Chapter XVII: The Shadow Lifted

NOVEMBER was an unusually mild month that year, so that Margaret, during her convalescence, was enabled to take long drives without any risk of catching cold. On one occasion, Salome Petherick was invited to accompany her and Mrs. Fowler when they drove to N—. And it was pleasant to see how the lame girl's countenance shone with happiness as, forgetful of her worries for the time, she enjoyed the novelty of viewing hitherto unknown scenery, for she had never been beyond walking distance of Yelton before.

"It was quite pathetic to watch the varying expressions on the poor little thing's face," Mrs. Fowler confided to her husband afterwards. "She shall accompany us again, if all's well. Have you noticed how she has changed lately? The first time I saw her, she had such a pretty brown complexion, and now she is so pale, and her eyes so big and hollow. I wonder what ails the child."

"Privation and trouble, I'm afraid, judging from what I hear," Mr. Fowler responded gravely. "She is badly fed, works hard, and is always grieving on her father's account."

Mrs. Fowler sighed. She was deeply interested in Salome, but there seemed little she could do for her. The idea crossed her mind that she might remonstrate with Josiah concerning his treatment of his little daughter, but she shrank sensitively from doing so.

Meanwhile, there was little fishing being done at Yelton during those mild November days, when the ocean was as smooth as a duck pond, and there was not a breath of wind blowing, so that Josiah and his boon companions had plenty of time on their hands. The "Crab and Cockle" had most of their society, and their homes suffered in consequence.

One night, after the inn was closed and most of the inhabitants of Yelton had gone to rest, the alarming cry of "Fire!" was heard. And men, women, and children dressed with all speed, and rushed out of doors exclaiming, questioning, and running against each other in their excitement and hurry.

"Fire! Fire! Oh, help; for mercy's sake, help my father!"

It was the lame girl who had raised the alarm, and who now stood outside Silas Moyle's shop, her face livid with terror. She managed somehow to explain that it was her home that was on fire, and that her father, on his return from the "Crab and Cockle," had clutched at the table-cloth which had covered the kitchen table, and had thus upset the lamp and caused the conflagration.

On hearing this, there was a general rush in the direction of the Pethericks' cottage, but Silas Moyle, who had now arrived upon the scene, insisted upon Salome's staying with his wife, and lingered to inquire what had become of Josiah.

"He's at home," Salome wailed. "I couldn't get him to leave; he was pouring buckets of water on the fire; but oh! He couldn't put it out, it was spreading terribly. Please, Mr. Moyle, do go and see that he's all right. He isn't sober, and oh, I'm so afraid for him."

"There, there, don't you take on," said Mrs. Moyle, kindly. "Silas'll see to Josiah. Come you in, my dear," and the good woman led Salome into the parlour behind the shop and placed her in an easy-chair.

Meanwhile, willing hands were helping Josiah in his attempts to put out the fire. But assistance proved of no avail, and in less than two hours the Pethericks' cottage was actually gutted, and all their possessions had been burnt. It had been impossible to save anything, for the woodwork of the cottage being old, and the roof of thatch, the flames had spread with great rapidity. Daybreak found Josiah, sober enough now, staring disconsolately at the four stone walls which was the only portion of his home that was left intact. He was feeling inexpressibly shocked, for his furniture was not insured, and he realised that he and his little daughter had nothing in the world but the clothes they were wearing. What was he to do? He could not tell, and he groaned in despair, as he looked at the smoking ruins, and the erstwhile trim garden, now spoilt by the trampling of many feet.

"This is a bad business, Petherick."

Turning at the sound of a voice addressing him, he saw Mr. Amyatt. The Vicar had been there some time, but Josiah had not noticed him amongst the rest.

"Ay," was the gloomy response. "I'm ruined—that's what I am."

"I daresay your landlord will rebuild the cottage, for no doubt it is insured."

"What's the good of a cottage without furniture?" Josiah demanded almost fiercely. "Salome's homeless, an' through me. I ought to be thrashed."

"Salome can bide with my missus," Silas Moyle interposed at that point. "She's a handy maid, and can make herself useful, an' you'll be able to get a lodging somewhere, Josiah, for the time; but you'd best come along with me now, an' get a bit of breakfast."

Josiah hesitated. He was very grateful to the baker for his kindness, but he dreaded the meeting with Salome. He felt more ashamed of himself than he had ever done in his life before, and as he turned his back on the smoking ruins, he pictured the pretty, thatched cottage of which he had been so proud once upon a time. There he had brought his young bride, there Salome had been born, and his happy married life had been spent, and there his wife had died. Josiah rubbed his hard, brown hand across his eyes as memory was busy with him.

"Come," said Silas, "pull yourself together, man. Let's go and get some breakfast. Your little maid's wanting you, I'll warrant."

Such proved to be the case. For the minute Salome saw her father, she threw herself into his arms, and whispered how thankful she was that he was safe, and that nothing mattered besides—nothing.

The first person to convey the news of the fire to Greystone was the postman, and great was the excitement when it became known that the Pethericks' cottage had been burnt down. Mr. Fowler started off immediately, with Gerald, to learn all particulars, and, in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler, at Margaret's earnest request, went to see Salome. She found the little girl in better spirits than she had anticipated, though her brown eyes grew very wistful when she talked of her late home.

"All my plants are trampled into the ground," she said, "but, never mind, father's safe, and that's the chief thing. I was so afraid for him."

