Chapter X: Mr. Fowler's Return

"MARGARET! Oh, my dear little girl! Do not grieve so terribly. You will make yourself ill, if you go on like this."

Margaret tried to stifle her sobs at the sound of the kind, pitying voice, and turned a swollen, tear-stained countenance towards Miss Conway, who had come in search of her. She longed to ask for her mother, but for the present, she was incapable of speech. Her governess, however, read aright her questioning eyes, and said reassuringly, "Your mother is better, my dear. She regained consciousness some time ago, since when she has had a cup of tea, and is now asleep. Ross is with her at present."

Miss Conway drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, then she took one of her little pupil's hands and pressed it softly. "I have sent for your father," she continued; "after—after what has happened I considered it was my duty to do so. I did not think there was any necessity to alarm him by a telegram though, so I wrote by to-night's post and—explained. He will get my letter in the morning, and probably return home at once. So, dear Margaret, if all's well, he will doubtless be here to-morrow evening."

The little girl was glad to hear this; but at the same time, she dreaded meeting her father with this new knowledge concerning her mother weighing on her mind. Her sobs had ceased now, and she could speak collectedly.

"Miss Conway, do you think Ross has told the other servants?" she asked anxiously.

"I am sure she has not, nor do I believe she will. Ross is a thoroughly good girl, and most sincerely attached to your mother. At first, I confess, I suspected her of having procured that—that poison, but I was quite wrong! Mrs. Fowler bought the brandy herself, the afternoon we drove to N— with her. Do you remember we drove on whilst she went into a grocer's shop? She obtained it there. Oh, it is a shame that grocers should be allowed licences for supplying intoxicating liquors! Poor soul, she has been telling me how sorely she was tempted! Oh, Margaret, this all comes of Mrs. Lute's offering her that glass of wine! She had not touched a stimulant since her illness till then, and had almost lost her craving for drink. That glass of wine, however, was too much for her, and she felt she must have more. I need not dwell on the result."

"Oh, Miss Conway, how shameful, how degrading!" Margaret cried passionately. "Oh, to think that mother should be like that! Oh, no wonder father wished us all to be teetotalers!"

She covered her flaming face with her hands and shuddered. "How long—how long have you known this—about mother?" she inquired hesitatingly.

"Many months. Since—oh, long before her illness."

"Was that illness—"

"Caused by drink? Yes. Oh, my dear, I see you guess it all. Your father hoped you would never know. He trusted that the complete change from life in town to the quietude of the country, where Mrs. Fowler would meet comparatively few people of her own class, and where he believed she would be free from temptation, would ultimately cure her of the fatal habit she had acquired of drinking to excess, and I believe that would have been the happy result, if you had not unfortunately met Mrs. Lute. Little does Mrs. Lute—good, kind creature that she is—dream of the mischief she has wrought. Your poor mother is full of grief and remorse now; and oh, so shocked that you should have seen her to-day. She knows I have written to Mr. Fowler, and you can imagine how she is dreading his return; yet she knows he will not be hard upon her. He loves her too well for that!"

Margaret felt at that moment that her affection for her mother was being swallowed up by a sickening sensation of disgust. She had always loved her very dearly; and had been so pleased and happy when people had admired her for her beauty and winning ways. Even when Mrs. Fowler had openly shown her preference for Gerald of her two children, the little girl, though often hurt, had never evinced any jealousy or resentment. She had accepted the fact that Gerald was her mother's favourite, and had loved her none the less on that account. But now, her love was being tried very severely.

The remembrance of Mrs. Fowler as she had last seen her, lying on the bed with flushed cheeks, breathing stertorously, was absolutely revolting to her. She had many times asked herself how Salome could continue to love her drunken father; now, she asked herself, was it possible that she could continue to love her drunken mother? Oh, the horror of the thought that one so gentle and refined should be on a par with Josiah Petherick, fellow-victim to a disgraceful, degrading sin!

Perhaps Miss Conway guessed some of the thoughts which were passing through her companion's mind, for she watched her anxiously, and presently remarked, "I daresay, you can faintly imagine how your poor mother is feeling now. She had hoped to keep the secret of her weakness and sin from your knowledge. Your father, too, will be terribly troubled when he hears you have learnt the truth; but I do not doubt, dear child, that God in His wisdom has ordered all for the best. You will understand now, as you never did before, how much Mrs. Fowler needs all your love and devotion. You can help her, if you will, to the restoration of that self-respect which, once lost, is so hard to regain. You can show her, by loving her as unfalteringly as Salome loves her erring father, that she can rise above this habit which has done so much to ruin her health, and happiness, and earn everyone's respect and her own as well!"

Miss Conway paused, and there was a solemn silence which Margaret at length broke by saying with a sob, "I do love mother, I do indeed."

"I am sure of it. Mrs. Fowler is a very sweet, lovable woman!"

