Perfectly Happy.
"OH, I do hope she will come! It's nearly five o'clock, and she's not
in sight yet. I wish I had thought of watching from my bedroom window,
I could have seen then when she left the cottage."
The speaker, Margaret Fowler, started up from her seat beneath the
lilac tree, and ran across the lawn in the direction of the gate which
led from the grounds of Greystone into the road. Beneath the lilac tree
sat Mrs. Fowler in a comfortably padded wicker chair, with a small
table laden with papers and magazines at her side. She glanced after
her little daughter with a slightly amused smile, then remonstrated
with Gerald, who was playing near by, for making a noise.
"You will give me a headache, if you keep on doing that," she said, as
he cannoned two croquet balls against each other. "Pray, be quiet!"
Gerald chose not to obey. He continued his game, utterly regardless of
his mother's command.
"Do stop, Gerald!" she exclaimed. "I really cannot bear that noise any
longer. Oh, where is Miss Conway? Why isn't she here to look after you?
Gerald, to oblige me, find some other amusement, there's a dear boy!"
"Why do you not obey your mother, sir?" demanded a stern voice. And
suddenly the little boy dropped the croquet-mallet from his hand, and
turned to face his father.
"That's right, Gerald!" Mrs. Fowler said hastily. "He hasn't been doing
anything wrong, Henry," she continued, glancing apprehensively at her
husband, "only—you know how absurdly nervous I am—I can't bear any
sharp, sudden noise. It's foolish of me, I know."
Gerald now ran after his sister, and Mr. Fowler stood with his hand on
the back of his wife's chair, looking, down at her with grave attention.
"You should make the boy obey you, my dear," he said. "Has not your
visitor arrived yet?"
"No. Margaret has gone to the gate to see if she is coming. I thought
we would have tea out here, for it is cooler and pleasanter in the
garden than in the house, and it will be more informal. I should like
you to hear this lame girl sing, Henry! I think I never heard a voice
which touched me so deeply as hers. But you are not listening—"
"I beg your pardon, my dear. I confess my thoughts were wandering. The
fact is, to-morrow I shall have to go up to town for a few days, and I
would far rather remain at home. But I am obliged to go."
"You can leave with an easy mind," his wife told him reassuringly. "I
am really quite strong now, and capable of managing the household, I
believe I shall be better for something to do. By the way, you cannot
think how much I enjoyed my drive this morning to N—" mentioning the
nearest town. "I wanted some trifles from a draper's, and the shops
were much better than I expected. Oh! Here come the children. They are
bringing Salome with them."
Mrs. Fowler rose and greeted the lame girl very cordially, placing her
in a chair next to her own. Salome was looking her best, neatly attired
in a clean cotton frock. There was a flush born of excitement on her
cheeks, and her brown eyes shone with a happy light as she gave herself
up to the enjoyment of the present hour.
Tea was served beneath the lilac tree, such a luxuriant tea as Salome
had never partaken of before, and everyone appeared determined that she
should make a good meal—Gerald pointing out to her the most delectable
of the dainties which he pressed her to eat, for in the depths of his
selfish little heart, there was a warm spot for the lame girl who had
so often given him flowers from her garden when he had certainly not
deserved them.
Salome was inclined to be a trifle shy at first of Mr. Fowler. From
what she had heard of him she had imagined he must be an exceedingly
stern, strict sort of man, but he talked to her so kindly and
pleasantly that she soon grew at ease with him, and answered all the
questions he put to her unreservedly. She told him she had only been a
member of the choir during the last six months, and explained that she
had not known she possessed a really good voice until the Vicar had
informed her that such was the fact.
"I always loved singing, even when I was a tiny thing," she said, "but
I never thought of joining the choir till one day when Mr. Amyatt
suggested it. He was passing our cottage, and heard me singing, and he
came right in and said he would like me to come up to the Vicarage and
let him try my voice. Father said I might go, so I did, and the next
Sunday, I sang with the choir in church for the first time."
"You must not sing too much," Mr. Fowler remarked, "for you are very
young, and might permanently injure your voice if you strained it now.
You must nurse it a bit."
"That's what Mr. Amyatt says," Salome replied with a smile, "and I'm
very careful."
"It is a great gift to have a beautiful voice." Mr. Fowler looked with
kindly interest at his little guest as he spoke; then his eyes wandered
to the crutches which she had placed on the ground beside her chair,
and she caught the swift glance of sympathy which crossed his face, and
from that moment, he stood high in her estimation.
"God is very merciful," he added softly, as though speaking to himself;
"we are too apt to forget that He never sends a cross without its
compensation."
Salome was perfectly happy sitting there under the lilac tree, though
she felt all the while as though she must be in a wonderful dream. Mrs.
Fowler, in her light summer dress, with her fair hair and her lovely
blue eyes, looked like a queen, she thought. Salome was more and more
impressed with her grace and charm on every fresh occasion on which she
saw her. How proud Miss Margaret must be of her mother! And how happy
Miss Margaret must be in such a beautiful home, with kind parents, and
everything that heart could desire! And yet, what was the meaning of
that wistful look on her face; and why was Mr. Fowler's countenance
so grave, and almost stern in expression at times? Salome's eyes were
remarkably shrewd. She noticed how attentive Mr. Fowler was to his
wife, almost seeming to anticipate her wishes and read her thoughts;
and she was surprised when he was called away for a few minutes to see
that Mrs. Fowler talked with greater freedom in his absence, as though
his presence put a restraint upon her.
