Chapter I: Salome's Trouble

IT was summer time. The day had been oppressively hot; but now, as the sun disappeared like a ball of fire beyond the broad Atlantic, a cool breeze sprang up, and the inhabitants of the fishing village of Yelton came to their cottage doors and gossiped with each other, as they enjoyed the fresh evening air.

Yelton was a small, straggling village on the north coast of Cornwall. It owned but two houses of importance—the Vicarage, a roomy old dwelling, which stood in its own grounds close to the church; and "Greystone," a substantial modern residence on a slight eminence beyond the village, overlooking the sea. The fishermen's cottages were thatched, and picturesque in appearance, having little gardens in front where hardy flowers flourished; these gardens were a-bloom with roses and carnations on this peaceful June evening, and the showiest of them all was one which, though nearer the sea than the others, yet presented the neatest appearance of the lot. This was Salome Petherick's garden, and Salome was a cripple girl of fourteen, who lived with her father, Josiah Petherick, in the cottage at the end of the village, close to the sea.

Salome had been lame from birth, and could not walk at all without her crutches; with their help, however, she could move about nimbly enough. Many a happy hour did she spend in her garden whilst Josiah was out in his fishing boat. She was contented then, as she always was when her father was on the broad sea, for she felt he was in God's keeping, and away from the drink, which, alas! was becoming the curse of his life. Josiah Petherick was a brave man physically, but he was a moral coward. He would risk his life at any hour—indeed, he had often done so—for the sake of a fellow-creature in peril. He was fearless on the sea, though it had robbed him of relations and friends in the past, and if help was wanted for any dangerous enterprise, he was always the first to be called upon; but, nevertheless, there was no greater coward in Yelton, than Josiah Petherick on occasions. He had lost his wife, to whom he had been much attached, five years previously; and, left alone with his only child, poor little lame Salome, who had been anything but a congenial companion for him, he had sought amusement for his leisure hours at the "Crab and Cockle," as the village inn was called, and there had acquired the habit of drinking to excess.

As Salome stood leaning on her crutches at the garden gate on this beautiful summer evening, her face wore a very serious expression, for she knew her father was at the "Crab and Cockle," and longed for, yet dreaded, his return. She was a small, slight girl, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a clear, brunette complexion, which was somewhat sun-burnt, for she spent most of her spare time in the open air. Having passed the requisite standard, she had left school, and now did all the work of her father's cottage unaided, besides attending to her flowers; and Josiah Petherick was wont to declare that no man in Yelton had a more capable housekeeper. The neighbours marvelled that it was so, for they had not thought the lame girl, who had been decidedly cross-grained and selfish during her mother's lifetime, would grow up so helpful; but Mrs. Petherick's death had wrought a great change in Salome, who had promised faithfully "to look after poor father" in the years to come. Salome had endeavoured to be as good as her word; but her influence over her father had not proved strong enough to keep him in the straight path; and many an evening saw him ramble home from the "Crab and Cockle" in a condition of helpless intoxication.

"Enjoying the cool breeze, Salome?"

Salome, whose wistful, brown eyes had been turned in the direction of a row of cottages at some distance, outside one of which hung a sign-board representing on its varnished surface a gigantic crab and a minute cockle, started at the sound of a voice addressing her, but smiled brightly as she saw Mr. Amyatt, the vicar of the parish. He was an elderly man, with iron-grey hair, stooping shoulders, and a thin, clean-shaven face.

Ten years previously, he had accepted the living of Yelton, when, broken down in health, he had been forced to resign his arduous duties in the large manufacturing town where he had laboured long and faithfully. And the fisher-folk had grown to love and respect him, though he never overlooked their failings or hesitated to reprove their faults.

"I am waiting for father," Salome answered frankly. "His supper is ready for him, and I am afraid it will spoil if he does not come soon. It is a beautiful evening, is it not, sir?"

