Chapter III: The Fowlers at Home

"PULL down the blind, Margaret. The sun is streaming right into my eyes."

The speaker, Mrs. Fowler, was lying on a sofa in the handsomely furnished drawing-room at Greystone. She was a young-looking, very pretty woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; and she was most fashionably dressed. One would have thought her possessed of everything that heart could desire, but the lines of her face were discontented ones, and the tone of her voice was decidedly fretful. The only occupant of the room besides herself was her little daughter, who put down the book she had been reading, and going to the window, obediently lowered the blind.

"There," she said, "that's better, isn't it? I won't pull the blind down altogether, mother, for that would keep out the fresh air, and you know the doctors said the sea breeze would be your best tonic. I do think this is a lovely place, don't you?"

Mrs. Fowler agreed indifferently; and her little daughter continued, "Such a beautiful view we have right over the sea. And doesn't the village look pretty, and the old grey church? There are such a quantity of jackdaws in the tower. Mother, do you know, from my bedroom window, I can see the cottage where that poor lame girl lives? When you are strong enough, I'll take you to visit Salome."

"I don't want to see her, Margaret. I don't like looking at deformed people, and I cannot think why you should feel so much interest in this Salome."

"I have seen her several times now, and I like her so much. The Vicar has told me a lot about her, too. She lost her mother five years ago, poor girl!"

Margaret paused, and glanced a trifle wistfully at the daintily-clad figure on the sofa, wondering if she was lame like Salome, whether her mother would cease to care for her altogether. Mrs. Fowler never evinced much affection for her daughter, whatever her feelings may have been, though she was pleased that she was growing up a pretty little girl, and took an interest in dressing her becomingly. But Gerald was her favourite of the two children, and upon him she lavished most of her love. She was fond of her husband, though she stood in awe of him. He was kind and attentive to her, but often grew impatient at the persistent way in which she indulged their little son.

Mrs. Fowler had led a gay life in London for many years; but latterly, she had been in very indifferent health, and after an attack of severe illness, which had left her nerves in a shattered condition, Mr. Fowler had insisted on shutting up their house in town, and settling in the country. He had accordingly taken Greystone, and dismissing their old servants had engaged new ones, who received their orders from himself instead of from their mistress.

During the first few weeks of her residence at Greystone, Mrs. Fowler had indeed been too ill to superintend the household; and though she was now better, she was far from strong, and was glad not to be troubled about anything. Margaret was very sorry for her mother, whose sufferings were apparent to everyone, for she started at the slightest unexpected sound, and the least worry brought on the most distressing headache.

"Would you like me to read to you, mother?" the little girl inquired.

"No, thank you, Margaret. What is the time?"

"Half-past three."

"Where is Gerald?"

"Miss Conway has taken him down to the beach; she promised him this morning he should go, if he was good and attentive during lesson time. He likes talking to the fishermen."

"Dear child! I hope they will not teach him to use bad language, though I expect they are a rough set."

"I don't think so, mother. Mr. Amyatt says they are mostly sober, God-fearing men; of course, there are exceptions—Salome Petherick's father, for instance, often gets intoxicated, and it is a terrible trouble to her."

"Does she complain of him to you?" Mrs. Fowler queried.

"Oh, no, mother! It was Mr. Amyatt who told me. We were talking of Salome, and he said her father was very violent at times, quite cruel to her, in fact. Do you know, I think father's right, and that it's best to have nothing whatever to do with drink."

Lately, since the Fowlers had left London, Mr. Fowler had laid down a rule that no intoxicating liquors of any description were to be brought into the house. He had become a teetotaler himself, for very good reasons, and had insisted on the members of his household following suit. No one had objected to this except Mrs. Fowler, and now she answered her little daughter in a tone of irritability.

"Don't talk nonsense, child! I believe a glass of wine would do me good at this minute, and steady my nerves, only your father won't allow it! I haven't patience to speak of this new fad of his without getting cross. There, don't look at me so reproachfully. Of course what your father does is right in your eyes! Here, feel my pulse, child, and you'll know what a wreck I am!"

Margaret complied, and laid her cool fingers on her mother's wrist. The pulse was weak and fluttering, and the little girl's heart filled with sympathy.

"Poor mother," she said tenderly, kissing Mrs. Fowler's flushed cheek, and noticing her eyes were full of tears. "Shall I ring and order tea? It's rather early, but no doubt a nice cup of tea would do you good."

"No, no! It's much too hot for tea!" And Mrs. Fowler made a gesture indicative of distaste, then broke into a flood of tears.

Margaret soothed her mother as best she could; and presently, much to her satisfaction, the invalid grew composed and fell asleep. She was subject to these hysterical outbursts, and as Margaret bent anxiously over her, she noted how thin she had become, how hectic was the flush on her cheeks, and how dark-rimmed were her eyes.

"She does indeed look very ill," the little girl thought sadly. "I wonder if she is right, and that some wine would do her good, and make her stronger; if so, it seems hard she should not have it. I'll go and speak to father at once."

To think was to act with Margaret. She stole noiselessly out of the drawing-room, and went in search of her father. He was not in the house, but a servant informed her he was in the garden, and there she found him, reclining in a swing-chair, beneath the shade of a lilac tree. He threw aside the magazine he was reading as she approached, and greeted her with a welcoming smile.

Mr. Fowler was a tall, dark man, several years older than his wife; his face was a strong one, and determined in expression, but his keen, deep-set eyes were wont to look kindly, and he certainly had the appearance of a person to be trusted.

