Chapter VIII: An Awful Thing

WHEN Margaret awoke, she was alone. At first she was surprised to find herself in bed in her mother's room, but in a few moments, she remembered how that happened to be the case. Before, however, she had time to dwell much upon the matter, the door opened and her mother entered, fully dressed, bearing a breakfast tray in her hands, which she placed on the dressing-table.

"Have I overslept myself?" Margaret inquired. "I am so sorry."

"You need not be, my dear," Mrs. Fowler replied, smiling as she came to the bedside and kissed her little daughter. "You had a disturbed night on my account. How foolish it was of me to be too nervous to sleep alone! I blame myself for spoiling your rest. But, see, I have brought your breakfast, so sit up and eat it at once; after you have had it, you can dress and come down on the beach with me."

Mrs. Fowler looked alert and well. She talked brightly whilst Margaret was taking her breakfast, and pulling a letter out of her pocket, which she had received from her husband by the morning's post, read it aloud. It merely told of his journey to town, and concluded with his love to the children, and a hope that Mrs. Fowler would take care of herself.

"I shall not tell him how silly I was last night," she said. "I suppose I cannot be quite so strong as I thought. My late illness played sad havoc with my nerves. It is such a glorious day, Margaret, that I am sure we ought to spend it out of doors."

Margaret assented willingly, and went to her own room to dress. By-and-by, she and her mother strolled down to the beach, and passed a pleasant morning in the welcome shade of a big rock. And in the afternoon, Mrs. Fowler declared her intention of again driving to N—.

"Won't you be very tired, mother?" Margaret asked dubiously. "You mustn't overdo it, you know."

"Oh, I will be careful, my dear!" Mrs. Fowler rejoined. "But I want to get some things I forgot yesterday. Meeting Mrs. Lute so unexpectedly put everything else quite out of my head. Miss Conway and Gerald can accompany us."

It was not such a pleasant drive as the one of the previous day, for Gerald was tiresome, and continually stood up in the carriage to look at different objects of interest which attracted his attention. Miss Conway begged him to sit still, but he would not obey her. And, at last, he was jolted into his mother's lap, much to her annoyance and to his amusement. She declared she wished she had left him at home, and that it would be a long time before she would take him for a drive again. Whereupon, he only laughed, for he did not believe she meant what she said.

"Are you going to see Mrs. Lute, mother?" Margaret inquired as they neared the town.

"No, not to-day. I will get out at the bottom of Fore Street, and you others shall drive on a little farther and return for me. No, I will not have you, Gerald! You are to stay with Miss Conway and your sister."

Mrs. Fowler spoke with decision in her tones; she was evidently determined to do her shopping alone.

Accordingly, she got out of the carriage at the entrance to the town, and the others saw her go into a grocer's shop as they were driven on. When the carriage returned a quarter of an hour later, she was standing waiting outside the same shop. The shopman came out and placed a parcel in the carriage, then Mrs. Fowler took her seat and gave the order—"Home." She seemed lost in deep thought during the remainder of the drive, and spoke but seldom, paying slight attention to the conversation the others carried on. She was evidently glad to reach Greystone.

"I expect she is really very tired," Margaret reflected, "but does not like to confess it." And she was confirmed in this opinion when she saw how quiet and languid Mrs. Fowler appeared during the evening. She did not request Miss Conway to play to her as she usually did, but lay on the sofa with a book in her lap, yawning occasionally as though weary of the day, so that neither Margaret nor the governess were surprised when she declared her intention of going to bed early. She would not hear of Margaret sleeping with her, however, but kissed both of her children good night in the drawing-room, and told them not to disturb her when they went upstairs to bed.

It was only eight o'clock when Mrs. Fowler retired for the night. At half-past eight Gerald was put to bed, after which Margaret and her governess sat down together to their supper. Each seemed rather depressed, Miss Conway even more so than her little pupil.

"It is so dull without father," Margaret sighed. "I hope he will not stay away very long. Oh, dear! I think mother is very, very tired to-night, don't you? I am afraid she has been doing too much."

"I hope not," was the serious reply. "You did not walk far this morning, did you?"

"Oh, no! We were sitting down on the beach most of the time. Mother read the newspaper and talked and seemed all right then."

"Did you see anything of Salome Petherick?"

"Nothing, though we stood outside her garden several minutes looking at her flowers. I suppose she was busy in the cottage. Oh, Miss Conway, how I do wish Salome's father was a teetotaler! I was telling Mrs. Lute about him yesterday, and she said Salome ought to try to persuade him to take the pledge."

"I did not know that Mrs. Lute was a teetotaler," Miss Conway exclaimed, looking rather surprised.

"She is not. Indeed, she offered me a glass of wine."

"You did not take it?" the governess interposed hastily.

"Oh, no!" A painful blush rose to Margaret's cheeks as she remembered that her mother had not declined the same offer. "Mrs. Lute said total abstinence from all intoxicants is the only thing for some people," she added.

"She is quite right," was the grave response.

There was silence for a few minutes. Miss Conway was asking herself what was the reason of her pupil's evident confusion, and Margaret was hoping she would not be questioned as to its cause.

