Chapter VII: An Afternoon's Outing

MR. FOWLER was obliged to breakfast at seven o'clock, which was an hour-and-a-half before the usual breakfast hour at Greystone, on the morning following Salome's visit, as it was his intention to catch the first train to London from N—, and in order to do that he would have to leave home before eight o'clock, and drive several miles. His journey had been discussed on the previous night, and he had said good-bye to Miss Conway and the children then. But, when he entered the breakfast-room as the clock struck seven, he found his little daughter awaiting him.

"Why, Margaret!" he exclaimed in pleased surprise as he kissed her. "I did not expect to see you, my dear! You are not generally an early bird."

"I'm afraid I am rather sleepy-headed in the mornings, as a rule," she confessed, "but I made up my mind last night that I would have my breakfast with you to-day, dear father, and see you off. Now do try to eat as much as ever you can," she added practically, as the servant appeared with a tray holding a couple of covered dishes and the coffee-pot.

Mr. Fowler laughed, as he seated himself at the table with Margaret opposite to him, and said he would take her advice.

"I am sorry I have to go," he remarked, "but I have no choice in the matter, as my lawyer wants to consult me upon important business. I shall leave your mother in your charge, Margaret."

"In my charge?" Margaret said inquiringly, looking surprised. "But she is not ill now, father! See how cheerful and bright she was last night. And she has taken several walks. Oh, she is heaps better and stronger than she was! I don't think you need worry about her."

"Perhaps not; but, nevertheless, I want you to devote as much of your time as you can to her during my absence. I have spoken to Miss Conway, and she has consented to give you a holiday till I return. Had I not seen you this morning, Miss Conway would have explained my wishes to you. I desire you to accompany your mother when she drives out, and when she goes into the village, or down to the beach—in short, make yourself her companion, my dear, until I return. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father, I think so," Margaret replied, impressed by his serious tone. "I expect mother will be dull when you are gone, so I will do my best to brighten her up!"

"That's a good child!"

"Only, sometimes she much prefers to have Gerald with her to me!"

"I would rather she had you. Remember what I have said, Margaret. I hope I shall not be away very long, but it will of course depend upon circumstances."

Mr. Fowler made an excellent breakfast, and afterwards went upstairs to say good-bye to his wife, whilst Margaret waited for him in the hall. He kissed his little girl tenderly on his return, then, it being quite time for him to leave, entered the carriage which was waiting at the door, and was driven off. Margaret felt a little depressed as she listened to the sound of the carriage wheels dying away in the distance, for she was exceedingly attached to her father, and home did not seem like home without him.

Knowing her mother must be awake, she went upstairs, and knocked at her bedroom door. On being told to come in, to her surprise, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of getting up to breakfast.

"But do you feel well enough?" Margaret asked, for up to the present Mrs. Fowler, having been an invalid, had always breakfasted in her own room at Greystone.

"Oh, yes!" was the quick response. "I'm tired of being treated like a sick person! What a beautiful, bright morning it is, and not so hot, is it? Your father will have a fine day for his journey."

"He did not want to go at all!"

"No. But that was foolish of him!"

"I think he did not like the thought of leaving you, mother. He feared you might be ill whilst he was away."

"Oh, I am not likely to be ill again," Mrs. Fowler declared sanguinely. "I mean to throw off my invalid-ish ways now, and surprise your father on his return. Send Ross to me, Margaret, to help me dress."

"Shall I help you, mother? Do let me. I am sure I can do your hair as well as Ross."

Mrs. Fowler hesitated, but finally decided in favour of Ross; so Margaret went in search of her. Ross was a well-mannered, good-tempered young woman who waited upon Mrs. Fowler, and did the mending and sewing of the household. She expressed surprise and pleasure on hearing that her mistress intended getting up and joining the family breakfast-table.

"It shows how much stronger she feels, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've often thought if she would bestir herself more she would be better in health and spirits."

