us."
The child came running towards them, laughing as he stumbled over the
rough shingles, his face aglow with excitement, his broad-brimmed
sailor's hat at the back of his head, revealing the fair curls which
clustered thickly around his brow.
"I've run away," he cried merrily. "I wanted Miss Conway to bring me
down to the beach, but she would not—the disagreeable thing! She said
it was too hot, and I must stay in the garden. So I came by myself."
"Doesn't Miss Conway know where you are?" Salome inquired.
"No one knows," he replied proudly. "I can take care of myself."
"I'm not so sure of that, young gentleman," Josiah remarked, with a
chuckle of amusement at Gerald's air of importance.
"It was naughty of you to run away," Salome told him in a tone of
reproof.
The child made a grimace at her, and ran off towards some rocks which
the receding tide had left uncovered.
"He's a pretty handful," Josiah exclaimed, shaking his head.
"I expect someone will be here looking for him soon," said Salome. "I
hope so, for his mother will be anxious if she does not know where he
is, and she is not strong."
But nobody came in search of Gerald, who at last disappeared from sight
beyond the rocks. In spite of her father's assurance that the boy could
come to no harm, the little girl grew uneasy about him; and, by-and-by,
rose and went to make certain he was safe. She found him lying flat on
the wet beach, gazing into a pool between two rocks at some beautiful
anemones; and tried to induce him to retrace his footsteps, but all to
no purpose. In vain she told him that his mother would be worried about
him, and that his father would be angry. The wayward child would pay no
attention to her.
"What's it to do with you?" he demanded rudely. "Mind your own
business, if you please."
As he absolutely refused to return, Salome left him with the intention
of persuading her father to interfere; but, to her dismay, she found
Josiah had deserted his nets, and as the key of the cottage door was in
her pocket, she knew he had not gone home. In all probability he had
betaken himself to the "Crab and Cockle" to obtain a drink. Whilst she
was hesitating how to act, much to her surprise, Gerald appeared around
the rocks and joined her. He was tired of the beach, he declared, and
wanted to see her flowers, so she allowed him to accompany her home.
And thus it was that the young tyrant was discovered in Salome's garden
half-an-hour later by his much-tried governess.
Poor Miss Conway! She almost wept with joy on finding Gerald in safety,
and insisted on his return to Greystone immediately. She led him away
in triumph, paying no attention to his request that he might be allowed
to remain a little longer.
Josiah did not return for his tea, so after waiting some time, Salome
had hers, and then seated herself under the porch with her knitting.
There Margaret Fowler found her as the evening was drawing in.
"Mother has sent me to thank you for taking such good care of Gerald
this afternoon," Margaret said as she complied with the lame girl's
invitation to sit down opposite to her. "He is a very tiresome,
disobedient boy, for father had told him never to go down on the beach
by himself. He is not to be trusted. Father has punished him for his
naughtiness by ordering him to bed. It was quite a shock to poor Miss
Conway when she found Gerald was nowhere on the premises."
"I noticed she looked pale," Salome said. "I am afraid Master Gerald is
very troublesome."
"Troublesome! I should think he is. It was kind of you to look after
him, Salome. I have a message from my mother to know if you can come to
see us to-morrow. Do try to come."
"Oh, I should like to!" Salome cried, her eyes sparkling with
excitement.
"Then, will you manage to be at Greystone by five o'clock?"
"Yes, miss, if all's well. Oh, please thank Mrs. Fowler for asking me!"
"Mother wants to hear you sing again. She has taken quite a fancy to
you, and I am so glad."
"I think your mother is the prettiest, sweetest lady I ever saw," the
lame girl said earnestly. "How dearly you must love her, Miss Margaret."
"Yes," Margaret answered soberly, "but I do not think she cares for me
much. Gerald is her favourite, you know. Oh, I'm not jealous of him,
but I can't help seeing that though he teases and worries her, and I do
all I can to please her, she loves him much better than she has ever
loved me."
Salome was surprised, and pained by the look of sadness on her
companion's face.
"Perhaps your mother shows her affection more to Master Gerald because
he's so much younger than you," she suggested. "I cannot believe she
loves him better really."
Margaret made no reply to this, but by-and-by she said, "We have had
several fusses at home these last few days. Did you hear that father
dismissed one of the men-servants for bringing beer into the stable?"
