Chapter II: New Acquaintances

WHEN Josiah Petherick came downstairs to breakfast on the following morning, his face wore a furtive, sullen expression, as though he expected to be taken to task for his behaviour of the night before. On previous occasions, Salome had, by tears and sorrowing words, reproached him for his unmanly conduct; but this morning she was perfectly composed, and the meal was eaten almost in silence. Afterwards, Josiah informed his little daughter that he should probably be away all day mackerel fishing, and went off in the direction of the beach. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and he looked forward to a successful day's work.

Salome moved about the cottage with a very heavy heart. On account of her affliction, it took her longer than it would have most people to get over her household duties, so that it was past noon before she had everything ship-shape, and was at leisure. Then she put on a pink sun-bonnet, and went into the garden to look at her flowers, pulling weeds here and there, until the sounds of shrill cries made her hurry to the garden gate to ascertain what was going on outside.

Salome stood gazing in astonishment at the scene which met her eyes. A boy of about six years old was lying on the ground, kicking and shrieking with passion, whilst a young woman was bending over him, trying to induce him to get up. At a short distance, a pretty little girl, apparently about Salome's own age, was looking on, and laughing, as though greatly amused.

"Gerald, get up! Do get up, there's a good boy!" implored the young woman. "Dear, dear, what a temper you're in. You 're simply ruining that nice new sailor's suit of yours, lying there in the dust. Oh, Margaret—" and she turned to the little girl—"do try to induce your brother to be reasonable."

"I couldn't do that, Miss Conway," was the laughing response, "for Gerald never was reasonable yet. Look at him now, his face crimson with passion. He's like a mad thing, and deserves to be whipped. He—"

She stopped suddenly, noticing Salome at the garden gate. The boy, catching sight of the lame girl at that moment too, abruptly ceased his cries, and, as though ashamed of himself, rose to his feet, and stood staring at her. He was a fine, handsome little fellow, with dark-blue eyes and fair curly hair; but, as Salome afterwards learnt, he was a spoilt child, and as disagreeable as spoilt children always are. His sister, who was like him in appearance, was a bright-looking little girl; and her laughing face softened into sympathy as her eyes rested on Salome's crutches.

"I am afraid my brother's naughty temper has shocked you," she said. "He likes to have his own way, and wanted to spend a longer time on the beach instead of going home. We have been on the beach all the morning with Miss Conway—this lady, who is our governess. What a pretty garden you have. We noticed it as we passed just now—didn't we, Miss Conway?"

Miss Conway assented, smiling very kindly at Salome.

"I had no idea flowers would flourish so close to the sea," she remarked. "It is to be hoped the Greystone gardens will prove equally productive."

"Oh, are you—do you live at Greystone?" Salome questioned, much interested in the strangers.

"Yes," nodded the little girl, "we arrived last night. My father, Mr. Fowler, has taken the house on a three years' lease. My mother is very delicate; she has been very ill, and the doctors say the north coast of Cornwall will suit her."

"Let me see your garden," said the little boy imperatively, coming close to the gate, and peering between the bars.

"You should say 'please,' Gerald," his governess reminded him reprovingly.

Salome invited them all to enter, and when they had admired the flowers, Miss Conway asked if she might rest a few minutes on the seat under the porch. She was a delicate-looking young woman, and the tussle she had had with her unruly pupil had upset her. Gerald, however, was quite contented now, watching a bee labouring from flower to flower with its load of honey. His sister, Margaret, sat down by the governess' side, whilst Salome, leaning on her crutches, watched them shyly. There was a little flush of excitement on her cheeks, for it was an unusual experience for her to converse with strangers.

"Who lives here with you, my dear?" Miss Conway inquired.

"Only my father, miss. Mother died five years ago. Father's a fisherman; his name's Josiah Petherick, and I'm called Salome."

"What a quaint, pretty name," Margaret exclaimed. "And you have you no sisters or brothers?"

Salome shook her head.

"Have you—have you always been lame?" Miss Conway questioned.

"Yes, miss, always. I can't get about without my crutches."

"How dreadful!" Margaret cried with ready sympathy. "Oh, I am, sorry for you."

Salome looked gratefully at the speaker, and smiled as she made answer, "You see, miss, I'm accustomed to being a cripple. Often and often I've wished my legs were straight and strong like other people's, but as they are not, I must just make the best of them. Mr. Amyatt says—"

"Who is Mr. Amyatt?" Miss Conway interposed.

"Our Vicar, miss. He lives in that big house near the church. He's such a good, kind gentleman, you'll be sure to like him."

"Well, what does he say?" Miss Conway inquired with a smile.

"That God made me lame for some good purpose. I think myself He did it because I should stay at home, and keep house for father," Salome said simply. "Perhaps if I was able to get about like other people, I might neglect father, and be tempted—"

She had been about to say "be tempted to leave him," but had stopped suddenly, remembering that the strangers knew nothing of her father; and she earnestly hoped they would never understand how miserable he made her at times.

"As it is," she proceeded, "I do all the housework—I can take as long as I please about it, you know—and I attend to my flowers besides."

"And have you always lived here?" Margaret asked.