Gerald grumbled loudly when he discovered that he was to do lessons whilst his sister was to have a holiday. Why should Margaret be allowed nice drives with their mother when he was obliged to stay at home and work. It was most unfair, he declared; and it may be imagined that poor Miss Conway had rather a trying experience with her younger pupil on the first day of his father's absence, when, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret drove to N—, and left him at home.

The road to N— lay through some most beautiful scenery, and Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Now they were on an open common where the few trees to be seen were stunted and grown one-sided, a fact which puzzled the little girl until it was explained to her that the keen breeze blowing across the Atlantic was accountable for it, then she remarked that the bare side of the trees was the one which faced the sea; now they had left the common and were going down bill into a sheltered, wooded coomb, and by-and-by the road led upwards again till the town of N— was reached, situated almost at the top of the hill.

At the entrance to the town, Mrs. Fowler and Margaret got out of the carriage, and walked up the main street—Fore Street it was called—looking into the shop windows. They had paused outside a small china shop in which was some pretty pottery, when a familiar voice addressed them in accents of pleasure and surprise.

"Can I believe my eyes? Who would have thought of meeting you here!"

Turning instantly they confronted a handsome, middle-aged lady, dressed as a widow, whose comely face was wreathed in smiles. She was called Mrs. Lute, and had been a near neighbour of theirs in London.

"Oh, how glad I am!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed. "It is good to see you again! Are you staying in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes; I have taken a furnished house at N— for two months. I saw it advertised, came to see it, and the result is that here I am! Why, how well you look! And you were such a wreck when you left town! Margaret, too, is looking all the better for the change of air! I suppose you are still at Yelton?"

"Oh, yes! Why haven't you been to see us?"

"I have only been here a week. But, come, walk home with me, and have a cup of tea."

"I should like to, but I have some errands to execute. Oh, Margaret!" And Mrs. Fowler turned to her little daughter eagerly. "Surely you could do the errands! See, here is the list of what I want on this paper! Is your home far from here?" she inquired of Mrs. Lute.

"No, you must have passed it—a thatched, whitewashed house, with a porch covered with clematis and roses."

"Oh, yes, I noticed it!" Margaret cried. "Mother, why don't you and Mrs. Lute drive back in the carriage, and I will join you as soon as I have done the shopping?"

Thus it was arranged. Margaret was quite excited at meeting an old acquaintance, for Mrs. Lute had long been on the friendliest terms with her neighbours in town. She was one of the kindest of women, and had been exceedingly sympathetic during Mrs. Fowler's serious illness in the spring.

When Margaret had executed her list of errands, she made her way to the whitewashed house, outside which the carriage was waiting; and on being shown into the drawing-room which faced the road, found her mother and Mrs. Lute seated there conversing happily.

"How warm the poor child looks!" the latter exclaimed. "Sit down in this comfortable chair, my dear, and let me give you some tea; or would you rather have a glass of wine, for you look tired, and—"

"Oh, no, thank you!" Margaret interposed hastily.

"Just as you like, my dear; but I persuaded your mother to take a little wine; I thought it would do her good after her long drive, and I think it has refreshed her. Here's your tea, my dear! Help yourself to cream and sugar, and do try this cake."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lute."

Margaret was startled for the moment to hear her mother had been drinking wine, remembering how her father had refused to allow her to take it. She thought Mrs. Fowler should have declined it; but the matter soon passed from her mind as Mrs. Lute began to question her about Yelton.

"Everyone tells me it is a charming little village," Mrs. Lute said, "but your mother is not enthusiastic about it. I think she is beginning to feel the lack of society. I have been telling her she should be satisfied to have regained her health. She is looking wonderfully well."

Margaret, glancing at her mother, agreed with Mrs. Lute. No one would have guessed at that moment that Mrs. Fowler had been an invalid so lately, for there was a pink colour in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were shining with a happy light. She was as glad as was Margaret to meet their old friend.

