The Blow Falls.
IT was nearly noon, and quietude reigned over Yelton. The fishermen
were all at sea, whilst their wives were busy with their domestic
duties within doors, and the children were at school. The village
looked actually deserted as Margaret Fowler walked soberly by the "Crab
and Cockle." Not a living soul was in sight, and there was no one in
Silas Moyle's shop, not even behind the counter, where Mrs. Moyle was
generally to be found. Margaret strolled on to Josiah Petherick's
cottage, and there was Salome seated in the porch, knitting rapidly
whilst she sang to herself in a low, soft undertone. The lame girl's
face lit up with a bright smile of pleasure at sight of Margaret, and
she turned to reach the crutches by her side.
"Oh, please don't get up!" Margaret cried quickly. "I'll sit down in
the porch with you for a little while, if I may. How nice it is here!"
"Yes. Isn't it a beautiful day, miss? Such a fine breeze! All the
fishing boats are out. Father was off at daybreak this morning. I got
up to give him his breakfast; so that's how it is my work's finished so
early."
"What are you making?" Margaret asked, noticing the thick, navy-blue
fingering which Salome was knitting.
"A jersey for father, miss. He'll want a new one against the winter."
"What! Do you mean to say you knit your father's jerseys? How clever of
you!"
The lame girl smiled and blushed as she responded, "Mother taught me
to knit when I was a very little girl, but it was not until after her
death that I learnt to make father's jerseys. Mrs. Moyle taught me the
way."
"Mrs. Moyle? The baker's wife, do you mean?"
"Yes, miss; she's always most kind to me."
"She looks good-natured," Margaret remarked. "Mother is not very well,"
she proceeded to explain, "so she is lying in bed this morning, and
Gerald is at his lessons with Miss Conway, so I thought I would look
you up, Salome."
"I am very glad to see you, miss. But I am sorry to hear Mrs. Fowler is
ill."
"She is not ill exactly—at least, I hope not. She complained of a bad
headache, so Ross advised her to remain in bed and rest. It worries me
if she's not well, now father's away."
"Then Mr. Fowler is not back yet, miss?"
"No. We expected him to stay away only a few days, but his business is
keeping him longer than he thought it would, so he will not be at home
till next week. It is so dull without him."
"I daresay it is, miss."
"Before he went, he told me he left mother in my charge, and that's why
I'm so anxious about her. You know, she was very, very ill before we
came here. I never saw her for weeks then, and—oh, it was a terrible
time!"
"It must have been," Salome said sympathetically.
"How bright you look to-day!" Margaret exclaimed presently, after
observing her companion in silence for several minutes.
"I feel bright," the lame girl acknowledged with a smile, "for I know
father'll come home sober by-and-by, when the fishing boats return, and
that's enough to make one happy."
"How brave you are, Salome!" And Margaret wondered if she had Salome's
trouble, whether she would ever be happy for a day or even an hour.
The other shook her head. She did not think she was brave at all, but
she took the sunshine of her life gratefully, and tried not to remember
the hours of gloom.
"I wish I could knit," said Margaret, as she watched the lame girl's
busy fingers.
"Why don't you learn, miss? Then you might knit your father's socks."
"Do you think I could?"
"Oh, yes, with a little practice. Would you—would you like me to teach
you?" Salome asked somewhat diffidently.
"Oh, I should be so much obliged to you if you would! Oh, thank you!
I'll buy some wool and knitting needles the very next time we drive to
N—. But I'm afraid you'll find me a very stupid pupil."
"I can't believe that, miss. Besides, knitting is quite easy—of course
it takes time to learn to knit fast. You can get knitting needles and
wool at Mrs. Moyle's shop; she keeps a very good supply."
"Does she? That's capital! Oh Salome, whatever has happened to that
rose-bush by the gate? Why, it's smashed off close to the ground! What
a pity!"
"Yes," was the response, spoken in a low, pained tone.
"How did it happen?" Margaret asked concernedly, noticing the tears had
sprung into her companion's brown eyes.
"Father did it."
"Oh! Not on purpose?"
"No, no! He—he fell over it. He was sorry—afterwards; but I'm so
grieved, because mother planted that rose-bush herself not long before
she died, and now it is quite ruined."
"Oh, I am sorry!" Margaret cried.
"It was an accident; but—but it wouldn't have happened, if he'd been
sober. He's as upset about it as I am now—he is indeed. He valued that
rose-bush for mother's sake."
"Salome, why don't you try to persuade your father to take the pledge?"
Margaret inquired very seriously.
"I've tried heaps and heaps of times."
"And he won't?"
"No. Father says he hates teetotalers. I can't think he does really,
though. Only, he likes drink, and he won't give it up."
"It's very selfish of him. He ought to consider you. But, there, I
won't run out against him, for I know you're very fond of him. Perhaps,
he'll be different some day."
"I pray every night that God will make him a sober man. He used to be
so steady when mother was living. Mr. Amyatt will tell you the same. It
seems so dreadful that her death should have changed him so. It was the
trouble, I suppose, and having no one to speak to at home but me that
drove him to the 'Crab and Cockle' first along; then he grew to like
the drink, and now he can't bear the thought of going without it. Did
you know Mr. Fowler spoke to father about it, miss?"
"No; did he?"
"Yes, he did indeed. They had an argument, and I fancy from father's
manner that he was impressed by what Mr. Fowler said."
Long the little girls talked, until Margaret declared she really must
go, or she would be late for dinner. She hurried back to Greystone,
to find that her mother was not up yet. On the landing, at the top of
the stairs, she met Ross, who had that minute come from Mrs. Fowler's
bedroom door.
"Is mother's head no better?" Margaret inquired concernedly.
