Chapter XIII: Mrs. Fowler and Salome

WHEN Mrs. Lute returned to N—, she asked and obtained permission for Margaret to visit her. The little girl had not appeared very well lately, and it was thought a change would do her good, which it certainly did, for she came back at the end of a fortnight decidedly better in health and spirits.

Mrs. Fowler greeted Margaret on her return with no very great show of pleasure, though secretly, she was delighted to see her looking so well. She never told her how glad she was to have her at home again, or that she had missed her, as she had actually done. And consequently, Margaret was not a little disappointed, and the kiss she gave her governess was far warmer than the one she imprinted on her mother's fair cheek—a fact Mrs. Fowler did not fail to notice.

"I have forfeited her respect and affection," thought the mother bitterly.

"She does not care for me, she never did," thought the child.

So the estrangement between the two grew, till it was patent to everybody. Perhaps Mr. Fowler and the governess guessed the cause of it; but the servants blamed their mistress, and declared she was so wrapped up in Master Gerald, that she had no love to spare for her daughter.

On her return to Greystone, Margaret resumed her organ lessons; but she was obliged to practise in the afternoons now, as the evenings were dark.

The golden touch of autumn was upon everything; the orchards were being cleared of their fruit; and the village children scoured the country around Yelton for blackberries, and sloes, and mushrooms. At the end of September, the fine weather broke up, and was followed by the equinoctial gales, which did great damage in the Greystone gardens, the fierce wind tearing up shrubs by the roots, and the heavy rains beating down the summer flowers which had lingered late in bloom. Mr. Fowler braved the fury of the elements, and was out of doors every day; but the weather was too rough for the other inmates of Greystone, who remained in the house till the gales had passed.

Thus it was, that Margaret and Salome did not see as much of each other as they had done hitherto. But one fine October afternoon, the former paid the latter a visit, and was shocked to see how worried and ill her lame friend was looking.

The truth of the matter was, the bad weather had prevented any fishing being done, and Josiah Petherick, having no money in hand, it had been extremely short commons for him and Salome. Of course, Salome did not intimate this to Margaret, she would have been ashamed to do so; she merely said, when questioned, that she had not been very well, and turned the conversation to Margaret's late visit to N—.

"Mrs. Lute gives up the house shortly, and returns to London," Margaret explained. "But she likes Cornwall so much, that she says she shall try to come again next year, if not to N—, then perhaps to some place near. By the way, Salome, mother and father are going to London for a few days soon. Shan't we be lonely at Greystone without them? Mother says she hopes you will come and see her before she goes. Will you?"

Salome assented. She liked Mrs. Fowler, who had always been very kind to her, and admired her as much as she had ever done; she considered her the nicest, prettiest lady she knew.

So one afternoon, a few days later, found the lame girl entering the Greystone grounds. She approached the house slowly, marking the havoc the late gales had worked, and went around to the back door, where she inquired of the servant who opened it in response to her knock, if Mrs. Fowler was at home. She was answered in the affirmative, and invited into the big, front kitchen to wait, whilst it was ascertained if the mistress was disengaged at present.

"Sit down, my dear," said the cook—a stout, middle-aged woman, with a round, red face, and a pair of sharp though not unkindly eyes. "There, take that easy-chair and rest yourself; maybe the pull up the hill has tired you."

She fetched a glass of milk and a big slice of cake, which she placed before her visitor. "You'll be better after a little refreshment," she added. "I know the mistress would wish you to have it."

"Oh, thank you!" Salome replied gratefully, flushing with pleasure, for she had had a scanty dinner. She drank the milk and ate the cake, and did certainly feel better afterwards.

"Miss Margaret's out," the cook remarked. "She's gone for a walk with Miss Conway and Master Gerald. But I daresay, she'll be back before long. She'd be sorry to miss you, my dear, for you're a rare favourite of hers, I can tell you."

Salome smiled happily, as she replied, "I am so glad to hear you say that, for I love her dearly. I expect you're very fond of her yourself, aren't you?"

"I believe she's a general favourite—but no, I'm wrong there. There's one in the house who doesn't appreciate her, and that's her own mother. Yes, you may well look surprised, but I assure you it's true. Mrs. Fowler doesn't make half as much of Miss Margaret as she does of Master Gerald—tiresome boy that he is. She wanted to take him to town with her, if you please, but the master won't allow that. I heard them talking about it in the garden. 'We'll take Margaret, if you like,' he said. 'No,' said she, 'I don't want Margaret.' She never does want her, and that's the fact, and yet, I believe there's not anything Miss Margaret would not do for her."

The cook, who was an extremely garrulous person, paused breathlessly for a few moments, then proceeded: "And such a pretty, nice-mannered little girl Miss Margaret is too. I declare it's a shame her own mother shouldn't love her more. It puzzles me, that it does, why it should be so."

Salome had listened in pain and surprise, wondering if this accounted for the sad expression which she had so often noticed on Margaret's pretty face. Was this the trouble that could not be told?

Before, however, she had time to make a reply, Ross entered the kitchen, and said her mistress would like Salome to join her in the drawing-room.

