"No, I am not, Mary. Why should you not say what you think? You had a perfect right to express your opinion."
Miss Holcroft's face brightened at this, and she ventured to continue—
"Then you acknowledge we have been a little unjust to poor Rupert's widow?"
"Not at all. I acknowledge nothing of the kind. But I will allow that she has brought up Marigold carefully, if that is any satisfaction to you, Mary."
"I believe she is a good woman and a Christian, or she would not be so loved by her little daughter," Miss Holcroft said, with decision in her tones.
To this remark her sister made no reply, and presently changed the topic of conversation.
THE following Saturday afternoon Marigold accompanied Barker to pay a visit to the latter's mother. The little girl had received permission from her aunts to gather some flowers to take with her, and she had picked a bunch of roses and lilies of the valley, which later ornamented the centre of the tea-table in the old woman's tiny parlour. Marigold had never been in an almshouse before. The one where Mrs. Barker lived was one of a row, each having a strip of garden in front, with a narrow path through the middle leading to the door, which was painted bright green. The houses were all built exactly alike, but the individual tastes of the occupiers could be seen from even a casual scrutiny of the windows. In one hung a canary in a brass cage; in another flowering plants showed between snowy muslin curtains; whilst other windows had a neglected appearance, the curtains hanging limp, and in some cases drab with dirt; one or two had merely under-blinds and no curtains at all.
Barker paused before a trim, well-kept garden, where simple cottage flowers bloomed gaily,—clumps of forget-me-nots and double daisies—those known as bachelors' buttons—golden wallflowers, and purple pansies. Mrs. Barker stood on the doorstep waiting to greet her visitors, for she had been watching for them from the window. She was a very old woman, whose sparse grey locks were tucked neatly away under a cap—her best, which was adorned with mauve ribbons, and whose face was lined and wrinkled, indeed, but nevertheless wore an expression of perfect contentment. After a youth and middle-age of hard work, Mrs. Barker was spending the remaining years of her life in peace and happiness. She had no worries, no troubles nowadays.
Marigold soon discovered that Barker in her mother's parlour, and Barker as she was known in her mistresses' house, bore but a slight resemblance to each other. The silent, grave-faced maid was metamorphosed into a bright, smiling woman, who seemed bent upon being the life of the little party. She had brought a large basket with her, the contents of which proved to be packages of tea, sugar, and other groceries, and lying on the top, so that it should not be crushed, was a summer mantle, which her own clever fingers had made for her mother.
"I remembered your old cloak would be too heavy for you to wear these sunny days," she explained, "and I think this will be the very thing-for you."
Mrs. Barker was delighted; her face was radiant with pleasure. She tried on the new garment, at once, whilst her daughter and Marigold looked on approvingly.
"I declare it's too good for me!" she exclaimed.
"Not a bit of it, mother. It suits her very well, doesn't it, miss?" Barker said, appealing to Marigold.
"Yes; it does indeed, Mrs. Barker," the little girl answered. "You look so nice in it!"
"I feel as grand as a duchess," Mrs. Barker declared. "My neighbours will hardly know me when they see me out-of-doors next!"
Marigold enjoyed her tea immensely. She drank it out of a bright pink teacup with "A present from Brighton" engraved upon it in gold letters. She was debating in her mind whether it would be considered a breach of good manners to remark upon it, when Mrs. Barker said—
"You are looking at your teacup, I see, miss. Isn't it pretty?"
"Yes, very pretty," Marigold replied. "I was going to say so, only I was afraid you might think me rude for noticing it to you."
"Louisa brought it home from Brighton for me last winter," Mrs. Barker explained.
"Louisa?" Marigold said questioningly.
"Yes, miss. Why, you don't mean to tell me you don't know who Louisa is?" the old woman exclaimed, laughing.
"Who is she?" Marigold asked, feeling bewildered at the amusement she saw on the faces of mother and daughter.
"Why, Louisa is my daughter, to be sure!" Mrs. Barker responded.
"What, Barker? Oh, how silly of me not to guess! But, do you know, I never knew what her name was before!"
"They always call me by my surname at Powderham Crescent," Barker informed her mother, "so, of course, Miss Marigold could not tell who you were talking about."
Presently Marigold asked Mrs. Barker if she ever saw her old mistress, Mrs. Adams, now.
"No, miss, never," was the reply. "When I married I went to live at Plymouth; and afterwards, when my husband died, and I came back to Exeter, I thought maybe Mrs. Adams had had so much trouble herself she would not care about seeing me, and I did not wish to intrude on her grief—poor lady! I daresay you've heard tell, miss, how she lost her husband and children at one time—all but the baby?"
"No. Do please tell me," Marigold requested, in accents of deep concern.
