Josiah at His Worst.
THE afternoon subsequent to her husband's return, Mrs. Fowler was
sufficiently well to come downstairs and lie on the sofa in the
drawing-room. Margaret, who had gone back to her usual routine of work
with Miss Conway, saw little of her mother during the next few days,
and after Mr. Fowler drove to N— one morning, and brought Mrs. Lute
home with him, Mrs. Fowler spent most of her time with her friend, and
avoided her little daughter's society as much as possible.
Mrs. Lute, though she had been much astonished when Mr. Fowler had
frankly explained to her that his was now a teetotal household, was
far too well-bred a woman to question him concerning what his wife had
called his "fad;" and though she had been accustomed all her life to
the sparing use of stimulants, she could very well do without them, and
was perfectly satisfied and happy at Greystone.
"So many people are teetotalers nowadays," she remarked pleasantly to
Mr. Fowler on one occasion when she had been several days beneath his
roof, "so really you are quite in the fashion."
"I wish I could think that," he replied, with rather a sad smile.
"Oh, one meets a great many people who are total abstainers!" she
assured him. "Why, Miss Conway tells me she has always been one. It
seems drink has been the cause of a great deal of trouble in her
family. And your good Vicar here is a teetotaler too, so he informed
me yesterday. He argues truly that he cannot teach what he does not
practise. I was surprised to hear that even in this quiet little
village drink is the curse of the place."
"I believe that is so. There are several notorious drunkards amongst
the fishermen, and one in whom we, as a family, are much interested, on
his daughter's account, is likely to join their ranks."
"You refer to that fine, strong man who took us out boating yesterday,
I presume?"
"Yes; Josiah Petherick. He is a most reliable man when sober, but when
he has been drinking—which often happens now, I fear—he is a perfect
brute. I have been hearing many tales to his discredit lately, and this
morning I was told on reliable authority in the village, that he spends
nearly all his earnings at the 'Crab and Cockle' now, and begrudges
the money for the household accounts. Last night, he went home more
intoxicated than usual—actually mad drunk—and smashed up some of the
furniture in his cottage, after which he turned his little daughter
out-doors. The poor child was forced to beg a night's lodging from Mrs.
Moyle at the village shop, and to-day, all Yelton is talking about it."
A faint exclamation of dismay caused Mrs. Lute and Mr. Fowler, who had
been conversing in the garden, close outside the drawing-room window,
to look around. They encountered Mrs. Fowler's shocked gaze. Hearing
them talking, she had come to the window and had overheard all that had
been said.
"Oh, Henry, that poor Salome!" she cried, her blue eyes full of tears.
"Have you seen her to-day?"
"No; but the Vicar has. Hearing what had happened, he went down to
Petherick's cottage the first thing this morning. Salome had just
returned and was doing her utmost to put the place to rights, and her
father had gone out in his boat in a very humbled, repentant state of
mind, after having apologised to her for his abominable behaviour, and
having promised he would not act so madly again."
Mrs. Fowler sighed, whilst Mrs. Lute said gravely, "Let us hope he will
keep his word."
"He will not, without he gives up the drink," Mr. Fowler rejoined, with
conviction in his tone. "No, he will go from bad to worse until, in one
of his drunken frenzies, he will do something he will never cease to
regret—perhaps some injury to his child."
Mrs. Fowler sank into a chair looking pale and perturbed, whilst her
husband and friend drifted into another channel of conversation. The
news she had heard about the Pethericks had upset her, and when, a
short while later, Margaret entered the room, the first question she
put to her was to ask if she had seen Salome that day.
"No, mother," the little girl answered. "Why?" she added, struck by the
almost frightened expression on Mrs. Fowler's face.
She listened in silence, her colour alternately coming and going, to
all there was to tell, then exclaimed "Oh, I am sorry! Poor Salome! And
it rained heavily last night. Perhaps she will come up to the church
this evening to hear me practise the organ. Oh, I hope she will! When
are you coming to hear me play again, mother?"
"Oh, some time! Perhaps when Mrs. Lute has gone."
"Wouldn't Mrs. Lute come too?"