The lame girl found Mrs. Fowler alone, sitting by the fire, for though the weather was not actually cold, the day was dull, and the warmth was pleasant. Mrs. Fowler was very glad to have a visitor, and made Salome sit down near her and talk.

"My husband and I are going up to town the day after to-morrow," she said, "and I wanted to see you before I went. You must stay until the others return and have some tea."

Salome explained that the cook had already given her milk and cake; but Mrs. Fowler smilingly declared she knew she would be ready for tea when tea-time came, which would not be for another hour. She continued to talk pleasantly and easily, whilst the lame girl listened; and by-and-by, when Salome was questioned kindly and sympathetically as to the reason of her wan looks, she confessed, with some hesitation, however, that it was very tight times with her and her father at home.

"The weather has been so bad that no boats have been able to go out," she said; "and—" lowering her voice and colouring scarlet—"father's been worse than usual lately, and—and—he owes money to Silas Moyle, and how can we ever hope to pay it, if he spends so much at the 'Crab and Cockle'? It almost seems as though he doesn't care. And every day, I'm afraid Silas will say he won't let us have any more bread. Oh, it's dreadful—it's all through the drink, ma'am. Father'd be such a dear, good father if it wasn't for that."

"And you really love him in spite of the way in which he goes on?" Mrs. Fowler asked wonderingly.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I do!" was the earnest reply. "Whatever father did, I think I should love him just the same."

"I don't know how you can, I'm sure; I believe if I were you, I should lose all patience with him. Think how selfish he is, how inconsiderate for your comfort, how violent—"

"Ah, but that's only when he's been drinking!" Salome interposed hastily. "Father isn't like that really; it's only when the drink's in him, that he's all you say. If he would but give up the drink, he and I should be as happy as the day is long. Oh, I shall never cease hoping and praying that some day he may become a teetotaler! If I could get him to take the pledge, I believe all would be well."

"Meanwhile, he is wearing you to death, poor child. Well, don't cease to pray for him. God knows he needs all your prayers."

Mrs. Fowler sighed deeply, whilst she gazed sadly and thoughtfully into the fire. She was silent so long that Salome thought she must have forgotten her presence; but suddenly she glanced at her with a smile and asked, "How is Margaret getting on with her knitting?"

"Oh, very well, ma'am!" was the reply. "But I am afraid she will not come so frequently now the winter days are at hand. Besides, father is oftener at home."

Mrs. Fowler nodded. She put her hand into her pocket and drew therefrom her purse, as she inquired, "How much is it your father owes Silas Moyle?"

"Nearly eighteen shillings," Salome admitted. "I know it's a lot of money," she added deprecatingly.

"A lot of money!" Mrs. Fowler echoed with a faint, amused smile as she opened her purse and took out a sovereign. "Here, my dear," she said, pressing the coin into her visitor's hand, "you will be able to pay your bread account now. Yes, it is for you—a present—put it in your pocket."

Salome was so astonished that she could find no words in which to speak her thanks; but her expressive eyes spoke for her, and told how deeply thankful she felt. She tied the sovereign up in one corner of her handkerchief, which she placed inside the bosom of her frock for greater safety. And then, having overcome her first sensation of intense surprise, she exclaimed, "Oh, ma'am, thank you! How good and kind you are! Oh, what will father say when he knows! It will be such a relief to be able to pay Silas Moyle, for we never owed him quite so much before. Oh, I shall be grateful to you as long as ever I live!"

"There, there, say no more about it. I am glad it is in my power to lift a little of the load of trouble from your young shoulders; your heaviest trial is beyond the reach of human aid. But oh! Go on loving your father, child, if you can, for he must want all your affection, I am sure."

To Salome's astonishment, she saw there were tears in Mrs. Fowler's blue eyes, and that her face was quivering with strong emotion. Before more could be said, however, Gerald flung open the door and rushed into the room, followed at a more decorous pace by his sister and Miss Conway, and a little later the master of the house appeared upon the scene.

No one would hear of Salome's leaving, till she had had tea, so she remained. And afterwards, she willingly consented to sing, so that it was quite dark before she left Greystone; and Mrs. Fowler insisted on sending a servant to see her home in safety.

Josiah Petherick was not sober that night, but the next morning, his daughter told him of the present Mrs. Fowler had made her, and expressed her determination of paying the baker that day. Nor would she hear of her father's settling the account, for, alas! she knew that he was not to be trusted. And that if she let him have the money, he would be more likely to betake himself to the "Crab and Cockle" than to Silas Moyle's shop.

"The truth is, you won't trust me," he said bitterly.

"I can't, father," she answered, the sound of tears in her voice. "You know I can't. Mrs. Fowler gave me the money on purpose for our bread account, and I must know it's paid. Oh, it was kind of her!"

"Yes, it was," he admitted, adding with unexpected candour, "There never should have been need for her to do it; but your father's a good-for-naught. Yes, Salome, that's what everybody says. Folks pity you an' blame me. I know Mrs. Fowler has done this for your sake."

"And for yours too, father. Oh, yes, I am certain of that. She told me to go on loving you, and—"

"Did she though?" Josiah interposed in extreme surprise. "Well, you do amaze me. She's a real kind lady, anyway, and has proved herself our true friend."