As soon as all had finished tea, Margaret took Salome around the
gardens, and afterwards led the way into the house. She showed Salome
her own room, the walls of which were crowded with pictures and
knickknacks. The lame girl had never seen such a pretty bedroom before
as this one, with its little white-curtained bed, and white-enamelled
furniture. Then Margaret opened a velvet-lined jewel case, and took out
a small, gold brooch in the shape of a shell, which she insisted upon
fastening into the neck of her visitor's gown.
"It is for you," she said, "I bought it with my own money, so you need
not mind taking it. I told mother I was going to give it to you. I want
you to wear it for my sake, Salome."
"Oh, Miss Margaret, how kind of you! Thank you so much. But ought I to
take it? Are you sure Mrs. Fowler—"
"Oh, yes!" Margaret interposed eagerly. "Mother would like you to have
it. She said she thought it would be a very suitable gift for you. It
is pretty, isn't it?"
"It is lovely!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I shall value it always,
Miss Margaret, for your sake," and there were tears of pleasure and
gratitude in Salome's brown eyes as she spoke.
"I am so very glad you like it," Margaret said earnestly; "but now,
come downstairs to the drawing-room."
Greystone appeared quite a palatial residence to the simple village
girl, accustomed to her cottage home. She noticed how soft and thick
were the carpets, how handsome was the furniture; and how everything in
connection with the house had been done with a view to comfort. A sense
of awe crept over her, as she cast one swift glance around the spacious
drawing-room. Miss Conway was at the piano, but she ceased playing as
the little girls entered; and Mrs. Fowler, who was standing by the open
window conversing with her husband, turned towards them immediately and
requested Salome to sing.
So Salome stood, leaning upon her crutches, in the centre of the room,
and lilted, without accompaniment, a simple little song she had often
heard from her dead mother's lips. It was a lullaby, and she sang it
so sweetly and unaffectedly that her listeners were delighted, and Mr.
Fowler was surprised at the beauty of the voice which had had so little
training. She gave them several other quaint west-country ballads; and
then, at Mrs. Fowler's request, sang, "Abide with Me."
"I like that best," Margaret said, as she drew Salome down on a sofa by
her side. "Why, how you're trembling! And your hands are quite cold!"
"Poor child! We have made her nervous, I fear," Mr. Fowler remarked.
"Used your mother to sing, my dear?"
"Yes, sir, sometimes, and father used to sing in the choir, but he
doesn't now. If you please," she proceeded, glancing from one to the
other hesitatingly, "I think I ought to go home. Father promised to
meet me outside the gate at seven o'clock, and it must be that now."
"It is a little after seven," Mr. Fowler replied, glancing at his watch.
"Then I think I must go, sir."
"You must come again soon," Mrs. Fowler said eagerly. "Thank you
so much, my dear, for singing to us. You have given us very great
pleasure."
"I am very glad," Salome rejoined simply and earnestly, "and I should
like to tell you how much I have enjoyed myself; and thank you for all
your kindness to me."
True to his promise, Josiah Petherick was waiting for his little
daughter in the road outside the entrance to Greystone. He was
perfectly sober, and as Salome caught sight of his stalwart figure, her
face lit up with pleasure.
"Well, have you had an enjoyable time?" he inquired, smilingly.
"Oh, yes," she answered, and proceeded to give him a detailed account
of all she had seen, and heard, and done. He admired Margaret's gift,
and was secretly much gratified at the attention and kindness his
little girl had received from the new-comers. Much to her relief, he
accompanied her past the "Crab and Cockle," though it must be admitted,
he cast a longing glance in the direction of the open doorway through
which the stale odour of tobacco and beer was stealing forth as usual.
And when they reached home, he followed her into the cottage, and
continued the conversation whilst she set about getting supper. She
feared he would take himself to the inn as soon as the meal was over,
but, instead, he sat down under the porch and gazed thoughtfully out to
sea.
"That Mr. Fowler's a rare hand to talk," he remarked presently, when
his little daughter joined him. "That comes of being educated, I
s'pose. He can argue a bit, he can."
"Can he?" Salome looked surprised. "How do you know, father?" she
inquired.
"'Cause I was foolish enough to try to argue with him, my maid!"
"Oh! When was that?"
"This morning, on the beach."
"Oh!" she cried again, more and more astonished. "What did you argue
about, father?" She ventured to ask.
"Drink!" was the brief reply. And there was that in Josiah's manner
which forbade further questioning.
Salome nestled silently close to her father's side, her head resting
against his arm, as she thought how nice it was to have him there with
her, quite himself, and how dearly she loved him. She listened to the
murmur of the sea, and tried to count the stars appearing in the sky,
whilst Josiah recalled the argument he had had with Mr. Fowler, in
which, he was obliged to admit, he had come off worst. At last, a deep
sigh from Salome drew his attention to her, and he asked what was amiss.
"Amiss?" she echoed in astonishment. "Nothing."
"But you sighed, my dear."
"Did I? Then it must have been for joy. I'm perfectly happy, perfectly!
And so I should always be, if there was no such place as the 'Crab and
Cockle' in Yelton."
"Well, Salome, I've not been there to-night."
"No, you have not, dear father," she answered affectionately, "and
that's why I'm so perfectly happy. My mind's at rest!"