Chapter XVIII: Happier Days

ONCE more, it was summer time. Eight months had elapsed since the night when the Pethericks' home had been destroyed by fire. And in the place of the old thatched dwelling, a modern red-brick cottage had been built, which, though certainly not so picturesque as the former one, was very comfortable, and possessed a bow window to its little parlour, which was the envy and admiration of all the villagers. Already young ivy plants had been placed against the bare, red walls; and the garden had been coaxed into good order, and was now making a fine show with its summer flowers.

The cottage was barely furnished, for though to the amazement of all Yelton, Josiah had become a pledged teetotaler, and had in very truth turned over a new leaf, he had not been able to earn much money during the winter months. And when the new home had been completed a fortnight previously, he had only been in a position to purchase a few cheap articles of furniture which were absolute necessaries, such as beds, and cooking utensils.

One beautiful June evening, Salome sat inside the bow window from which there was an uninterrupted view of the beach, and the wide expanse of sea, her busy fingers knitting as usual, her fresh, sweet voice trilling a merry song. She was blissfully happy, for at that moment she had not a care in the world. Her father, now he had really given up drink, was kind and considerate as he had been in her mother's lifetime, and was doing all he possibly could to make up to her for the sorrow he had caused her in the past.

God had been good to her, she told herself, for He had answered her earnest prayers on her father's behalf. And her love and patience, so often sorely tried, had not been in vain.

A step on the gravel path caused Salome to raise her eyes from her work, and her face lit up with a glad, welcoming smile as she saw Margaret Fowler coming to the door.

"Don't get up," Margaret called to her, "I'll let myself in, if I may," and a minute later she entered the room, her fair countenance aglow with health and happiness. She seated herself in the bow window opposite to Salome, and glanced around the bare, little parlour with smiling eyes undimmed by any shadow of trouble now. "I've been practising the organ," she said. "Mother and father have been listening, and criticising my performance. They both think I've improved wonderfully of late."

"Indeed you have, Miss Margaret," Salome agreed heartily.

"Mother and father have gone home; but I thought I would like a chat with you. I like this bow window, don't you?"

"Yes, miss; it makes the room so light and airy. I'm afraid the place looks very bare, though, with no carpet, and no furniture but that deal table and these two chairs."

"Never mind. I daresay you'll add to your stock of furniture later on."

"That's what father says. We must try to pick things together gradually again. People have been so kind to us, you can't imagine how kind. Mrs. Moyle gave us her old dinner set, and some odd cups and plates; and Mr. Amyatt's housekeeper sent down some bedding from the Vicarage—of course Mr. Amyatt must have told her to do so. Then your dear mother, miss! See what she has done for us. Why, she made us a present of the very chairs we're sitting on, and—"

"Oh, yes, I know!" Margaret interposed. "I think there's little mother wouldn't do for you, Salome."

"But the best thing she ever did, was when she induced father to take the pledge. I am sure he would never have done so, if she had not set him the example. Oh, miss, I believe he regretted it, at first; but now, I'm certain, in his heart, he knows it has been his salvation. He isn't like the same man he was a year ago. Look at him now," pointing to a stalwart figure seated on the beach bending over a fishing net. "Last summer, you wouldn't have found him content to mind his business like that, he'd have been at the 'Crab and Cockle' drinking. I little thought when I heard Greystone was taken, what kind friends you all would be to father and me."

"And I little thought when I first saw you leaning over the garden gate, Salome, how much you would do for me."

"I!" cried the lame girl, opening her dark eyes wide in astonishment. "Why, I've done nothing, I've had no opportunity—"

"Ah, you don't know all! I've learnt a great deal from you, I have indeed, though you mayn't know it—a great deal besides knitting," Margaret said with a smile. "It was you who taught me, by your self-sacrificing love for your father, what love ought to be—faithful and long-suffering. That was a lesson I never learnt till I met you."

Salome looked earnestly at her companion's expressive face, and was emboldened to put a question that had trembled on her lips many times of late:

"That trouble you spoke to me about, Miss Margaret—is it gone?"

Margaret nodded in silence.

"I'm so glad," said Salome, simply.

"Do you remember Mrs. Lute, the lady who stayed with us at Greystone last summer?" Margaret questioned presently. "Yes. Well, we are expecting her to visit us again. And mother says she hopes your father will be able to take us out boating frequently, because Mrs. Lute is so fond of being on the water. And mother feels safer with your father than with anyone else, because he knows the coast so well. You know, mother is still a little nervous at times."

"But she is wonderfully better, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes. Look! Surely I see Miss Conway and Gerald talking to your father on the beach. When they pass here, I'll join them, and we can walk home together."

"How Master Gerald does grow!" Salome exclaimed. "And he has so improved too! That's come about since your illness last autumn, miss. He was in a terrible state of distress then."

"So mother has since told me," Margaret replied. "Yes, he has improved; he's much more obedient than he used to be; Miss Conway was saying, only this morning, how little trouble she has with him now."