"Very beautiful. I have been on the beach for the last two hours. How well your carnations are doing, Salome. Ah, they always flourish best by the sea."

"Please let me give you some," the little girl said eagerly. "Oh, I don't mind picking them in the least. I should like you to have them." And moving about with agility on her crutches, she gathered some of the choicest blooms and presented them to Mr. Amyatt.

"Thank you, Salome. They are lovely. I have none to be compared to them in the Vicarage gardens. You are a born gardener. But what is amiss, child?"

"Nothing, sir; at least, nothing more than usual. I am anxious about father." She paused for a moment, a painful blush spreading over her face, then continued, "He spends more time than ever at the 'Crab and Cockle;' he's rarely home of an evening now, and when he returns, he's sometimes so—so violent! He used not to be that."

The Vicar looked grave and sorry, He pondered the situation in silence for a few minutes ere he responded, "You must have patience, Salome; and do not reproach him, my dear. Reproaches never do any good, and it's worse than useless remonstrating with a man who is not sober."

"But what can I do, sir?" she cried distressfully. "Oh, you cannot imagine what a trouble it is to me!"

"I think I can; but you must not lose heart. Prayer and patience work wonders. Ask God to show your father his sin in its true light—"

"I have asked Him so often," Salome interposed, "and father gets worse instead of better. It's not as though he had an unhappy home. Oh, Mr. Amyatt, it's so dreadful for me! I never have a moment's peace of mind unless I know father is out fishing. He isn't a bad father, he doesn't mean to be unkind; but when he's been drinking, he doesn't mind what he says or does."

"Poor child," said the Vicar softly, glancing at her with great compassion.

"Do you think, if you spoke to him—" Salome began in a hesitating manner.

"I have already done so several times; but though he listened to me respectfully, I saw my words made no impression on him. I will, however, try to find a favourable opportunity for remonstrating with him again. Cheer up, my dear child. You have a very heavy cross to bear, but you have not to carry it alone, you know. God will help you, if you will let Him."

"Yes," Salome agreed, her face brightening. "I try to remember that, but, though indeed I do love God, sometimes He seems so far away."

"He is ever near, Salome. 'The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.' The everlasting arms are of unfailing strength and tenderness. See! Is not that your father coming?"

Salome assented, and watched the approaching figure with anxious scrutiny.

Josiah Petherick was a tall, strong man, in the prime of life, a picture of robust health and strength; he was brown-haired and brown-eyed, like his daughter, and his complexion was tanned to a fine brick-red hue. He liked the Vicar, though he considered him rather too quick in interfering in other people's affairs, so he smiled good-humouredly when he found him with Salome at the garden gate.

"Good evening, Petherick," said Mr. Amyatt briskly, his keen eyes noticing that, though Josiah had doubtless been drinking, he was very far from being intoxicated at present; "you perceive I've been robbing your garden," and he held up the carnation blooms.

"'Tis my little maid's garden, sir," was the response, "an' I know well you're welcome to take what flowers you please. What a hot day it's been, to be sure!"

"Yes; but pleasanter out of doors than in the bar of the 'Crab and Cockle,' I expect," Mr. Amyatt answered meaningly.

"'Tis thirsty weather," Josiah said with a smile; "don't you find it so, sir?"

"Yes, indeed I do! But I don't take beer to quench my thirst. Beer's heating, and makes you hotter and thirstier, too. If you were a teetotaler like me, you wouldn't feel the heat quite so much."

"That's as it may be, sir. I can't argue the point; but I hold that a glass of good, sound beer don't hurt anyone."

Salome had retired into the cottage, remarking which fact, the Vicar seized the opportunity and spoke plainly.

