An Afternoon's Outing.
MR. FOWLER was obliged to breakfast at seven o'clock, which was an
hour-and-a-half before the usual breakfast hour at Greystone, on the
morning following Salome's visit, as it was his intention to catch
the first train to London from N—, and in order to do that he would
have to leave home before eight o'clock, and drive several miles. His
journey had been discussed on the previous night, and he had said
good-bye to Miss Conway and the children then. But, when he entered the
breakfast-room as the clock struck seven, he found his little daughter
awaiting him.
"Why, Margaret!" he exclaimed in pleased surprise as he kissed her.
"I did not expect to see you, my dear! You are not generally an early
bird."
"I'm afraid I am rather sleepy-headed in the mornings, as a rule,"
she confessed, "but I made up my mind last night that I would have
my breakfast with you to-day, dear father, and see you off. Now do
try to eat as much as ever you can," she added practically, as the
servant appeared with a tray holding a couple of covered dishes and the
coffee-pot.
Mr. Fowler laughed, as he seated himself at the table with Margaret
opposite to him, and said he would take her advice.
"I am sorry I have to go," he remarked, "but I have no choice in the
matter, as my lawyer wants to consult me upon important business. I
shall leave your mother in your charge, Margaret."
"In my charge?" Margaret said inquiringly, looking surprised. "But she
is not ill now, father! See how cheerful and bright she was last night.
And she has taken several walks. Oh, she is heaps better and stronger
than she was! I don't think you need worry about her."
"Perhaps not; but, nevertheless, I want you to devote as much of your
time as you can to her during my absence. I have spoken to Miss Conway,
and she has consented to give you a holiday till I return. Had I not
seen you this morning, Miss Conway would have explained my wishes to
you. I desire you to accompany your mother when she drives out, and
when she goes into the village, or down to the beach—in short, make
yourself her companion, my dear, until I return. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father, I think so," Margaret replied, impressed by his serious
tone. "I expect mother will be dull when you are gone, so I will do my
best to brighten her up!"
"That's a good child!"
"Only, sometimes she much prefers to have Gerald with her to me!"
"I would rather she had you. Remember what I have said, Margaret. I
hope I shall not be away very long, but it will of course depend upon
circumstances."
Mr. Fowler made an excellent breakfast, and afterwards went upstairs
to say good-bye to his wife, whilst Margaret waited for him in the
hall. He kissed his little girl tenderly on his return, then, it being
quite time for him to leave, entered the carriage which was waiting
at the door, and was driven off. Margaret felt a little depressed as
she listened to the sound of the carriage wheels dying away in the
distance, for she was exceedingly attached to her father, and home did
not seem like home without him.
Knowing her mother must be awake, she went upstairs, and knocked at her
bedroom door. On being told to come in, to her surprise, Mrs. Fowler
declared her intention of getting up to breakfast.
"But do you feel well enough?" Margaret asked, for up to the present
Mrs. Fowler, having been an invalid, had always breakfasted in her own
room at Greystone.
"Oh, yes!" was the quick response. "I'm tired of being treated like a
sick person! What a beautiful, bright morning it is, and not so hot, is
it? Your father will have a fine day for his journey."
"He did not want to go at all!"
"No. But that was foolish of him!"
"I think he did not like the thought of leaving you, mother. He feared
you might be ill whilst he was away."
"Oh, I am not likely to be ill again," Mrs. Fowler declared sanguinely.
"I mean to throw off my invalid-ish ways now, and surprise your father
on his return. Send Ross to me, Margaret, to help me dress."
"Shall I help you, mother? Do let me. I am sure I can do your hair as
well as Ross."
Mrs. Fowler hesitated, but finally decided in favour of Ross; so
Margaret went in search of her. Ross was a well-mannered, good-tempered
young woman who waited upon Mrs. Fowler, and did the mending and sewing
of the household. She expressed surprise and pleasure on hearing that
her mistress intended getting up and joining the family breakfast-table.
"It shows how much stronger she feels, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've
often thought if she would bestir herself more she would be better in
health and spirits."