"'Tis a very sad story, miss. Someone who read about it in the newspaper told me of it first of all, whilst I was at Plymouth, and then, when I came back to Exeter, I met a friend who was at Exmouth at the time, and knew all about the accident. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Adams and their five children were in lodgings at Exmouth for change of air, and one day master—I mean Mr. Adams—took the four children out mackerel fishing. Mrs. Adams stayed at home with Master Jo, who was a little chap about two years old, I should think, then. Well, miss, it was a fine day, but breezy, and—no one ever knew how it happened—the sailing boat capsized, and master, and the children, and the boatmen were all drowned. The boat was found afterwards bottom upwards, and next tide all the poor dead bodies were washed ashore."
"Oh, how sad, how terribly, terribly sad!" cried Marigold, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, I wonder it did not kill poor Mrs. Adams!"
The old woman shook her head sorrowfully as she continued—
"The shock would have killed some women, but she was not one of the sort to lie down and die. Besides, she had little Master Jo left to live and care for; and they tell me those two are all in all to each other. I have seen him many times, and often I've been tempted to stop him and ask after his mother, for he has a gentle face, although he is such a big man!"
"He is one of the kindest men I ever met," Marigold declared, with conviction in her tones; and she proceeded to give Mrs. Barker an account of her journey from Paddington to Exeter, when she had been so sad after parting from her mother, and Farmer Jo had proved himself such a cheering companion.
"Ah, he's like his father, I take it," the old woman said. "I never met a happier couple than Mr. and Mrs. Adams, and to think he should have been taken from her like that, and all those dear children too! The ways of God are mysterious, and it must have been a sore trial to her faith when He laid such affliction upon her."
"Yes," Marigold agreed. "I wonder she could ever feel happy again, and yet, do you know, Mrs. Barker, she has such a bright face!"
"Has she, miss? Ah, you may depend upon it, she has learnt to say, 'Thy will be done.'"
Marigold looked thoughtful. The story she had heard from Mrs. Barker's lips had impressed her deeply, and she was somewhat silent during the remainder of the visit. She had stepped along lightheartedly by Barker's side in the afternoon, but on their return journey she walked soberly and sedately, with an expression of unusual gravity on her face.
"Well, miss, what do you think of my mother?" Barker asked, at length.
"Oh, I like her so much!" the little girl replied promptly. "That is a dear little house she lives in."
"She was very glad to get it, Miss Marigold; and it's a great relief to my mind to know that she will have a comfortable home as long as she lives. It's a bit lonely for her sometimes, though!"
"I daresay it is. I hope you will take me to see her again, Barker; that is, if you think she will not mind. But perhaps she would rather you went alone?"
"Oh no, Miss Marigold! I could see she took quite a fancy to you, and I'm sure she will be always very glad whenever you care to go and see her, for she dearly loves to have visitors. Until lately she has been accustomed to lead a busy life, and not being able to read—"
"What! Can't she read?" Marigold cried, in accents of profound surprise.
"No, miss," Barker replied. "When she was a child, parents were not bound to send their children to school, like they are now. My grandfather was only a farm labourer, and as mother was the eldest of a long family, she went into service when she was barely fourteen, and before that she had to look after her little brothers and sisters, so you see she never went to school at all. As I was saying, not being able to read, I'm afraid the time sometimes hangs heavy on her hands."
"How sad not to be able to read the Bible!" Marigold said, lifting a pair of thoughtful dark eyes to her companion's face.
"I read her a chapter when I go home every other Sunday," Barker replied. "She says she thinks of it afterwards, and of what she hears in church too. She has a wonderful memory, and can repeat many of the psalms word for word, and a great many hymns."
Marigold found her aunts seated placidly in the drawing-room as usual, on her return. Both greeted her with brightening faces, and Miss Holcroft said—
"Come here, Marigold, and tell us what you have been doing. Did you find Mrs. Barker at home?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary; she was expecting us, you know. She seemed very glad to see us, and her parlour is such a nice little room—it is, really!" seeing a doubtful look on Miss Holcroft's face. "It is not so very much smaller than our sitting-room in London. Everything was so clean and tidy, you would have been delighted with it, Aunt Pamela."
Miss Pamela smiled as she inquired—
"Did you have tea?"
"Oh yes! At a little round table with the bunch of flowers I took from our garden in the centre. They looked beautiful, and quite scented the room. Mrs. Barker was so pleased with them. She has a little garden of her own, you know, and it is full of flowers, though not lilies or roses—ones that are cheap and easy to grow."
"Does she cultivate them herself?" Miss Pamela asked, with interest in her tone. "If so, perhaps she would like some roots from us. The lilies of the valley increase rapidly, and we could well spare her a few roots."
"I think she would be very glad to have them," Marigold replied.