"I'm afraid not," Ross answered. She looked somewhat perturbed, the
little girl thought. "I've not seen the mistress since breakfast-time,
miss," she proceeded hurriedly, "for she said she wished to be
undisturbed, and now she has locked her door."
"Locked her door!" Margaret echoed in utter astonishment.
"Yes, and she won't open it, miss. I was going to ask Miss Conway what
I should do—"
Not waiting to hear the conclusion of the sentence, Margaret ran to
her mother's bedroom door and tried to open it. The handle turned, but
the door remained closed. She rapped sharply with her knuckles and
listened; then, receiving no answer, knocked again.
"Who there?"
It was her mother's voice that asked the question; but something in
its tone fell discordantly upon the ears of the listeners and did not
lessen their uneasiness.
"It is I—Margaret. Let me in, mother dear."
"You can't come in; go away."
"But, mother, I want to know how you are. Is your head better?"
"Yes—no."
"Please let me in. Why have you locked the door?"
"I wish—to be alone."
At that moment Miss Conway appeared upon the scene. She turned white as
death when the situation was explained to her, and begged Margaret to
go away, and let her try to persuade Mrs. Fowler to unlock the door.
"No, no," cried the little girl. "Something must be amiss with mother,
or she would never act so strangely. Mother, mother, let me in," and
she knocked at the door louder than before.
There were sounds inside the room of some one moving about, then the
door was opened, and Mrs. Fowler, clad in a dressing-gown, with her
hair streaming over her shoulders, appeared in the doorway.
"What do you all want—coming here—disturbing me?" she questioned
irritably; then she lurched forward, and would have fallen on her face,
if Miss Conway had not sprung to her assistance and caught her.
"Oh, she has fainted!" Margaret cried, terribly frightened and
distressed.
With the help of Ross, who was looking pale and scared, the governess
succeeded in dragging Mrs. Fowler across the room, and laying her upon
the bed; and then turned to her little pupil and told her to shut and
lock the door. Wondering greatly, Margaret obeyed. Returning to the
bedside, she looked from one to the other of her companions in mingled
astonishment and reproach, for neither was making the least attempt to
bring Mrs. Fowler back to consciousness. The tears were streaming down
Miss Conway's cheeks, and Ross was murmuring—"I never guessed it. No, I
never guessed it."
"Oh, can't you do anything?" Margaret cried distractedly. "Oh, she is
very ill!" And she bent over her mother, then suddenly drew back. Mrs.
Fowler's cheeks were unusually flushed; she was breathing heavily,
and upon her lips hung the smell of spirit. Margaret experienced a
sensation as though an icy hand had gripped her heart. She looked
inquiringly at Miss Conway, who avoided her glance, then her eyes
travelled slowly around the room. On the dressing-table was a nearly
empty brandy bottle, and by its side a glass.
With an exceedingly bitter cry, Margaret realised the truth. Her mother
was not ill—that is, not in the way she had supposed—but intoxicated.
The blow had fallen, and everything was now plain to her.
As in a dream, she heard Ross whispering to Miss Conway that she had
never suspected her mistress of this, that she had never had such a
shock in her life before, and listened to Miss Conway's answer that
she herself would remain with Mrs. Fowler, and that the servants must
be told she was ill. Then, the governess put her arms around her pupil
and kissed her, begging her to be a brave girl. And all the while,
Margaret was experiencing a strange feeling of unreality, as though she
was living through a horrible nightmare. She watched Miss Conway fling
the windows open wide, and place a blanket carefully over her mother's
unconscious form, and the conviction grew upon her, that though the
governess was deeply grieved, she was not surprised and shocked as she
herself was and poor Ross who looked almost scared to death.
Suddenly the governess pointed to the brandy bottle and appealed to the
maid.
"Did you supply her with that?" she questioned sternly.
"No, miss, on my word of honour, I did not," Ross replied earnestly. "I
never knew she had it; she must have kept it under lock and key."
There was absolute truth in the girl's voice; and Miss Conway looked
puzzled.
"I can't make it out—how she obtained it, I mean," she said at
last. "Ross, I think you had better leave your mistress to me for
the present. I rely upon you not to speak of this downstairs. And
Margaret—" the governess's voice softened to the tenderest pity—"will
you take care of Gerald for the rest of the day? Tell him his mother is
very poorly, and that he may have a half-holiday. You could take him
down to the beach this afternoon. God help you to bear this trouble,
poor child!"
Margaret made no response. Ringing in her ears were words her father
had spoken to her when they had been discussing Salome's trouble. "We
cannot tell how much our patience and love may be tried, nor what
trials and troubles the future may hold for us. We can only pray that
God will strengthen us in our time of need."
Had her father anticipated this hour for her? She could not tell, but
she thought it more than likely.
Meanwhile, Miss Conway was leading her to the door, begging her to put
a brave face on matters, and to go down to dinner without her.
"I feel my duty is here, my dear," she said impressively. "If any one
questions you about your mother, you can truly say she is ill. Oh,
Margaret, pray for her; she is greatly to be pitied!" And so saying,
the governess opened the door and pushed her little pupil gently
outside.
For a few minutes Margaret stood perfectly still. Then the sound of
Gerald's voice in the hall below reminded her that she must, as Miss
Conway had said, put a brave face on matters. So she went downstairs
and delighted her brother by promising to take him down to the beach.
She was conscious that the burden of a great sorrow was upon her,
and she felt bowed down with an intolerable weight of shame. But she
devoted herself assiduously to Gerald for the remainder of the day;
and it was not until nearly nine o'clock, when her charge was in bed
and asleep, that she dared give way to her grief. Then, in the privacy
of her own room, she flung herself upon the bed and wept as though her
heart would break.