A Brief Repentance.
IT was about half-past nine o'clock that same night, that the Vicar of
Yelton opened the Pethericks' garden gate, and stepping determinedly up
the path, rapped at the door of the cottage.
Returning from an evening's fishing an hour previously, he had been
stopped in the village, on his way home, by Silas Moyle, who had poured
into his ears an excited tale about Josiah, whom Silas had taken upon
himself to remonstrate with upon his cruel conduct to his daughter on
the previous night, with the result that Josiah, inflamed with drink,
had struck him, and had received in return a black eye and an injured
cheek.
"You know, sir, I'm a man of peace, and don't hold with brawling,"
Silas had said; "but I own I lost my temper to-night. Josiah's a
regular blackguard when he's drunk."
"It was foolish to remonstrate with a drunken man," Mr. Amyatt had
answered. "Had you spoken to him in his sober moments, your words might
have had a very different effect. Where is Josiah now?"
"Gone home, swearing vengeance against me, sir. My great fear is, that
he'll do some harm to poor Salome."
That had been the Vicar's fear, too. So, instead of going straight to
the Vicarage as he had intended, he had retraced his footsteps to the
Pethericks' cottage, and now stood waiting for admittance at the door.
As no one answered his knock, he rapped louder and listened. For a
few moments there was silence; then came the sound of heavy, dragging
footsteps, and Josiah opened the door and demanded hoarsely who was
there.
"It is I, Petherick," the Vicar answered, stepping uninvited across the
threshold.
"Where is your daughter?" he asked, fixing his eyes upon the fisherman,
who stood staring at him in a dazed fashion.
Receiving no reply, he turned into the kitchen, an exclamation of
horror and dismay breaking from his lips, as he caught sight of the
small, slight figure of the lame girl lying near the fireplace. Very
tenderly, he lifted her and placed her in the one easy-chair in the
room, calling to Josiah to bring some water immediately.
"Water!" questioned Josiah stupidly. "What for? She's dead. She's been
dead this half-hour or more; but I haven't dared touch her. Salome,
Salome! I've killed you, my poor maid! Your own father's killed you,
Salome;" and flinging himself on his knees at his daughter's side,
Josiah wept like a child.
"Don't be foolish, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said sternly. He had been
feeling Salome's pulse, and had ascertained that it beat, though
feebly. "She's not dead, but she has fainted. Come, be a man. Pull
yourself together, and fetch some water at once."
"Not dead," Josiah cried excitedly. "Are you sure? Then, God be thanked
for that!" He rose from his knees, and went into the yard, returning in
a few seconds with a basin of water.
Very gently, the Vicar bathed Salome's white face until her eyelids
flickered and a faint colour stole to her lips. Josiah, sobered by
fright, explained what had happened, not sparing himself, but declaring
he would not have injured a hair of his daughter's head, if he could
have helped it, for Mr. Amyatt must know how much he loved her.
"Tush, Petherick!" the Vicar responded impatiently, mingled pity and
disgust in his tone. "Don't talk to me of your love for Salome. A nice
way you have of showing it. Last night, you turned her out of doors in
torrents of rain—"
"I was drunk," Josiah interposed hastily. "She riled me, she did, with
her tears, and—"
"Having been drunk is no excuse," Mr. Amyatt interrupted in his turn.
"Not content with your scandalous conduct last night, you must continue
your unmanly behaviour to-day and knock Salome down, and—"
"No, no," said a weak voice at this point. It was Salome who spoke. She
had regained consciousness, and was sufficiently herself to understand
what was going on. "No, no," she repeated, "it was an accident. He did
not mean to hurt me."
"I shook her, and—and pushed her," Josiah admitted, looking thoroughly
ashamed of himself. "I meant her no harm, sir, but I was rough,
and—oh, Salome, can you ever forgive me?" And the wretched man turned
appealingly to the little figure in the easy-chair.
"Yes," was the faint response. "I—I don't think I'm much hurt."
"Are you in pain?" Mr. Amyatt asked gently.