"Oh, I don't think you play well enough—" Mrs. Fowler paused abruptly,
conscious of the hurt look on her little daughter's countenance. She
had avoided Margaret lately, and Margaret had noticed the fact with
acute pain. What had she done that her mother should abstain from
meeting her gaze? An insurmountable barrier seemed to have sprung up
between mother and child.
Margaret's heart was full of bitterness as she turned away and left the
room. She had endeavoured to show no feeling but that of love for her
mother since her recent indisposition, but it had been impossible for
Mrs. Fowler not to remark a slight difference in her manner, of which
Margaret was unconscious herself. She thought she read reproach in the
little girl's eyes, and shrank sensitively from being alone with her.
She was ashamed in the presence of her own child.
Had Margaret grasped the truth of the situation, she would have judged
her mother less harshly; but failing to do so, she was deeply pained,
and told herself that her mother liked her less than ever. Upon Gerald,
Mrs. Fowler lavished all her affection. She would listen to his chatter
untiringly, talking gaily in return; and, however much he teased her,
she always found excuses for him.
Miss Conway did not give Margaret a music lesson that evening, for Mrs.
Fowler requested her to accompany Mrs. Lute and herself for a walk, and
to bring Gerald with her, so Margaret went alone to the church.
She practised for an hour, then dismissed the boy who had blown the
organ for her, and was leaving the church when she caught sight of a
small figure huddled up in a corner of a pew near the west door. It was
Salome.
"Is it you, Salome?" Margaret cried, hastening to her side, and laying
her hand tenderly upon her shoulder. The lame girl lifted her bowed
head, and in the dim light, Margaret saw she had been weeping, though
there were no tears in her brown eyes now, and her lips were curved in
a smile.
"I've been asleep," she said. "I'm glad you didn't go without speaking
to me, Miss Margaret. I came in whilst you were practising, and I was
tired. I—I had little rest last night."
"I know—I've heard," Margaret returned hurriedly, as the other paused
in confusion.
"Have you, miss? I'm glad of that, for now I shan't have to tell you,
and I'd rather not talk of it."
"Of course you would rather not."
"I was tired," Salome proceeded; "so tired and worn out, that I
couldn't help crying. My poor legs ached so—but oh! not so badly as
my heart. The pain here—" clasping her hands against her breast—"was
almost more than I could bear. Then I fell asleep, and I was dreaming
when you awoke me."
"I hope it was a pleasant dream," Margaret said softly.
"Oh, very pleasant! I thought it was evening time—getting almost dark
as it is now—and service was going on in the church. I could hear
father's voice singing with the choir. You can't imagine what a deep,
beautiful voice father has, Miss Margaret. I was listening to it when
you awoke me. But I'm glad you happened to catch sight of me, though
you did disturb my dream. Is anything wrong, miss?" And the lame girl's
brown eyes peered anxiously at her companion.
"I am not happy," Margaret confessed with a sigh.
"Mrs. Fowler is not ill again?" Salome questioned in concerned tones.
"No, no; she is perfectly well. We have an old friend visiting us, and
that makes it pleasant for mother."
"I saw a strange lady in church with you on Sunday, miss; and father
took her out in his boat with Mrs. Fowler. She treated him very
handsomely, he said; but I wish she hadn't."
"Why?" Margaret asked in surprise.
"Because he spent the money she gave him in drink at the public-house,
and that was the beginning of the trouble last night. There, I didn't
mean to talk of it, but, naturally, it's uppermost in my mind."
"Of course it is. Did you—did you get wet last night?"
"Dripping to the skin," Salome admitted. "But Mrs. Moyle—God bless
her!—took me in and gave me dry clothes, and a bed too. But oh, I
couldn't sleep for wondering what father was up to at home. You can
never be certain what a drunken body will not do. How selfish I am,
though, to talk so much of myself. Won't you tell me what troubles you,
Miss Margaret?"
"No, Salome, I can't," was the low response. "It's something I can
never speak of."
"Then try not to think too much about it, miss," the lame girl advised.