"Yes, I heard about it. I think Mr. Fowler was quite right," Salome
declared decidedly.
"Do you? I'm glad to hear you say that. Father always means to do
right, I am sure. He is a teetotaler himself, you know, and so are we
all, for that matter."
At this point in the conversation the garden gate clicked, and Josiah
strode up the path and hurried past the little girls into the cottage.
His bronzed face was crimson; and he walked somewhat unsteadily; but he
was sufficiently sober to realise that his wisest plan was to take no
notice of his little daughter's visitor.
Pitying Salome from the depths of her heart, Margaret rose, saying it
was time for her to go home. The lame girl followed her silently to the
garden gate, where they stood for a few minutes talking.
"You'll be sure to come to-morrow, won't you?" Margaret said earnestly.
"Yes, miss," was the grave reply, "if I possibly can; I hope nothing
will prevent it, but—you see how it is with him sometimes," and she
pointed towards the cottage.
"Yes," Margaret admitted. "Oh, I'm so sorry! He must be a terrible
trial for you. May God help you, Salome."
"He does help me," the lame girl replied, "I couldn't bear it alone.
Oh, how I wish my father was a teetotaler like yours."
"I wish so, too."
"I had hoped you would never find out about my poor father being a
drinker, but I might have known that sooner or later you would learn
the truth. Oh, miss, don't, please don't think, he's altogether a bad
man. He isn't! When he's sober, there's not a kinder or better man in
the world. But when the drink gets hold of him, he isn't himself at
all." And Salome laid her head on the top rail of the gate and sobbed
heartbrokenly.
"Oh, don't cry so!" Margaret said imploringly, her own eyes full of
tears. "Oh, perhaps he'll give up the drink some day."
"I don't know, miss, I'm afraid he won't. He gets worse instead of
better. The Vicar has spoken to him, but that's done no good. He has
only come home for supper now; afterwards he'll go back to the 'Crab
and Cockle.' But there, I mustn't cry any more, or he'll notice it!"
[Illustration: SALOME LAID HER HEAD ON THE TOP RAIL OF THE GATE
AND SOBBED HEART-BROKENLY.]
"Good-bye, Salome! Mind you come to-morrow."
"Oh, yes! I hope I shall. Oh, miss, I feel so ashamed that you should
have seen my father to-night!"
"There's nothing for you to be ashamed about. I think you're the
pluckiest girl I know. Good night!" And Margaret ran off with a nod and
a smile.
She slackened her speed soon, however; and as she went up the hill
beyond the church towards her home, paused now and again to look back
the way she had come, and admire the beautiful view. At the entrance to
the grounds of Greystone she met her father, and together they walked
towards the house, whilst she told him of Josiah Petherick's condition
that evening.
"Oh, father, you are right to be a teetotaler!" she cried. "Drink is an
awful thing!"
"It is indeed, my dear," he replied with a deep sigh. "I found
Petherick a well-informed, civil-spoken man, in fact I was favourably
impressed with him this morning, and he talked of his little daughter
as though he really loved her. Drink can slay affection, though," he
concluded sorrowfully.
"It's dreadful it should, father!"
"When drink once gets hold of people, it makes them slaves, and kills
their finest feelings. I am very sorry for that poor Salome!"
"So am I. She is so brave, too, and sticks up for her father all she
can. Oh, I think he ought to give up the drink for her sake. I wonder—I
wonder if it would be any good for you to speak to him!" And Margaret
looked wistfully and pleadingly into her father's face.
"I will consider the matter," he rejoined thoughtfully.
"Oh, father!" she cried, picturing afresh Salome's grief and
humiliation, "What should I do, if I had such a trouble as that poor
lame girl has to bear?"
Mr. Fowler started, and a look of intense pain and trouble momentarily
crossed his countenance, but he answered quietly, "In that case, I hope
you would ask God to support and comfort you."
"As Salome does. I could not be patient like she is, though."
"I trust you would, my dear child."
"Well, I am not likely to be tried," and Margaret regarded her father
with a look of affectionate pride. She wondered at the sadness of
the smile with which he returned her glance; and his answer, gravely
spoken, puzzled her not a little.
"We cannot tell how much our patience and our love may be tried," he
said, "nor what trials the future may hold for us. We can only pray
that God will help and strengthen us in our time of need."