"Perhaps I might go and see the old woman one of these days."
"Oh, do, Aunt Pamela! She loves having visitors, Barker says."
"We have had visitors in your absence, my dear," Miss Holcroft interposed at this point. "Now, I wonder if you can guess who they were."
Marigold shook her head smilingly.
"One of them is really more your friend than ours, I'm sure," Miss Holcroft continued. "Now you know, do you not?"
"No, indeed; I cannot imagine who they were," Marigold responded, looking puzzled.
"Farmer Jo and his mother have been here. They had been to see Mrs. Nowell, and afterwards they called here. They both seemed very disappointed you were not at home, did they not, Pamela?"
"Yes, I'm sure they were sorry to have missed you, Marigold," Miss Pamela said.
"Mrs. Adams said she was very fond of children."
"Oh, I wish I had been at home!" the little girl cried, in disappointed accents.
"We have promised to drive out to their farm one fine day," Miss Pamela continued. "If all is well, we will take you with us, Marigold."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Pamela!"
Marigold had spoken in bright, glad tones; but now a shadow crossed her face, and in a few words she told them the sad story she had heard from old Mrs. Barker that afternoon. Her aunts listened in silence, but when she had finished her tale, Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, whilst Miss Pamela's usually cold face was full of sympathy.
"And to think that she should have lived to be happy again!" the latter exclaimed. "She looked so cheerful this afternoon. I'm sure I thought she had lived an ordinary, uneventful life, and instead of that she must have suffered as few women are called upon to do. To lose husband and four little children at once, and in such a heartrending manner! Oh, I wonder it did not kill her!"
"That is what I said to Mrs. Barker," Marigold put in; "but she said Mrs. Adams was not one of the sort to lie down and die."
"What did she mean by that remark, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked.
"I think she meant that Mrs. Adams trusted in God, and knew it was His will," Marigold answered reverently. "I suppose she felt like mother did when father died—only, of course, mother had all of us left," the little girl added.
"How did your mother feel?" Miss Pamela questioned abruptly.
"First of all as though she did not want to live without father, and then she thought that it was very selfish to wish to die, when perhaps God had so much work for her to do, and she remembered she was only parted from father for a time, and it was wicked to be sorry because he had finished the fight."
"'Finished the fight?'" Miss Pamela repeated inquiringly.
"Yes—the good fight of faith," Marigold explained.
There was a brief silence, broken by the little girl's remarking—
"It must be dreadful not to be able to read. Poor Mrs. Barker never went to school in her life, so she never learned; of course it is not her fault, but it does seem a great pity, does it not? Barker reads to her every other Sunday when she goes home, and then she has something to think about afterwards."
"Poor old soul!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed sympathetically.
When Marigold wrote to her mother, which she did in the course of a few days, she found she had many topics to write about. Many new acquaintances had come into her life, many new interests occupied her thoughts. Hitherto, in her London home her life had been of necessity a somewhat narrow one, because her mother had always been much occupied, and had no time for making new friends; but, now, Marigold found herself in a very different position. She had a comfortable home, ample pocket-money, and everything that wealth could give; but, oh! how she longed sometimes for the sight of her mother's face, the touch of the loving arms, the sound of the gentle voice.
Then, too, how happy she would have been, if her mother and brothers could have shared the good things she was learning to take as a matter of course—the spacious house with its comfortable belongings, the well-trained servants, the plentiful food, all of which had seemed to her at first to be great luxuries.
The little girl had on her arrival been prejudiced against her aunts on account of their having ignored her mother, but Miss Holcroft had won her love at once; and she was beginning to discover that there was much to admire and respect in Miss Pamela's sterner character. But, in spite of the kindness of both her aunts, in spite of her comfortable surroundings and freedom from the petty cares that she had shared with her family in her London home, Marigold never ceased to long for the day, years hence though she knew it would probably be, when she would return to her mother, never, as she trusted, to be parted again.
IT was a hot July day. Afternoon school was over at last, and Miss Hardcastle's girls trooped out into the sunshine, glad to be in the open air, for the weather was terribly oppressive, and the schoolrooms, though well ventilated, had been almost unbearably close. Marigold was nearly half-way home when a sudden doubt assailed her mind, and she made a hasty search in her schoolbag, only to find that she had left behind her a book she particularly wanted. She must return to fetch it, or she would not be able to prepare one of her most important lessons for the following day; so she hastily retraced her footsteps, and entered the class-room with flushed cheeks and panting breath. After taking the forgotten book from her desk, she sat down, meaning to rest a few minutes before starting for home again; and then she noticed that she was not alone, as she had imagined.