Gerald grumbled loudly when he discovered that he was to do lessons
whilst his sister was to have a holiday. Why should Margaret be allowed
nice drives with their mother when he was obliged to stay at home and
work. It was most unfair, he declared; and it may be imagined that poor
Miss Conway had rather a trying experience with her younger pupil on
the first day of his father's absence, when, in the afternoon, Mrs.
Fowler and Margaret drove to N—, and left him at home.
The road to N— lay through some most beautiful scenery, and Margaret
thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Now they were on an open common where
the few trees to be seen were stunted and grown one-sided, a fact
which puzzled the little girl until it was explained to her that the
keen breeze blowing across the Atlantic was accountable for it, then
she remarked that the bare side of the trees was the one which faced
the sea; now they had left the common and were going down bill into a
sheltered, wooded coomb, and by-and-by the road led upwards again till
the town of N— was reached, situated almost at the top of the hill.
At the entrance to the town, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret got out of
the carriage, and walked up the main street—Fore Street it was
called—looking into the shop windows. They had paused outside a small
china shop in which was some pretty pottery, when a familiar voice
addressed them in accents of pleasure and surprise.
"Can I believe my eyes? Who would have thought of meeting you here!"
Turning instantly they confronted a handsome, middle-aged lady, dressed
as a widow, whose comely face was wreathed in smiles. She was called
Mrs. Lute, and had been a near neighbour of theirs in London.
"Oh, how glad I am!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "It is good to see you
again! Are you staying in the neighbourhood?"
"Yes; I have taken a furnished house at N— for two months. I saw it
advertised, came to see it, and the result is that here I am! Why, how
well you look! And you were such a wreck when you left town! Margaret,
too, is looking all the better for the change of air! I suppose you are
still at Yelton?"
"Oh, yes! Why haven't you been to see us?"
"I have only been here a week. But, come, walk home with me, and have a
cup of tea."
"I should like to, but I have some errands to execute. Oh, Margaret!"
And Mrs. Fowler turned to her little daughter eagerly. "Surely you
could do the errands! See, here is the list of what I want on this
paper! Is your home far from here?" she inquired of Mrs. Lute.
"No, you must have passed it—a thatched, whitewashed house, with a
porch covered with clematis and roses."
"Oh, yes, I noticed it!" Margaret cried. "Mother, why don't you and
Mrs. Lute drive back in the carriage, and I will join you as soon as I
have done the shopping?"
Thus it was arranged. Margaret was quite excited at meeting an old
acquaintance, for Mrs. Lute had long been on the friendliest terms with
her neighbours in town. She was one of the kindest of women, and had
been exceedingly sympathetic during Mrs. Fowler's serious illness in
the spring.
When Margaret had executed her list of errands, she made her way to the
whitewashed house, outside which the carriage was waiting; and on being
shown into the drawing-room which faced the road, found her mother and
Mrs. Lute seated there conversing happily.
"How warm the poor child looks!" the latter exclaimed. "Sit down in
this comfortable chair, my dear, and let me give you some tea; or would
you rather have a glass of wine, for you look tired, and—"
"Oh, no, thank you!" Margaret interposed hastily.
"Just as you like, my dear; but I persuaded your mother to take a
little wine; I thought it would do her good after her long drive, and I
think it has refreshed her. Here's your tea, my dear! Help yourself to
cream and sugar, and do try this cake."
"Thank you, Mrs. Lute."
Margaret was startled for the moment to hear her mother had been
drinking wine, remembering how her father had refused to allow her
to take it. She thought Mrs. Fowler should have declined it; but the
matter soon passed from her mind as Mrs. Lute began to question her
about Yelton.
"Everyone tells me it is a charming little village," Mrs. Lute said,
"but your mother is not enthusiastic about it. I think she is beginning
to feel the lack of society. I have been telling her she should be
satisfied to have regained her health. She is looking wonderfully well."
Margaret, glancing at her mother, agreed with Mrs. Lute. No one would
have guessed at that moment that Mrs. Fowler had been an invalid so
lately, for there was a pink colour in her cheeks, and her blue eyes
were shining with a happy light. She was as glad as was Margaret to
meet their old friend.
