"He will not, without he gives up the drink," Mr. Fowler rejoined, with conviction in his tone. "No, he will go from bad to worse until, in one of his drunken frenzies, he will do something he will never cease to regret—perhaps some injury to his child."
Mrs. Fowler sank into a chair looking pale and perturbed, whilst her husband and friend drifted into another channel of conversation. The news she had heard about the Pethericks had upset her, and when, a short while later, Margaret entered the room, the first question she put to her was to ask if she had seen Salome that day.
"No, mother," the little girl answered. "Why?" she added, struck by the almost frightened expression on Mrs. Fowler's face.
She listened in silence, her colour alternately coming and going, to all there was to tell, then exclaimed "Oh, I am sorry! Poor Salome! And it rained heavily last night. Perhaps she will come up to the church this evening to hear me practise the organ. Oh, I hope she will! When are you coming to hear me play again, mother?"
"Oh, some time! Perhaps when Mrs. Lute has gone."
"Wouldn't Mrs. Lute come too?"
"Oh, I don't think you play well enough—" Mrs. Fowler paused abruptly, conscious of the hurt look on her little daughter's countenance. She had avoided Margaret lately, and Margaret had noticed the fact with acute pain. What had she done that her mother should abstain from meeting her gaze? An insurmountable barrier seemed to have sprung up between mother and child.
Margaret's heart was full of bitterness as she turned away and left the room. She had endeavoured to show no feeling but that of love for her mother since her recent indisposition, but it had been impossible for Mrs. Fowler not to remark a slight difference in her manner, of which Margaret was unconscious herself. She thought she read reproach in the little girl's eyes, and shrank sensitively from being alone with her. She was ashamed in the presence of her own child.
Had Margaret grasped the truth of the situation, she would have judged her mother less harshly; but failing to do so, she was deeply pained, and told herself that her mother liked her less than ever. Upon Gerald, Mrs. Fowler lavished all her affection. She would listen to his chatter untiringly, talking gaily in return; and, however much he teased her, she always found excuses for him.
Miss Conway did not give Margaret a music lesson that evening, for Mrs. Fowler requested her to accompany Mrs. Lute and herself for a walk, and to bring Gerald with her, so Margaret went alone to the church.