"No, sir; but my forehead is very sore. I must have knocked it in
falling."
"Yes, poor child, I see you did; there is a big bruise coming."
"I suppose I fainted?" she inquired, looking wistfully from the Vicar
to her father, who was regarding her in gloomy silence.
"Yes, that was it, you fainted," Mr. Amyatt replied. "But you are much
better now; and after a good night's rest, I have no doubt you will be
almost yourself again."
Salome glanced at her crutches, which were lying on the ground. Mr.
Amyatt picked them up and placed them against her chair.
"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, lifting her brown eyes shyly to
his face, which expressed so plainly his sympathy and concern. "I think
I shall be all right now," she added. "Thank you for being so kind."
"Does that mean you wish me to go?" he queried with a smile. "Well, I
don't know that I can do any good by remaining longer. Good night, my
dear."
He took Salome's small, thin hand and pressed it reassuringly, then
beckoned to her father to follow him to the door.
"You must have someone in to see to that poor child to-night,
Petherick," he said gravely. "Can you call upon assistance from one of
your neighbours?"
Josiah shook his head doubtfully.
"Then, shall I ask Mrs. Moyle to look in and help get Salome to bed?"
the Vicar suggested.
A dull, shamed flush rose to the fisherman's face, and he began to
stammer something about not knowing whether Mrs. Moyle would come
inside his doors, seeing he had quarrelled with her husband only that
evening; but the Vicar cut him short.
"I know all about that, Petherick. Silas Moyle told me the tale himself
not an hour ago. I heard it with great regret, for Silas is a sincere
well-wisher of yours, and he and his wife would do anything in the
world for your little girl. You had better let me send Mrs. Moyle to
you—that is, if she will come; perhaps she will not. Shall I be the
bearer of an apology from you to Silas?"
"I'm sorry I hit him," Josiah acknowledged truthfully.
"Shall I tell him that?"
"If you please, sir. I admit, I deserved what he gave me. Oh, sir, I've
had a fine fright this night! I thought I'd killed Salome."
"You might have done so."
"Then I should have been a murderer," Josiah groaned. "I'm a bad lot,
sir, that's what I am."
He seemed perfectly sober now, so Mr. Amyatt spoke a few solemn words
to him, imploring him, for the sake of his little daughter, to give
up the drink, and take the pledge. Josiah declared he would think
seriously about doing so, and went back to Salome, whilst the Vicar
hurried in search of Mrs. Moyle.
At first, that good woman, kind-hearted and fond of the lame girl
though she was, said nothing would make her enter the doors of one
who had so insulted her husband as had Josiah. But, on Silas adding
his entreaties to the Vicar's, she gave in and betook herself to the
Pethericks' cottage, where, after having assisted Salome upstairs, and
put her to bed, she declared her intention of remaining for the night.
She was not going to leave "that poor motherless lamb," as she called
Salome, "in the house alone with a maniac."
Josiah Petherick did not look much like a maniac, however, as he sat
in the kitchen listening to Mrs. Moyle's scathing remarks as she put
away the supper things. He was in a wonderfully subdued and repentant
frame of mind, and sat with his elbows on the table and his aching
head resting in his hands. At last, he could bear his companion's home
thrusts no longer, and exclaimed, "Good gracious, woman, do you imagine
I don't know what a beast I am?"
"Well, if you do know it, why don't you turn over a new leaf?" she
inquired. "I mind what a steady young fellow you used to be. You're
too easily led, that's what you are. Make up your mind to give up the
drink."
"I can't—not entirely; it's got too strong a hold on me," he confessed.
"That's the way of it. Well, you'll have to choose between drink and
Salome—that's my opinion—for you're killing her by slow degrees."
Josiah started; but Mrs. Moyle did not pursue the subject further.
She told him he had better go to bed, and make no noise to disturb
his daughter. Accordingly, he took off his boots and crept upstairs
in his stockinged feet, whilst Mrs. Moyle, having put out the lamp,
and ascertained that the door of the cottage was securely fastened,
returned to Salome, whom she found sleeping peacefully.