"Look here, Petherick," he said, "if you'd lived my life, you'd be a teetotaler like me—at least, I hope you would. The big town in which I worked so long owed most of its vice and misery to drink. I was in daily contact there with men and women lower than brute beasts on account of the drink you uphold—men and women who would sell their own and their children's clothes, and allow their offspring to go hungry and almost naked, that they might obtain the vile poison for which they were bartering their immortal souls. I made up my mind there, that drink was our nation's greatest curse; and here, in this quiet village, I see no reason to make me change my opinion, and allow that a glass of 'good, sound beer,' as you call your favourite beverage, doesn't hurt anyone. Your one glass leads to more, and the result? You become unlike yourself, rough and threatening in your manner, unkind to your little daughter whom I am certain you dearly love, and whose chief aim in life is to make your home a happy one. I wish you would make up your mind, Petherick, never to enter the doors of the 'Crab and Cockle' again."

"Why, sir, to hear you talk one would think I was drunk," Josiah cried, aggrievedly.

"You are not that at this minute, I admit, but you have been drinking; and if you don't pull up in time, and turn over a new leaf, you'll go from bad to worse. Now, I've had my say, and have finished. Your supper's waiting, I know, so I'll bid you good evening."

"Good evening, sir," Josiah responded rather shamefacedly, for in his heart, he acknowledged every word Mr. Amyatt had spoken to be truth.

He watched the Vicar out of sight, then entered the cottage and sat down at the kitchen table to his supper of fried eggs and bacon.

"I hope the eggs are not spoilt," Salome remarked. "But they've been cooked nearly half-an-hour, and I'm afraid they're rather hard, for I had to keep them warm in the oven."

"Never mind, my dear," he returned. "If they're hard it's my fault, I ought to have been here before. By the way, I've brought you a piece of news."

"Have you, father?" she said with a smile.

"Yes. Greystone is taken by a rich gentleman from London, and he and his family are expected to arrive to-night. The house has been furnished in grand style, so I'm told."

"Did you hear the gentleman's name?" Salome asked, looking interested, for Greystone had been untenanted for some time. The house had been built by a speculative builder, but it had not proved a good speculation, as, beautifully situated though it was, it was very lonely. "I wonder if Mr. Amyatt knew," she added reflectively, as her father shook his head.

"Mr. Amyatt is a very nice man in his way," Josiah remarked, "an' I shall never forget how kind he was when your poor mother died, but he don't know how to mind his own business. If he likes to be a teetotaler, let him be one. If I enjoy my drops o' beer 'long with my friends at the 'Crab an' Cockle,' that's naught to do with him." And having finished his supper, he pushed away his plate, rose from the table, and strode out into the garden.

Salome stayed to wash up the supper things, then went into the garden too, but by that time her father was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying to the gate, she caught sight of his stalwart figure disappearing in the distance, and knew that he was making his way to the inn again. She stood leaning against the garden gate, sore at heart, until a chill mist from the sea crept upwards and surrounded her; then she retreated into the cottage and waited patiently, listening to the ticking of the tall, eight-day clock in the kitchen. She knew her father would not return till the doors of the inn were shut for the night.

At last she heard the click of the garden gate, and a minute later Josiah Petherick stumbled up the path, and, leaving the cottage door unlocked, crawled upstairs to his bedroom, muttering to himself as he went. Salome waited till everything was still, then she rose, locked the door, and swung herself, step by step, by the aid of her crutches, up the stairs.

Before going to her own room, she peeped cautiously into her father's, which was flooded with moonlight, the blind being up; and a sob broke from her lips at the sight which met her eyes. The man had thrown himself, fully dressed as he was, upon the bed, and had already sunk into a heavy, drunken slumber. Salome stood looking at him, the tears running down her cheeks, mingled love and indignation in her aching heart. Then the love overcame all else, and she sank on her knees by her father's side, and prayed earnestly for him who was unfit to pray for himself, whilst the words the Vicar had spoken to her that evening—

"'The eternal God is thy refuge,
and underneath are the everlasting arms.'"

—recurred to her memory, and fell like balm upon her sorrowful spirit. And she felt that she did not bear her trouble alone.