"You must pay us a visit at Greystone as soon as my husband returns," she said hospitably, "and then you will be able to form your own ideas of Yelton and its inhabitants. Margaret has struck up a friendship with a lame girl, Salome Petherick by name, and I believe Gerald has picked acquaintance with several fishermen."

"Salome's father is a fisherman," Margaret remarked; "and oh, Salome has the most beautiful voice you can possibly imagine, hasn't she, mother?"

"She certainly has. When you come to visit us, Mrs. Lute, you shall hear this Cornish singing-bird. Poor girl, she is a sad cripple, yet she makes herself very useful, attends to her father's cottage, and even does gardening!"

"She uses a pair of crutches as a rule," Margaret explained, "but when she is gardening, she somehow manages to hop about on one, so that she has a hand free to work with. Poor Salome! Her father drinks, and that is a great trouble to her."

"I should think so, indeed!" Mrs. Lute commented. "She ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge. Total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people."

"Father says," Margaret was beginning, when Mrs. Fowler somewhat abruptly changed the conversation by inquiring for a mutual friend in town. It struck the little girl that her mother did not wish her to air her father's teetotal views, so during the homeward drive she recurred to the subject.

"Mother, I was going to tell Mrs. Lute that we are all teetotalers now," she said. "Don't you want her to know?"

Mrs. Fowler hesitated and frowned slightly, refraining from meeting her little daughter's gravely inquiring gaze.

"I suppose she will have to know, if she comes to stay with us at Greystone," she responded in tones of annoyance. "I had forgotten your father's fad when I invited her."

"Oh, mother, don't call it a fad!" Margaret cried distressfully.

"That's what it is, child! Mrs. Lute is accustomed to take wine, yet no one can say she is not a strictly temperate woman. Your father, I do not doubt, would like her to be a total abstainer. Such nonsense! He used not to be so fastidious!" And Mrs. Fowler looked quite angry.

Margaret made no answer. She had perfect faith in her father's judgment, but she felt herself incapable of arguing the matter from his point of view.

On reaching home they found a telegram from Mr. Fowler, acquainting them with his safe arrival in London. As Mrs. Fowler read it, the displeasure left her face for a softer, gentler expression.

"How thoughtful he always is!" she exclaimed.

She was in exceedingly good spirits all the evening, and retired to rest apparently perfectly well; but about midnight, Margaret was awakened by a sound in the room, and starting up in bed, found her mother standing by her side in her night-gown, with a lighted candle in her hand.

"What is it, mother? Are you ill?" The little girl inquired in alarm.

"No, but I am nervous, and cannot sleep! I wish your father had not gone! Did I frighten you? I hope not. I felt I must have company."

Margaret was greatly astonished, for the thought had continually crossed her mind during the day that Mrs. Fowler was relieved at her husband's absence. She jumped out of bed immediately, and led her mother back to her own room.

"I will stay with you to-night, dear mother," she said gently. "You won't feel nervous then."

So mother and daughter lay down side by side, but not to sleep as yet, for the latter was restless and sighed continually.

"You are sure you are not ill?" Margaret asked with loving anxiety.

"No, I am not ill, but I am very unhappy," was the response in a tone of great sadness. "Oh, child, I wish you had a better mother!"

"You are the dearest mother in the world," Margaret cried earnestly.

"But very far from being the best. I am very troubled—no, I cannot tell you what about. No, you couldn't help me. No one can."

"Yes, God can, mother," Margaret reminded her; then she quoted softly—

"When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me."

Mrs. Fowler caught her breath with a little sob; but doubtless, the words of Salome's favourite hymn comforted her, for presently, Margaret knew by her regular breathing that she had fallen asleep.

The little girl lay awake wondering what trouble her mother could possibly have, or if she was only nervous and imaginative; and it was not until the first streaks of dawn peeped into the room that she slept too.