"And so you are to remain here?" Mrs. Fowler questioned, glancing around Mrs. Moyle's little parlour, which was a picture of neatness and cleanliness.

"Yes, ma'am, for the time. Mrs. Moyle has kindly asked me to stay."

"And your father?"

"He's going to find out if our landlord will rebuild the cottage, and if so, father will get a lodging somewhere in the village. The worst of it is, all our furniture is burnt; but father says he'll be able to replace it by degrees, he hopes."

After leaving Salome, Mrs. Fowler thought she would like to see the ruined cottage, so she turned her footsteps in that direction, and found Josiah leaning over the garden gate in conversation with the Vicar. The former would have moved away on her approach, but she stopped him, and explained that she had been to visit his little daughter.

"I'm so sorry for you both," she told him kindly. "It is terrible to be burnt out of house and home."

"It was my doing," Josiah confessed. "Maybe you've heard how it happened?"

"Yes," she admitted, "you caught hold of the table-cloth, and pulled over the lamp, did you not?"

The fisherman nodded, whilst the Vicar regarded him attentively.

"I've been talking to Petherick very seriously," the latter said. "And have been trying to induce him to become a teetotaler and sign the pledge. I do earnestly entreat you, Petherick, to take warning by last night's work."

"Why won't you take the pledge?" Mrs. Fowler asked, her fair face alternately paling and flushing. "I am sure it would be for your happiness and well-being if you did. And you should consider Salome. Oh, drink is a terrible curse! It kills all one's best qualities, and ruins one's self-respect."

"I'm ashamed of myself," Josiah acknowledged, "but think how folks would laugh if I took the pledge. I'll be a teetotaler if I can; but no, I won't pledge myself to it."

"Oh, don't say that!" Mrs. Fowler cried imploringly. "Think the matter over. I believe if you took the pledge, you would keep it, for I am sure you are a man of your word."

Josiah's face expressed irresolution. He had solemnly vowed to himself that he would never touch intoxicating liquors again, so deeply had the past night affected him, but he hated the idea of taking the pledge, whilst Mr. Amyatt realised that his so doing would be the only thing which would hold him to his determination to abstain from drink.

"I'm going to give up drink," Josiah declared decidedly, at length, "but I won't take the pledge. I understand everyone's a teetotaler at Greystone," he continued, as Mrs. Fowler was about to speak again, "but, excuse me, ma'am, I don't suppose you've signed the pledge, have you?"

"No," Mrs. Fowler acknowledged, "I have not."

Josiah was silent. He was evidently thinking, "Then, why should I?"

Mrs. Fowler was silent too, and Mr. Amyatt regarded her a trifle curiously, for he saw she was struggling with some strong emotion. Presently she said very quietly, "I have made up my mind. I will certainly take the pledge."

"You!" Josiah exclaimed in amazement. "You, ma'am!"

"Yes," Mrs. Fowler rejoined, "it is the right thing for me to do, and you must do the same. Why should you object if I do not?"

"You must give in now, Petherick," Mr. Amyatt said quickly, "if Mrs. Fowler is ready to do this for your sake—"

"I will do it for his sake, and for my own, and for the sake of all those we love," she interposed. "Oh, think of Salome!" she said earnestly to Josiah. "You have brought her untold trouble, and have made her homeless all through drink. Look at this ruined cottage, and reflect that but for the kindness of the Moyles, your child would be without shelter and food. How can you hesitate?"

"I don't, ma'am."

"Then, if I take the pledge, will you?" Mrs. Fowler inquired eagerly.

"Yes," Josiah answered, "I don't see that I can say 'no' to that."

An hour later, Mrs. Fowler entered the drawing-room at Greystone, where her little daughter was seated alone near the fire, reading. Margaret put down her book, whilst her mother, who had removed her walking garments, sank rather wearily into an easy-chair.

"I have been talking to your father, my dear," Mrs. Fowler said with a smile. "I suppose, like him, you want to hear about Salome first of all," and she proceeded to give an account of her interview with the lame girl, and to explain the arrangement that had been made for her to remain with the Moyles for the present.

"And did her father really set the cottage on fire?" Margaret inquired.

"Yes. He was intoxicated, and pulled off the lamp in clutching at the table-cloth. It is fortunate neither he nor Salome was burnt. My dear, I have a piece of news for you."

"Yes?" Margaret said, interrogatively, as Mrs. Fowler paused.

"Josiah Petherick has consented to take the pledge, and I am going to take the pledge too!"

"Mother!"

Mrs. Fowler gave a brief account of her interview with the fisherman and Mr. Amyatt, to which her little daughter listened with breathless interest. When she had ceased speaking, Margaret went to her side and kissed her.

"Oh, child!" cried Mrs. Fowler, encircling the slender form with her arms. "Do you really care for me? I thought I had for ever forfeited your love and respect. My dear, I never properly valued your affection until I feared I had lost it. I have been a selfish mother, but, please God, I'll be different in the future. When I faced the possibility of losing you, it nearly broke my heart."

"Oh, mother! And I feared you did not like to have me with you! I thought—"

"Was that why you shrank from me? Margaret—" and Mrs. Fowler spoke very impressively. "There has been a black shadow over my life for a long, long time. It stood between me and your father, between you and me, and even between my soul and God. I believe, and pray that it is gone."

The little girl pressed her lips again to her mother's cheek, and though she made no reply, that gentle kiss, so tenderly and lovingly given, was the seal of a better understanding between these two who had been slowly drifting apart. And neither was likely to doubt the other's affection again.