Seated at a table by one of the open windows was Muriel Wake, her elbows resting on the blank sheet of paper in front of her, and her head in her hands. She did not glance at Marigold, who regarded her with astonishment, for there was an air of utter dejection about the little figure that surprised her greatly. Muriel was usually full of life and high spirits.
Having rested until she had become somewhat cooler, and had regained her breath, Marigold picked up her bag of books, and was about to leave the room when a slight sound, half sigh, half sob, from Muriel arrested her attention, and she paused irresolutely. Although Muriel had treated her in such an unfriendly fashion, Marigold could not bear to see her in trouble without trying to console her, and after a moment's hesitation she crossed to her side, and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Muriel! Why are you crying? What is it?"
Muriel started as though she had been stung, and shook off the other's hand impatiently.
"What do you want?" she demanded, in pettish tones. "Why can't you leave me alone? I don't want you bothering me with questions, just as if you cared!"
"I—I thought you were crying," Marigold explained, "and—and I wondered if I could help you in any way."
Muriel raised a hot, tear-stained face and gazed at her companion with blurred blue eyes.
"I suppose you're mocking me!" she cried angrily. "Why don't you go away and leave me in peace? You're glad to see me like this, I know!"
"Indeed I am not, and you're very wicked to say so!" Marigold protested warmly. Then, her pity at the sight of Muriel's woebegone countenance getting the better of her indignation, she added more quietly, "Don't be silly! You know very well I'm not mocking you! Tell me what's wrong, do!"
"Do you really want to know? But no, of course you don't! You'll tell the other girls, so that they may jeer at me!"
"I hope I should not treat anyone so badly as that!"
"Well, Miss Smith has kept me in because I worked my sum all wrong," Muriel condescended to explain, speaking in a sulky tone, "and I haven't the faintest idea how to do it."
"Is that why you're crying?" Marigold questioned, for, as a rule, her companion did not take to heart any trouble in connection with her work.
"My head is aching, and I'm so dreadfully hot!"
"Why didn't you tell Miss Smith? Perhaps she would have let you off this once."
"Not she—cross old thing! She said I did not attend when she was explaining the rule, and working the example on the blackboard. However, as I can't work the sum, I suppose I must sit here until she chooses to let me go, or until I melt!"
Marigold laughed; and a slight smile flickered across Muriel's face.
"Would Miss Smith mind if I helped you?" the former inquired.
"Oh, would you, Marigold? No, I don't think Miss Smith would mind. It's not that I won't do the sum, I really can't. I don't know how! See, this is it."
Muriel drew an arithmetic book towards her, and pointed out the sum. It presented no difficulties to Marigold, who was quick at arithmetic, and had been attentive during the lesson that day, whilst Muriel had been gazing idly about the room and not attending to a word the governess had been saying. It had been a hot, trying day for teachers and pupils, so it was small wonder Miss Smith had lost her patience with Muriel, when she had made the discovery that the child knew nothing whatever about the lesson she had been at some pains to make plain and simple for her pupils.
Presently the two heads—one golden, the other brown—were bent together over the hitherto blank sheet of paper; and soon, under Marigold's instructions, Muriel was enabled to understand, and work the sum correctly.
"Thank you, Marigold. I should never have done it but for you," Muriel said, with real gratitude in her voice; adding a little shamefacedly, "It is too bad of me to let you stay in on this broiling afternoon when you might have been out in the fresh air!"
"Nonsense! I am very glad I could help you. May you leave now, or must you wait for Miss Smith's permission to go?"
"Oh, she said when I had worked the sum I could put my paper on her desk and go."
In a few minutes the two children started on their homeward way together. Marigold could not help thinking of the day when she had given Muriel her confidence, and how it had been betrayed. The remembrance made her feel rather embarrassed, and she wished their walk was over. Muriel was looking pale and tired. She was not a very strong child, and the hot weather was trying her health and spirits.
"Shan't you be glad when the holidays come?" she asked. "I don't think we ought to have to go to school in this heat. Are you going home for the holidays?"
"I—I am afraid not."
"I suppose father will send me to the seaside; he generally does every summer. That will be a change anyway!"
"Will your father go with you?" Marigold inquired.
"Good gracious, no!" as though surprised at the idea. "He will take his holiday abroad somewhere, I expect; and I shall be packed off with our housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She's a silly old woman, but, on the whole, I think I'd rather have her for a companion than father!"
"Are you not very fond of your father, then?"
"No, I'm not," Muriel acknowledged candidly.
"Isn't he good to you?" Marigold questioned.
"Oh, I suppose so. Yes. He gives me plenty of money, and when he comes home he brings me presents; but—well, I often think I should be better pleased if he loved me a little more."
"Oh, but surely he loves you!"
"I don't believe he does: He never wants to have me with him, or cares anything about what I do!" Muriel said, with a sigh that sounded genuinely regretful.