"Yes, miss, I was born in this cottage."

"Doesn't the sea make you mournful in the winter?"

"Oh, no! It's grand then, sometimes. The waves look like great mountains of foam. This is a very wild coast."

"So I have heard," Miss Conway replied. "I should like to see a storm, if no ship was in danger. I suppose you never saw a wreck?"

"Yes," said Salome with a shudder; "only last autumn a coasting vessel ran ashore on the rocks, and the crew was lost. You will notice in the churchyard many graves of people who have been drowned."

"We have always lived in London until now," Margaret explained, "so we shall find life in the country a great change. I don't know that I shall dislike it during the summer, and Gerald is simply delighted with the beach; I expect he'll insist on going there every day, so you'll often see us passing here. Gerald generally gets his own way, doesn't he, Miss Conway?"

"Yes," the governess admitted gravely, looking rather serious.

"My mother spoils him," Margaret continued. "Oh, you needn't look at me like that, Miss Conway, for you know it's true."

At that moment Gerald ran up to them. He was in high good-humour, for he was charmed with Salome's garden; but his face clouded immediately when Miss Conway remarked it was time for them to go home.

"No, no," he pouted, "don't go yet, Miss Conway. Stay a little longer."

"But if we do, we shall be late for luncheon, and then your father will be displeased."

"You shall have this rose to take home with you," Salome said, in order to propitiate the child, and prevent a disturbance. She gathered, as she spoke, a beautiful pink moss-rose, and offered it to him. "Wouldn't you like to give it to your mother?" she suggested, as he accepted her gift with evident pleasure.

"No," Gerald rejoined, "I shan't give it to mother, I shall keep it for myself."

His sister laughed at this selfish speech; but the governess' face saddened as she took her younger pupil by the hand, and after a kind good-bye to Salome, led him away.

"May I come and see you again?" Margaret asked as she lingered at the gate.

"Oh, please do, miss," was the eager reply. "I should be so glad if you would. I really am very lonely sometimes."

"So am I," the other little girl confessed with a sigh; and for the first time Salome noticed a look of discontent on her pretty face. The expression was gone in a minute, however, and with a smiling farewell Margaret Fowler hastened after her governess and Gerald.

These new acquaintances gave Salome plenty of food for thought; and when her father returned in the afternoon she greeted him cheerfully, and told him that the family had arrived at Greystone. He was in good spirits, having caught a nice lot of mackerel; and acting on his daughter's suggestion, he selected some of the finest, and started for Greystone to see if he could not sell them there. Meanwhile, Salome laid the tea cloth, and got the kettle boiling. In the course of half-an-hour her father returned, having sold his fish.

"I saw the cook," he informed Salome, "and she said any time I have choice fish to sell, she can do business with me. It seems she manages everything in the kitchen; she told me the mistress doesn't know what there's to be for dinner till it's brought to table."

"How strange!" Salome cried. "But I forgot, Mrs. Fowler has been ill, so perhaps she is too great an invalid to attend to anything herself."

"I don't know about that, I'm sure. It's likely to be better for us, Salome, now Greystone is occupied. Why, you're quite a business woman, my dear! I should never have thought of taking those mackerel up there, but for you. I should have let Sam Putt have the lot, as usual."

Sam Putt was the owner of a pony and cart. He lived in the village, and often purchased fish, which he conveyed to a neighbouring town for sale, hawking it from door to door.

Josiah continued to converse amicably during tea-time; and afterwards he went into the garden, and turned up a patch of ground in readiness for the reception of winter greens. To Salome's intense relief, he did not go to the "Crab and Cockle" that evening; but, instead, as soon as he had finished his gardening, suggested taking her for a sail.

"Oh, father, how delightful!" she cried, her face flushing with pleasure. "Oh, I haven't been on the water for weeks! It will be such a treat!"

So father and daughter spent the long summer evening on the sea, much to the contentment of both; and the sun had set before they returned to Yelton.

Salome chatted merrily as, their boat safely moored, she followed her father up the shingly beach; but on reaching their garden gate, Josiah paused, glancing towards the swinging sign-board outside the "Crab and Cockle," still visible in the gathering dusk.

In a moment, Salome read his thoughts, and cried involuntarily, "Oh, father, not to-night! Not to-night!"

"What do you mean, child?" he asked with a decided show of displeasure in face and tone.

"I mean, I want you to stay at home with me to-night, father! Do, dear father, to please me! I—I can't bear to see you as—as you are sometimes when you come back from the 'Crab and Cockle'! Oh, father, if you would only give up the drink how happy we should be!"

"How foolishly you talk!" he cried irritably. "It is not seemly for a child to dictate to her father!"

"Oh, father, I mean no harm! You know I love you dearly! It's supper time. Aren't you hungry? I'm sure I am."

Josiah admitted he was, too, and followed his daughter into the cottage. He did not leave it again that night, for his good angel proved too strong for him; and when he kissed his little daughter at bedtime, his manner was unusually gentle, whilst the words he uttered sent her to rest with a very happy heart: "God bless you, child! I don't know what I should be but for you, Salome. You grow more like your dear mother every day you live."