"If I were you, I'd tell my trouble to God, and leave it to Him. That's
what I do with mine."
"By your trouble, you mean your father?" Margaret inquired diffidently.
"Yes, miss. Do you remember saying to me that night you and I had been
sitting in the porch, and father had come home drunk—'May God help you,
Salome'? I think you saw God was the only One who could help me; and I
want to remind you of those words of yours, because maybe He's the only
One who can help you too! Why, how dark it's getting think, miss, we
had better go."
She reached for her crutches as she spoke, and swung herself out of the
pew into the aisle. Margaret followed her silently through the west
door into the churchyard. It was nearly dark, for it was September now,
and the evenings were shortening fast; but whilst they lingered at the
churchyard gate, the edge of the moon appeared in the eastern horizon,
and slowly sailed upwards into the cloudless sky, illuminating the old
grey church, surrounded with the graves of the quiet dead, and shedding
its pale light on the little village and the broad surface of the
peaceful sea.
"How beautiful!" cried Margaret. "It is the harvest moon, so father
said last night. But, Salome, it is late for you to be out alone. Shall
I walk part of the way home with you?"
"Oh, no, thank you, miss! I shall be perfectly safe. Besides, it's
quite light now the moon has risen. Good night, miss."
"Good night, Salome."
Margaret went back to Greystone in a very thoughtful frame of mind. She
considered that her friend was not half so depressed as she herself
would have been under similar circumstances, not reflecting that
Salome's trouble had come upon her by slow degrees. It had taken five
years to change Josiah Petherick from a sober, God-fearing man into the
desperate drunkard who had turned his only child out-doors last night.
Meanwhile, Salome, as she swung herself down the hill, wondered what
could be amiss with Miss Margaret. She had grown deeply attached to the
pretty, fair-haired girl, who had, from the first time they had met,
treated her with the greatest kindness and consideration. She had given
her several lessons in the art of knitting, and the lessons had given
pleasure to teacher and pupil alike; and both were much interested
in the progression of the sock which Margaret was rather laboriously
making under the other's instructions.
The "Crab and Cockle" was lit up brightly as Salome passed by, and
she sighed as she heard the hoarse murmur of voices within, for she
imagined her father to be there; but great was her surprise on reaching
home, to find him in the little yard at the back of the cottage bathing
his face at the pump. When he came into the kitchen, she noticed not
only that he was intoxicated, but that he had a cut on his cheek, and
one eye was turning black. She asked no questions, however, for she saw
he was in one of his worst moods; so she lit the lamp in silence, and
proceeded to set the supper on the table. Presently, he remarked that
he had quarrelled with someone, and they had come to blows.
"'Twas Silas Moyle—" he was beginning, when, in her surprise, she
interrupted him.
"Silas Moyle!" she echoed, for the baker was a steady, peace-loving man.
"Yes," he nodded; "the canting humbug!" He looked at her sullenly, even
resentfully, she thought; and she trembled with fear as she noticed his
shaking hands and quivering lips.
Then he burst forth into a volley of oaths, and she gleaned that he
was angry with her for having sought refuge with the Moyles on the
preceding night. He stormed against her, against Silas and his wife,
against everyone, in short, who had remonstrated with him that day.
Apparently, his neighbours had been telling him some plain home truths
which had not been pleasant hearing.
"Oh, father, don't say any more!" Salome pleaded in great distress.
"Oh, please don't swear so frightfully! What could I do? You turned me
out of my home, and I did not know where to go, except to Mrs. Moyle's.
Oh, don't speak of her like that! It was out of pure kindness she took
me in. You would not have had me spend the night out of doors in that
lashing rain, would you? Oh, father, you are cruel indeed!"
The reproach in her sorrowful eyes enraged him beyond measure.
"You dare stand up for those who insult your father!" he shouted in a
fury; and clutching her by the shoulder, he shook her savagely, then
flung her from him with some violence. Losing her hold of her crutches,
they fell to the ground; and staggering forward with a frightened cry,
she knocked her forehead against a corner of the mantelpiece, and the
next moment, lay white and unconscious at her father's feet.