Marigold, whose home, in spite of its poverty, had always been rich in affection, looked at her companion with her dark eyes full of sympathy. Muriel noted the look, and somehow it touched a soft part of her selfish little heart, and she said, speaking hurriedly—
"What made you help me to-day? I wouldn't have done it, if you'd been in my place."
Marigold made no answer. She blushed rosy red and turned her head aside.
"Didn't you feel glad to see me crying?"
"No, indeed I did not!"
"Don't you hate me for having spoken of your mother to the other girls as I did?"
"No, not now. I did at the time, but afterwards I began to feel differently. I—I thought perhaps you did not understand how much I minded to hear mother spoken of like that."
"Oh, but I did understand. I did it on purpose to annoy you," Muriel confessed frankly. "I disliked you, because I saw Miss Smith thought a lot of you. She said to me one day: 'I wish you were as good and attentive as Marigold Holcroft; I never have to tell her the same thing twice!' I was jealous of you from the first."
"Oh, Muriel!" in reproachful tones.
"I was; and you must have seen it. That is why I was so astonished when you offered to help me with that sum. What made you do it?"
"I was sorry to see you crying."
"How odd! I should have been glad if it had been you! I wonder why you don't hate me?"
"I'm afraid I did hate you once; but I found if I went on hating you and feeling wicked I couldn't pray, so I tried to forgive you instead."
"Why couldn't you pray?" in accents of intense astonishment and curiosity.
"Because I couldn't say, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' That was why."
"You funny girl! I should never have thought about that at all."
"Don't you think about what you pray, then? Don't you feel that you're talking to God, and that He knows all you do, and think, and say?"
"No."
After a moment's silence, during which Marigold turned and looked at her companion to see if she was speaking sincerely, Muriel remarked—
"I suppose you are very religious. Of course, I say my prayers every night and morning, but I go through them as quickly as I can, to get them over."
"But what is the use of praying at all, if you feel like that?"
"I don't suppose it is any use!"
"Oh, Muriel! Did no one ever teach you that God is your Friend?" Then, as Muriel shook her golden head, Marigold continued impulsively, "You said just now you would be better pleased if your father loved you a little more, but you don't seem to care whether God loves you or not. Don't you know He does?"
"I never thought about it."
"Do you never read the Bible?"
"Never, except at school."
"Oh, I wish you would read a few verses from the Bible every day, like I do. I have my father's Bible for my own now, and—"
Marigold paused abruptly, wondering if on the morrow she would have cause to regret that she had not kept her companion more at a distance, instead of having touched upon a subject that was very near her heart. Perhaps Muriel guessed her thoughts, for she said quickly—
"Go on. What were you going to say? I promise I won't repeat it like I did before."
Thus encouraged, Marigold told how she had become possessed of her father's Bible, and what his motto had been. Muriel listened attentively, her face full of interest.
"'Fight the good fight of faith,'" she repeated thoughtfully. "And that is what you are trying to do, Marigold? I don't believe it would be the least good my trying, although I rather like the idea. I'll think it over. Do you know you and Grace Long are very much alike?"
"Oh, do you really think so?" Marigold questioned eagerly, her eyes brightening with pleasure, for she had a very sincere admiration for Grace.
"Yes. Not in appearance, but in the way you think about things. Grace is good-natured, and so are you. She must have a dull time of it always at school; but she seems happy enough. Sometimes I envy her, for I'm never very happy myself," Muriel confessed, a little dejectedly.
Marigold's aunts both looked greatly surprised when the little girl informed them that she had walked home from school with Muriel Wake; but their astonishment was profounder still when, a few days later, she asked permission to invite Muriel to tea on the following Saturday.
"Why, Marigold! That disagreeable child who served you so unkindly!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed.
"Yes, I know, Aunt Mary. I think Muriel is really sorry about that, and these last few days we have become much more friendly. I have not said anything to her about asking her here, so if you would rather not—"
"No, no!" Miss Holcroft interposed. "Have her to tea by all means if you wish it."
"But is it wise to be on friendly terms with a child possessing such a treacherous disposition?" Miss Pamela asked doubtfully.
"I am so sorry for her, Aunt Pamela!"
"How is that? I thought she had everything this world can give to make her happy."
"But she is not happy," Marigold told them positively.
"Then I fear she is an ungrateful, discontented little girl, Marigold!"
"I am afraid I cannot make you understand. No one cares for her, and—oh! I know it is her own fault, but it hurts her all the same!"
"Well, you have our permission to invite her here if you wish it, my dear," Miss Pamela replied; "but I should advise you to be cautious in your dealings with her, and not trust her too much."