"Is anything wrong, my dear?" he inquired quickly, noticing that she looked depressed. "Where is your mother?"

"Asleep in the drawing-room, father. She has had one of her crying fits again, and that exhausted her, I think. She seems very poorly, and low-spirited, doesn't she?"

"Yes; but she is better—decidedly better than she was a few weeks ago. I have every hope that, ere many months have passed, she will be quite well again. There is no cause for you to look so anxious, child."

"But she is so weak and nervous!" Margaret cried distressfully. "I was wondering if she had some wine—"

The little girl paused, startled by the look of anger which flashed across her father's face. He made a movement as though to rise from the chair, then changed his intention, and curtly bade her finish what she had been about to say.

"It was only that I was wondering if she had some wine, whether it might not do her good," Margaret proceeded timidly. "She told me herself she thought it would, and if so—you know, father, you used to take wine yourself, and—"

"Did your mother send you to me on this mission?" he interrupted sternly.

"No. I came of my own accord."

"I am glad to hear that. But I cannot give my consent to your mother's taking wine, or stimulants of any kind; they would be harmful for her, the doctors agree upon that point. You have reminded me that I once drank wine myself, Margaret. I bitterly regret ever having done so."

"Why?" she asked wonderingly, impressed by the solemnity of his tone. Then her thoughts flew to Salome Petherick's father, and she cried, "But, father, you never drank too much!"

"I was never tempted to drink to excess, for I had no craving for stimulants. It is small credit to me that I was always a sober man; but people are differently constituted, and my example may have caused others to contract habits of intemperance. The Vicar here is a teetotaler from principle. He tells me that the force of example is stronger than any amount of preaching. Lately, I have had cause to consider this matter very seriously, and I am determined that never, with my permission, shall any intoxicating liquors be brought inside my doors. The servants understand this: I should instantly dismiss one who set my rule at defiance. As to your mother—" he paused a moment in hesitation, the expression of his countenance troubled, then continued—"she is weak, and still very far from well, but, in her heart of hearts, she knows I am right. Do not tell her you have broached this subject to me. Come, let us go and see if she is still asleep."

"You are not angry with me, father?" Margaret asked, as she followed him into the house.

"No, no! I am not, indeed!"

Mrs. Fowler awoke with a start as her husband and little daughter entered the drawing-room. Mr. Fowler immediately rang for tea, and when it was brought, Margaret poured it out. At first, Mrs. Fowler would not touch it, but finally, to please the others, drank a cupful, and felt refreshed. A few minutes later, Mr. Amyatt was shown into the room, and she brightened up and grew quite animated. Margaret and her father exchanged pleased glances, delighted at the interest the invalid was evincing in the conversation.

"I think I shall soon be well enough to go to church on Sundays," Mrs. Fowler informed the Vicar. "My husband tells me you have a very good choir."

"Yes, that is so," Mr. Amyatt replied. "We are decidedly primitive in our ways at Yelton, and have several women in our choir, notably Salome Petherick, the lame girl with whom your daughter has already become acquainted."

"Oh, yes. Margaret has been telling me about her. She sings in the choir, does she?"

"Yes. She has a beautiful voice, as clear and fresh as a bird's! I train the choir myself, for our organist comes from N—, a neighbouring town, several miles distant."

"By the way," said Mrs. Fowler with a smiling glance at Margaret, "my little girl is very desirous of learning to play the organ, and her governess would teach her, if you would allow her to practise on the organ in the church. Would there be any objection to that plan, Mr. Amyatt?"

"None whatever," was the prompt reply.

"Oh, thank you!" Margaret cried delightedly.

"You will have to employ Gerald to blow for you," Mr. Fowler remarked with a smile.

"I am sure he will not do that!" the little girl exclaimed. "He is far too disobliging."

"Margaret, how hard you are on your brother," Mrs. Fowler said reproachfully.

"Am I? I don't mean to be. Oh, here he is!"

Gerald came into the room with his hat on his head, but meeting his father's eyes, removed it instantly. After he had shaken hands with the Vicar, his mother called him to her, pushed back his fair locks from his forehead, and made him sit by her side on the sofa whilst she plied him with sweet cakes. He was her darling, and she indulged him to his bent. When the governess entered the room, having removed her hat and gloves, there were no sweet cakes left. Mr. Fowler rang the bell for more, and upon the parlour-maid bringing a fresh supply, declined to allow Gerald to partake of them, at which the spoilt boy pouted and sulked, and his mother threw reproachful glances at her husband.

Mr. Amyatt watched the scene in silence, wondering how anyone could allow affection to overcome judgment, as Mrs. Fowler had evidently done, as far as her little son was concerned, and marvelling that Mr. Fowler did not order the disagreeable child out of the room. When the Vicar rose to go, his host accompanied him as far as the garden gate, and they stood there talking some while before, at last, the Vicar said good-bye, and started down the hill towards the village.

The Fowlers had now been several weeks in residence at Greystone, but, up to the present, Mr. Amyatt had been their only visitor. Mrs. Fowler had not been outside the grounds surrounding the house yet, but talked of going down to the beach the first day she felt strong enough to attempt the walk. The children, however, had made several acquaintances among the fisher-folk, and a great liking had sprung up between Margaret and Salome Petherick, for, though one was a rich man's daughter and the other only a poor fisherman's child, they found they had much in common, and, wide apart though they were to outward appearances, they bade fair to become real friends.