"I have been a teetotaler all my life," Miss Conway proceeded presently. "My father had a great horror of drink because his own father had been a drunkard, and he had suffered much on that account. It is sad to think that there is scarcely a family that does not possess at least one member given over to the vice of drinking to excess. Oh, Margaret! Mr. Fowler was right when he laid down the rule that no intoxicants should be brought into his house."

"I am sure he was right," Margaret agreed heartily, "though everyone does not think so. Mother calls it a fad—"

"Did your mother—" The governess hesitated momentarily, scarcely knowing how to put the question which trembled on her lips. "Perhaps you will think I have no right to ask you," she continued hastily, "but, believe me, Margaret, it is no idle curiosity which prompts me. Did your mother have any wine at Mrs. Lute's yesterday?"

Margaret nodded gravely, observing her companion anxiously in order to read by her countenance what she thought. She was prepared to see her exhibit surprise, and perhaps disapproval, but Miss Conway appeared absolutely frightened, and her very lips turned white. She made no remark in response however, but when she kissed her pupil ere they separated for the night, there was marked tenderness in her manner and in her voice as she said, "God bless you, dear Margaret. You look tired out yourself. Try to have a good night's rest."

The little girl was very sleepy, so, almost as soon as her head was on the pillow, she was in the land of dreams. But such unhappy, disturbing dreams they were. She imagined her mother was very ill, and that her father could not be sent for, because no one knew his address, and that she was in terrible grief and perplexity. At length, frightened and shaking in every limb, she awoke, and sprang out of bed with a shriek. The conviction was strong upon her that something was wrong with her mother, and she felt compelled to go and ascertain what was amiss. Lighting a candle, she took it up and hurried to Mrs. Fowler's room. A sigh of deep thankfulness escaped her lips as she found everything quiet there. Softly she stole to the bedside and saw her mother lying asleep, one hand beneath her cheek, her fair hair strewn over the pillow. Margaret thought how pretty she looked, and carefully shaded the candle with her hand as she gazed at the sleeper with love and admiration in her glance; but it would have taken more than the feeble rays of the candle to awaken Mrs. Fowler from that deep, dreamless sleep.

Margaret would have liked to have kissed her mother's flushed cheek, but feared to disturb her; so she contented herself with pressing her lips to the soft, white hand which lay outside the counterpane, then stole back to her own room as quietly as she had left it, and after putting out the candle crept back to bed. She felt she could rest with an easy mind now, and was no longer disturbed by distressing dreams.

The following day Mrs. Fowler did not go far. She appeared depressed and out of sorts until after tea-time, when her drooping spirits revived, and she spent the evening under the lilac tree with Miss Conway, whilst the children played croquet on the lawn. Suddenly she remembered that a letter she had written to her husband had not been posted, and suggested that Margaret and Gerald might take it to the post-office.

"I'm afraid it's too late to catch to-night's post," she said regretfully, "but never mind. Your father will not be anxious, as he heard this morning. Still, you may as well post it. Dear me, what could have made me so forgetful!"

So Margaret and Gerald hurried off to the post-office, which was only two doors from the village inn, from which it was divided by Samuel Moyle's shop.

After posting the letter, they went into the shop to purchase some sweets, and whilst they were there, Josiah Petherick came out of the "Crab and Cockle," much the worse for drink, and staggered past on his way home.

Mrs. Moyle, a rosy-cheeked dame, so stout that she appeared to be almost as thick as she was long, went to the door to stare after Josiah, whilst her husband, who was attending to the requirements of his customers, shook his head gravely and prophesied that "such a drunken beast," as he called him, "would come to a bad end," adding, with a touch of real feeling, "Ah, I'm sorry for that poor motherless maid of his!"

Margaret returned to Greystone very sad at heart, full of the lame girl's trouble, and informed her mother and Miss Conway of the state Josiah was in; whilst Gerald, who had been more amused than disgusted, began to imitate the drunken man's rambling walk, a proceeding which his governess promptly put a stop to by grasping him forcibly by the shoulder and making him stand still.

"For shame!" she cried with unusual severity in her tone. "How can you make fun of the unhappy man? Poor wretch! Never make a joke of a drunkard again."

"Well, I won't," Gerald returned. "I meant no harm. Please let me go, Miss Conway. I promise you I won't do it again."

"No, I do not think you meant any harm," the governess admitted. "You acted thoughtlessly, I know. But you must never laugh at what is wrong—remember that."

"Isn't it terrible for poor Salome, mother?" Margaret said sadly.

"Very," Mrs. Fowler replied. "It would be better for her if she had no father at all."

"Oh, mother!" Margaret cried in shocked tones. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I do. What can her father be, but a perpetual shame and trouble to her?"

"But she loves him so dearly."

"I don't know how she can!" Mrs. Fowler exclaimed vehemently. "But, there, don't let us talk of Josiah any more. Of course, the letter was too late for to-night's post?"

"Oh, yes. But I posted it all the same. I wonder when father will be home."

"Not till the end of the week, I expect. It's getting chilly; we will go in." And rising, Mrs. Fowler moved towards the house, the others following.

Margaret's thoughts were all of Salome during the remainder of the evening. And before she went to rest, she prayed earnestly that God would give His help and protection to the lame girl, and reward her patience and love in His own good time.

"Drink is an awful thing," was her last waking thought that night, as she crept into her little, white-curtained bed, and laid her head down on the soft pillow. "I only wish poor Salome's father could be brought to see what an awful thing it is."