The truth was, Mrs. Fowler had come to understand that her foolish indulgence had been likely to ruin her little son. And though she loved him no less, she wielded a firmer sway over him, and upheld his governess' discipline. With the result that he was a much more contented little boy than he had been, when he had had his own way. He still sometimes gave way to exhibitions of violent temper, but he was growing ashamed of these paroxysms, and they were becoming less and less frequent.

When Miss Conway and Gerald left the beach, Margaret said good-bye to Salome, and joined the governess and her charge as they were passing the cottage.

"We've been talking to Josiah Petherick," the little boy informed his sister, "and I've been telling him that Mrs. Lute's coming. Do you know, Margaret, that Josiah is going to be in the choir?"

"No. Salome did not tell me; but I left her rather hurriedly when I saw you coming. I know he used to be in the choir before—"

"Before he took to drink," said Gerald, finishing the sentence as she paused in hesitation. "Well, he doesn't drink now; wasn't it a good thing he gave it up? I like Josiah, he's so brave, and he knows such a lot about the sea, and ships."

They had left the village, and were ascending the hill towards Greystone, now and again pausing, to look back the way they had come.

"I don't think the Pethericks' new cottage is half so pretty as their old one, do you, Miss Conway?" Gerald asked, appealing to the governess.

"Perhaps not—in spite of the bow window," she replied. "But the colour of the bricks will tone down with time."

"Salome is very contented," remarked Margaret, "but then she would be that anywhere, I believe. She is wonderfully happy, and looks so well."

"Yes," Miss Conway agreed, "a regular nut-brown maid; and, last autumn, she was such a pale, little soul. Mrs. Moyle was telling me yesterday how much she misses her. The Moyles have been good friends to the Pethericks."

Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were seated beneath the lilac tree when the children and the governess entered the grounds. Gerald was the first to spy his parents; and he raced across the lawn to them; and informed them that he had told Josiah of their expected guest, and had bidden him clean his boat in readiness for use.

When Mrs. Lute arrived on the morrow, she was agreeably surprised to note the improvement in Mrs. Fowler's health, and complimented her upon her "Cornish roses," as she called the bright colour in her friend's cheeks, whilst Margaret listened with secret satisfaction and happiness, and meeting her father's eyes, saw that he was delighted, too.

Mrs. Fowler was no longer the neurotic, dissatisfied invalid who had been brought to Greystone almost against her will; but a bright, companionable woman, taking a lively interest in her household, and anxious for the welfare of those she loved. She and her little daughter had been drawn very closely together during the past few months; and they had discovered that they had many interests in common. Both were devoted to music, and Mrs. Fowler had of late fallen into the habit of accompanying Margaret to the church to hear her practise on the organ; and there, often, Salome would join them, and sing at the earnest request of the others her favourite hymn.

It was Gerald who, when the family at Greystone was at breakfast on the morning after Mrs. Lute's arrival, began to talk of Josiah Petherick. Mrs. Lute had not heard the exciting story of the fire, and the little boy told it with considerable gusto, afterwards explaining what the new cottage was like.

"You have missed the chief point of the story, Gerald," his father said, when at length the tale was brought to a conclusion.

"Have I, father?"

"Yes. You have not told how being burnt out of house and home affected Josiah." He turned to Mrs. Lute as he added: "The man has not touched a drop of any kind of intoxicating liquor since."

"Well done!" she exclaimed heartily. "That is news worth hearing. I have so often wondered this past winter how those Pethericks were getting on. The sad, pale face of that lame girl haunted my memory for many a day. And, do you know, when I got home, I thought so much of the many discussions we had had upon the drink question, with the result that I came to the conclusion that I had been wrong all along. And that because I only took stimulants sparingly myself, I had no right to put temptation in the way of others; and so, I've banished intoxicating liquors from my house altogether. What do you say to that?"

There was a murmur of surprise mingled with commendation, and everyone agreed that Mrs. Lute had done well. Certain it was that she had acted from the best possible motive—consideration for her fellow-creatures. She was one of the kindest of women; and the thought that she might do harm to a weaker brother or sister by allowing stimulants to be used in her household had never crossed her mind, until she had visited at Greystone, and the master of the house had unfolded his new principles to her. Thinking the matter over quietly afterwards, she had seen that he was right.

And now it is time for us to say good-bye to this little village by the Cornish sea. But we will linger a moment to take a farewell glimpse of those whose lives we have followed for one short year as they are gathered together one Sunday evening in the old grey church. The Vicar has finished his sermon, and has given out the hymn with which the service will be brought to a close, and in another minute the congregation is singing "Abide with me."

Margaret, from her position by her mother's side, can easily distinguish Salome's clear, bird-like notes, and Josiah Petherick's deep, bass voice; and as she joins in the well-known hymn, her soul rises to the throne of God in a fervent prayer of thanksgiving and joy. The church is growing dim and shadowy in the evening light; but the black shadow that threatened to ruin the happiness of two homes has fled; and there is no cloud on Margaret Fowler's fair face, whilst the lame girl's voice has a ring of triumph in its tone as she sings the concluding words of the beautiful hymn—

"Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

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