The next day, Josiah put himself in the way of Silas Moyle, and
actually apologised to him for having struck. And Silas was magnanimous
and forgave him, though it must be admitted, he regarded the other's
black eye and swelled cheek with a sense of satisfaction. They were
marks that would remain to remind Josiah of his ill conduct for some
days to come.
Salome was poorly for nearly a week, and the first occasion on which
she showed herself in the village, she was met on all sides by
commiserating looks and words which showed her plainly that everyone
was quite aware that her father had been the cause of her accident. The
sympathy thus evinced towards her, though kindly offered, cut her to
the heart, and she returned home utterly miserable.
During the days which followed, Mr. Amyatt made several ineffectual
attempts to induce Josiah to take the pledge. No, Josiah said, there
was no need for him to do that; but he had made up his mind to turn
over a new leaf, nevertheless, and the Vicar would see that he could
take his glass of beer like other men and be none the worse for it. The
Vicar shook his head at that, but Josiah was not to be moved, so the
matter was, perforce, dropped.
Margaret was the first of the inmates of Greystone to hear of Salome's
accident. Mrs. Moyle gave her full particulars of it one morning when
she had an errand at the shop. And before going home, she went to
inquire for her lame friend, whom she found sitting in the porch of the
cottage with such a bright, hopeful expression on her pale countenance,
that she was surprised, and remarked upon it.
"Oh, I am ever so much better!" Salome assured her with a smile.
"Are you really?" Margaret asked anxiously. "You have a nasty bruise on
your forehead."
"Oh, that's nothing, indeed, miss! Have you heard how it happened?
They haven't made you believe father did it on purpose, have they? He
wouldn't hurt me for anything, if he could help it. Oh, Miss Margaret,
I do believe father means to be steadier for the future!"
"Is he going to be a teetotaler, then?" Margaret inquired eagerly.
"No—o," was the dubious reply, "I'm afraid not; but he says he won't
take more beer than is good for him. Oh, I know he has said that lots
of times before, but I believe he really means it now. Indeed, he has
been quite different these last few days—more like what he used to be
when dear mother was alive."
This was quite true. Mrs. Moyle's words that he would have to choose
between drink and Salome had made a strong impression upon Josiah, and
had caused him to notice how much thinner and paler his little daughter
had become of late. His conscience reproached him on her account,
for he knew that she was not very strong, and that she worked hard,
besides which, his unsteady habits were a constant trouble to her. In
his repentance, he felt capable of denying himself anything for her
sake—except drink, and that, he solemnly vowed he would take sparingly.
Seeing that Salome was so hopeful that her father meant to live a sober
life for the future, Margaret had not the heart to express the doubts
which occupied her mind; but on her return to Greystone, she saw, by
Mr. Fowler's grave face when she explained the situation to him, that
he did not believe Josiah's repentance would be lasting, and trembled
for the safety and happiness of her little lame friend.
"Don't you think he means to keep his word, and not get intoxicated
again?" she questioned.
"Oh, yes!" Mr. Fowler replied, "I think he means all he says. But I
feel sure, if he does not give up drink altogether, it will soon have
the mastery over him again. I believe he loves Salome very dearly, but
he loves drink even better than his little daughter, or he would be
willing to give it up for her sake. Poor Salome! I greatly fear she has
more trouble in store for her with that father of hers."
This proved to be the case. For before a fortnight had quite elapsed
since Salome's accident, Josiah was drinking heavily again, and
spending his evenings at the "Crab and Cockle," as he had done of
old. His repentance had been of brief duration; and the lame girl's
face grew pinched, and her dark brown eyes larger and sadder, as her
father squandered more and more of his earnings at the village inn;
whilst Silas Moyle grumbled when the Pethericks' bread account remained
unpaid, and would have stopped the supply, but for Salome.
"The poor little maid looks half-starved as it is," he remarked to his
wife when she expressed surprise that he took no steps to obtain his
rights. "Josiah's drinking what ought to be spent on his child; but it
shall never be said that we begrudged her bread."