So Muriel Wake became acquainted with Marigold's aunts, and as she was on her best behaviour, she made, on the whole, a favourable impression, and obtained their consent to Marigold's paying her a visit on a future occasion.
So commenced a friendship that was a surprise to everybody, including Miss Hardcastle herself who wondered what possible attraction wayward, undependable Muriel Wake could have for such a girl as Marigold, who gave no trouble whatever at school and worked with a hearty good will.
In the playground, one day, Grace Long spoke to Marigold upon the subject.
"So you do not hate Muriel any longer?" she said, smiling.
"No. She has been much nicer to me lately," was the response. "I think she is often disagreeable because she is unhappy."
"That is my opinion also; but it is selfish and unkind of her to try to make others suffer on that account. Poor Muriel! I am very glad to see you and she are better friends. Are you looking forward to the holidays? I am. Miss Hardcastle is going to take me to Ilfracombe for a few weeks. Isn't that something to look forward to?"
"It is indeed!"
"Are you going away?" Grace inquired.
"I expect not. I have heard nothing about it. I should dearly love to go home, but there is no chance of that," with a regretful shake of the head.
"Oh, I am sorry! But, never mind, perhaps you will see your mother sooner than you think."
Marigold tried to smile cheerfully, but it was a vain attempt. She was not looking forward to the end of the term with glad anticipation in any way, for she would miss the companionship of the girls; and she could not help envying the boarders who were going home for the holidays. Not that she was in the least unhappy with her aunts, only hearing so much about going home' brought back the old feeling of homesickness that she was striving to overcome, and had mastered to a great extent, though sometimes the longing for her mother and brothers was too strong to be kept in check. She grew a little languid and heavy-eyed, and her usually bright spirits flagged.
"You have been working too hard, child," Miss Pamela told her; "you will be glad of a rest."
"She wants a whiff of sea air, I think," Miss Holcroft said kindly, "a few weeks on the coast would do her good. Pamela, what do you say, shall we spend August by the seaside?"
"We will think about it," Miss Pamela replied. "There will be plenty of time to consider that matter later on."
"I WENT to see Molly Jenkins this afternoon," I Miss Pamela announced a few days later, as she joined her sister and niece at the tea-table, "and I am sorry to say she is not at all well."
"Dear me! What is amiss?" Miss Holcroft asked, a look of concern on her gentle face. "Has she been working too hard?"
"No, I do not think it is that. She told me she had finished the beautiful bridal veil you saw her making some weeks ago, and has been well paid for it. Since then, she says she has been taking things easier. The poor girl was looking so pale and thin that I was struck with surprise and dismay at the alteration in her appearance; her spirits seem to have failed her too. She acknowledged she was not feeling well, and said she thought the hot weather had tried her health. It was stifling in her sitting-room this afternoon, not a breath of air came in the windows, though they were both open."
"The heat has been quite overpowering to-day," Miss Holcroft said; "did you not find it so at school, Marigold?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Mary. But think how much hotter it must be in London!"
Marigold sighed and looked thoughtful, for she had that day received a letter from her mother, saying how glad she would be for the boys' sakes when the holidays came, for the heat was making them languid, and Rupert had not been very well lately. How the little girl wished she could transplant her three loved ones to the Cornish fishing village, where it had been decided she was to accompany her aunts as soon as the term came to an end. She had never been by the seaside in her life, and though she was excited at the thought of the pleasure in store for her, yet her anticipation was shadowed by the remembrance of her mother and brothers, who, she knew, must be needing a change of air and scene far more than she did. She wondered if her aunts ever thought how monotonous their lives must be from year's end to year's end in that little suburban flat. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she missed part of the conversation that was going on, and started when Miss Holcroft called her by name.
"Yes, Aunt Mary," she answered quickly.
"What are you dreaming about, my dear? Have you not heard what Pamela has been saying?"
"Not a word, I am afraid," Marigold confessed. "I am so sorry, Aunt Pamela! Were you asking me something?"
"No, child. I was remarking that I saw Mrs. Adams in the city this afternoon, and she inquired how you were. I told her you were looking pale, and that we intended taking you away for a change next month; whereupon she said she wondered if you would care to spend a Sunday with them at Rocombe—that is the name of their farm."
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, her face shining with delight.
"I said I would ask you, and if you would like to go, Farmer Jo will drive in to fetch you on Friday evening, and bring you back early on Monday morning in time for school. It was a kind thought of Mrs. Adams, was it not? I see you like the idea, Marigold."
"Oh yes, yes! How good of her! I have never seen a farm! Oh, how kind people are to me!"
"I daresay two clear days in the country will blow the cobwebs away," Miss Holcroft said smilingly; "but need we trouble Mr. Adams to fetch Marigold? We might drive out to Rocombe ourselves, and leave her there."