"Yes," Margaret agreed. "See what a lot of friends she had in town, and how popular she was! She was always going about—"

"Yes, dear, I know," the governess interposed, "and that was how it was she commenced taking stimulants. She used to get tired with her constant gaieties, and then she would take a glass of wine, or some other intoxicant, to revive her, until she grew to like stimulants, and took more and more. The craving increased, and she drank to the injury of her health, yet no outsiders guessed it. Then she had nervous attacks, followed at last by a serious illness. The doctors told your father she was killing herself, and immeasurably horrified, he took the only course he saw could save his wife—became a teetotaler himself, and insisted that his household should follow suit. Mrs. Fowler knew he was acting wisely, and for her sake, but she would not admit it. However, she found total abstinence from all intoxicants was restoring her to health, and had made up her mind never to touch a stimulant again when temptation was put in her way, and she fell. God grant she may prove stronger in the future. Now, my dear, tell me, have you had any supper?"

"No," Margaret replied, "I am not in the least hungry."

"Oh, that's nonsense! You must eat whether you are hungry or not. Come with me."

Margaret demurred at first, but her governess overruled all her objections. And after she had bathed her tear-stained face, the two went downstairs and had supper together. Miss Conway did not leave her pupil again until she saw her comfortably tucked up in bed for the night; then she kissed her, bade her try to sleep well, and left her to herself.

And Margaret did sleep well, absolutely worn out with excitement and grief, whilst the governess spent the night in Mrs. Fowler's room. At daybreak, Ross came to take Miss Conway's place, and found her mistress sleeping tranquilly.

"She looks more like herself, miss, doesn't she?" she whispered gladly.

"Yes," Miss Conway answered; "I should let her sleep as long as she will."

She did not say what a harrowing time she had endured during that night watch, or how Mrs. Fowler had implored her to give her a stimulant, and had declared she would die without it. But she went away quietly to her own room, and before she lay down to rest, prayed earnestly to Almighty God for the unhappy woman, whom she pitied from the depths of her heart.

Early in the morning, a telegram arrived from Mr. Fowler saying he would be at home that night, and ordering the carriage to be sent to N— to meet him at the railway station. The governess made no secret of the fact that she had written to inform him of his wife's illness, and as Ross kept her own counsel, the other servants supposed their mistress to be suffering from one of the hysterical, nervous attacks to which she had been subject on her arrival at Greystone.

It was nearly eight o'clock before Mr. Fowler reached home. Margaret, who had spent most of the day on the beach with her brother, shrank sensitively from the thought of meeting her father. When she heard the carriage wheels nearing the house, she longed to run away and hide, but she knew it would never do to act in such a cowardly fashion as that. Appearances must be kept up, at any rate before the servants, so she went to the front door with Gerald to meet Mr. Fowler, and returned his loving kiss as quietly and composedly as though her heart was not beating almost to suffocation.

As she had anticipated, he immediately went upstairs to his wife's room, and it was not until much later, that she found herself with him alone. Then, after Gerald had gone to bed, he joined her in the garden, and strolled up and down the lawn by her side, his arm around her shoulders. For some minutes he did not speak, and she could not see the expression of his face, for there was no moon, and the stars gave but little light.

At last he said gravely, "Life is very hard, sometimes, Margaret."

"Yes," she agreed, adding with a little sob: "Oh, father, you left her in my care, but I did not know, and if I had, it would not have made any difference."

"No, no; I understand. She has told me everything herself."

"Oh, father, it is shocking! Think of the disgrace. Oh, you can't imagine how dreadful I feel about it!"

"I think I can," he replied sadly. "My poor child, I had hoped to have been allowed to keep this trouble from you, but God willed it otherwise. Have you seen your mother to-day?"

"No, father. She said she did not wish to see me."

"Ah, poor thing, she is ashamed to face you! If I were you, when you meet, I would not revert to—to her illness at all."

"I will not."

"I shall try and persuade Mrs. Lute to come and spend a few days with us, in order to cheer us all up."

"Oh, father, Mrs. Lute was the cause of all this trouble."

"I am aware of it; but her intention in offering your mother wine was an excellent one, she had no idea of working mischief. I shall simply explain to her that this is a teetotal household, and she is not the woman I take her to be if, after that, she refuses an invitation to visit us."

"Did you finish your business in London, father?" Margaret questioned.

"Not quite. It must stand over for a few weeks. I shall not leave home again for the present."

Though he spoke so quietly, Margaret knew her father must be very sore at heart. She had often wondered why her mother was more at her ease when not in her husband's presence, and now she understood the reason. Mrs. Fowler was conscious that he was always keeping a watch upon her, that he did not trust her, and dear though he was to her, she stood in awe of him.

Until her illness in the spring, he had always allowed her, her own way. But his alarm for her well-being once aroused, he had taken the reins of government into his own hands, and had shown her plainly that he meant his will to be law. She had always been a pleasure-seeking woman and fond of society; but, broken down in health, she had not found life at Yelton so utterly unbearable as she had anticipated. Her husband had devoted much of his time to her, and, thrown more in contact with her little daughter, she had begun to take a deeper interest in her than she had done before.

She had always been pleased to notice her beauty, but of late, she had discovered that Margaret possessed other and higher attractions—goodness and unselfishness—which she could not but admire. She saw the little girl had inherited many of her father's excellent qualities of mind and heart, and uneasily conscious of her own weakness of character, she was delighted that it was so. Unfortunately there had never been the same sympathy of feeling between Margaret and her mother as there had always been between the little girl and her father.

Now, as she strolled by Mr. Fowler's side up and down the lawn, she slipped her hand through his arm, whilst she leaned her head confidingly against his shoulder, as she said, "Father, I'm so very glad you've come home."