"You must pay us a visit at Greystone as soon as my husband returns,"
she said hospitably, "and then you will be able to form your own ideas
of Yelton and its inhabitants. Margaret has struck up a friendship with
a lame girl, Salome Petherick by name, and I believe Gerald has picked
acquaintance with several fishermen."
"Salome's father is a fisherman," Margaret remarked; "and oh, Salome
has the most beautiful voice you can possibly imagine, hasn't she,
mother?"
"She certainly has. When you come to visit us, Mrs. Lute, you shall
hear this Cornish singing-bird. Poor girl, she is a sad cripple, yet
she makes herself very useful, attends to her father's cottage, and
even does gardening!"
"She uses a pair of crutches as a rule," Margaret explained, "but when
she is gardening, she somehow manages to hop about on one, so that she
has a hand free to work with. Poor Salome! Her father drinks, and that
is a great trouble to her."
"I should think so, indeed!" Mrs. Lute commented. "She ought to try to
persuade him to take the pledge. Total abstinence from all intoxicants
is the only thing for some people."
"Father says," Margaret was beginning, when Mrs. Fowler somewhat
abruptly changed the conversation by inquiring for a mutual friend in
town. It struck the little girl that her mother did not wish her to air
her father's teetotal views, so during the homeward drive she recurred
to the subject.
"Mother, I was going to tell Mrs. Lute that we are all teetotalers
now," she said. "Don't you want her to know?"
Mrs. Fowler hesitated and frowned slightly, refraining from meeting her
little daughter's gravely inquiring gaze.
"I suppose she will have to know, if she comes to stay with us at
Greystone," she responded in tones of annoyance. "I had forgotten your
father's fad when I invited her."
"Oh, mother, don't call it a fad!" Margaret cried distressfully.
"That's what it is, child! Mrs. Lute is accustomed to take wine, yet no
one can say she is not a strictly temperate woman. Your father, I do
not doubt, would like her to be a total abstainer. Such nonsense! He
used not to be so fastidious!" And Mrs. Fowler looked quite angry.
Margaret made no answer. She had perfect faith in her father's
judgment, but she felt herself incapable of arguing the matter from his
point of view.
On reaching home they found a telegram from Mr. Fowler, acquainting
them with his safe arrival in London. As Mrs. Fowler read it, the
displeasure left her face for a softer, gentler expression.
"How thoughtful he always is!" she exclaimed.
She was in exceedingly good spirits all the evening, and retired to
rest apparently perfectly well; but about midnight, Margaret was
awakened by a sound in the room, and starting up in bed, found her
mother standing by her side in her night-gown, with a lighted candle in
her hand.
"What is it, mother? Are you ill?" The little girl inquired in alarm.
"No, but I am nervous, and cannot sleep! I wish your father had not
gone! Did I frighten you? I hope not. I felt I must have company."
Margaret was greatly astonished, for the thought had continually
crossed her mind during the day that Mrs. Fowler was relieved at her
husband's absence. She jumped out of bed immediately, and led her
mother back to her own room.
"I will stay with you to-night, dear mother," she said gently. "You
won't feel nervous then."
So mother and daughter lay down side by side, but not to sleep as yet,
for the latter was restless and sighed continually.
"You are sure you are not ill?" Margaret asked with loving anxiety.
"No, I am not ill, but I am very unhappy," was the response in a tone
of great sadness. "Oh, child, I wish you had a better mother!"
"You are the dearest mother in the world," Margaret cried earnestly.
"But very far from being the best. I am very troubled—no, I cannot tell
you what about. No, you couldn't help me. No one can."
"Yes, God can, mother," Margaret reminded her; then she quoted softly—
"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."
Mrs. Fowler caught her breath with a little sob; but doubtless, the
words of Salome's favourite hymn comforted her, for presently, Margaret
knew by her regular breathing that she had fallen asleep.
The little girl lay awake wondering what trouble her mother could
possibly have, or if she was only nervous and imaginative; and it was
not until the first streaks of dawn peeped into the room that she slept
too.