"Perhaps that would be the better plan," Miss Pamela agreed. "I will write Mrs. Adams to that effect. The invitation was given with such spontaneous kindness that I had no scruples about accepting it, especially as I deemed doing so would be for Marigold's benefit."
"How good everyone is to me!" the little girl cried gratefully, glancing from one aunt to the other with eyes that expressed even more than her words.
"We believe you are trying to please us, Marigold," Miss Pamela responded. "I met Miss Hardcastle as I was returning home this afternoon, and she gave me an excellent report of your conduct at school; she looks upon you as a promising pupil, for the says you have ability, and are willing to work. I was much gratified to hear her opinion of you."
"I wish mother knew!" were the words that rose to Marigold's lips, but she did not utter them; instead, she remained silent, struggling with the desire to cry, she hardly knew for what reason, except that every kindness she received, every loving word her aunts gave her, seemed to set her farther apart from her mother and brothers. The contrast between her life and theirs was apparent to her more and more each day, and her heart cried out: "It is not fair that I should have everything, whilst they have nothing!"
Miss Holcroft noticed her little niece's emotion, and though she had no clue to the cause, she considerately changed the conversation into another channel by asking—
"Don't you think Mr. Jenkins may have something to do with poor Molly's sad looks, Pamela?"
"Yes, very likely. I fear he is not going on well; in fact, his daughter did not hesitate to say so in as many words. He returns home in a state of intoxication every night now, and Molly is in continual dread lest some accident should befall him. Poor girl, she has a heavy burden to bear!"
Miss Holcroft shook her head sadly as she replied—
"I imagined the last time I saw her that her father was getting worse and worse. Wretched man! What will be his end? There is nothing we can do for that poor girl, I fear."
"No, nothing whatever. She will not hear of leaving her father, and looked almost indignant when I suggested the advisability of such a step, talked of her duty to him, her duty, indeed! I wonder if it ever crosses his mind to think of his duty to her!"
"Ah, well, perhaps she is right," Miss Holcroft said gently. "She is very patient with him."
"Patient! I should think so!" Miss Pamela cried indignantly. "And to think how abominably he has served her from first to last! I could hardly keep my tongue still about him this afternoon when she was speaking of him, and looking all the while so fragile and slight as though a breath of wind would blow her away, yet withal so firm of purpose, and determined to remain with her father. 'He has no one in the world but me,' she said, 'and if I deserted him, what would become of him then?'"
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold exclaimed, forgetting everything but her sympathy and admiration for Molly Jenkins, "how splendid of her!"
"Humph!" said Miss Pamela, "perhaps it was!"
Miss Pamela was one of those folks who never do themselves justice in the sight of others. People often had a wrong impression about her, deeming her cold, proud, and hard, when in reality she was kind-hearted and sympathetic. She was not a favourite with her acquaintances, but she possessed a few friends who had known her long enough to be certain of her excellent intentions, her sterling worth. She was very true and faithful, and hated nothing so much as deception and sham; therefore, when Marigold's father had come to her with the story of his marriage, her indignation had known no bounds, and she had jumped to the false conclusion that his wife had induced him to keep the secret from his aunts, for fear of their disapproval. She had not allowed him to enter into any explanations, and they had parted in anger, never to meet again, whilst she continued to harbour bitter thoughts against the woman who had been the cause of the breach between them. Only since she had known Marigold had she entertained any doubts as to her conduct in the matter having been right. There had sprung up in her heart a warm affection for her dead nephew's little daughter. She had fallen in with her sister's desire to take the child and educate her from a sense of duty; but now she loved Marigold dearly.
Marigold was like her father in appearance, she had his dark, beautiful eyes, she was sweet-tempered and kind-hearted, as he had been, and possessed his brave spirit; but Miss Pamela knew that the desire to do right, that was Marigold's strongest characteristic, must have been inculcated by the mother, and her alone. Miss Pamela's sentiments towards her nephew's widow had been decidedly modified since she had recognised that fact, though she had not acknowledged as much even to her sister.
Marigold was in a great state of excitement when Friday evening arrived at last, and she drove off with her aunts to Rocombe Farm. It was only three miles from Exeter, close to a pretty village, and not many minutes' walk from an old grey church which Miss Holcroft pointed out to the little girl as they passed, saying—
"I expect you will attend Divine service there on Sunday."
Marigold looked at the ancient building with interest, but it was soon lost to sight, and they were driving through the village, which consisted of a few thatched cottages, with two or three larger dwellings.
At length the carriage drew up in front of a long, low house with a porch in the centre, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and before which stretched a velvety lawn, edged with flower-beds. They alighted, and entered the garden through a wicket-gate at the moment the front door opened, and Mrs. Adams' small figure stepped lightly out to meet her visitors.
