Chapter XI: 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.