"I am so glad to see you all," she told them. "You dear little soul to accept my invitation!" she added, turning to Marigold and giving her a hearty kiss.
"It was very kind of you to ask me to come!" the child responded gratefully.
"I think she does look a trifle pale," Mrs. Adams continued; "but come inside, come inside."
She led them into the parlour, a large comfortable room with dark oak furniture that showed off well against a blue wall-paper. There, in spite of Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela's protestations, they were served with strawberries and clotted cream. Then Farmer Jo appeared on the scene, and they made such a merry, happy party that Marigold saw her aunts were sorry to leave.
"We shall trust to you, Mr. Adams, to bring Marigold back in time for school on Monday morning," Miss Pamela told Farmer Jo, after she and her sister were seated in the carriage ready to be driven home.
"You may rely upon me to do so, ma'am," he replied promptly.
"Thank you. You are very good. Good-bye, Mrs. Adams! Good-bye, Marigold."
The little girl sprang into the carriage and gave each of her aunts a kiss, then hopped out again, and stood between mother and son, smiling and nodding, as the carriage was driven away.
"Now what would you like to do this evening, my dear?" Mrs. Adams inquired. "Suppose I show you over the house first of all?"
"And when you've done that, mother, I'll take her around the place out-of-doors," her son suggested. "You'd like to see the farm buildings, wouldn't you?" he added, turning to Marigold, who acquiesced readily.
Accordingly Mrs. Adams led the way into the house and upstairs to a low-ceilinged room, in the centre of which stood a large four-post bed. A servant—a cherry-cheeked damsel whom her mistress addressed as Sally—had already unpacked Marigold's portmanteau, and was leaving the room as they entered.
"I gave you this bedroom because it is next to my own," the old lady explained. "I feared you might be lonely in a strange house."
Marigold glanced around her quickly. The apartment was furnished in an old-fashioned manner, the dressing-table being draped with white muslin looped up with bows of pale blue ribbon, and the walls were covered with a paper over which trailed full-blown roses. In one corner was a large doll's house on a stand, and as Marigold's glance rested upon it in wonder, Mrs. Adams said simply—
"Perhaps you have heard that I once had two little daughters of my own? God took them from me many years ago. Well, this was their room. Look here, my dear!"
She opened a cupboard door, and revealed to sight upon a shelf a lot of children's toys, including two old-fashioned Dutch dolls with cheeks whose bloom was as vivid and whose eyes were as black and staring as they had been half a century before.
A lump rose in Marigold's throat as she looked at the dead children's treasures, and she impulsively slipped her little warm fingers into the old lady's wrinkled hand.
Mrs. Adams smiled, and hand-in-hand they went over the rest of the house. Marigold was especially delighted with the dairy, its tiled floor and shining milk pans, and was promised that on the morrow she should be taught how to turn the rich cream into butter.
Then Farmer Jo came in and claimed her attention. She accompanied him to the stables, and was introduced to Colonel, the tall black horse that was driven in the dogcart, and to Mrs. Adams' pony, Dumpling, whose sole duty in life was to take his mistress about in a little, low basket carriage. After that they went for a stroll in the meadows near by, where the cart-horses were enjoying a rest after the work of the day, and the placid cows were lying down among the daisies and buttercups, pictures of ease and contentment. Then back to the house again, where supper was awaiting their return; and afterwards Marigold went to bed "comfortably tired," as she said, and lay down in her nest of feathers, meaning to go to sleep at once. But, instead, she remained awake, thinking of Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo, till she heard the former come upstairs and pause outside the door.
"I am not asleep, Mrs. Adams," Marigold called out.
"How is that?" asked the old lady, as she entered and bent over the little girl. "Do you not find the bed comfortable?"
"Oh, very comfortable! I never felt such a soft bed before!"
"Ah, you have been accustomed to sleep on a mattress, and not a feather bed, I expect. Now, close your eyes like a dear child and try to sleep, or you will be tired to-morrow, and that will never do! Good-night, and may God bless you!"
Mrs. Adams pressed a kindly kiss on Marigold's forehead as she spoke, and went away, closing the door softly behind her. A few minutes later her little visitor was sleeping peacefully.
SATURDAY morning was a busy time at Rocombe Farm, and Marigold was awakened early by pleasant sounds of life and bustle about the place. Jumping quickly out of bed, she ran to the window and peeped out from behind the blind upon the green lawn and the meadows beyond, fresh and glistening with dew.
Half an hour later she found her way downstairs and out into the yard, where the cows were being milked by a couple of the farm hands.
"Would you like a drink of milk, missy?" inquired one of the men.
Marigold thanked him, and said she would. She returned to the kitchen to fetch a cup, and enjoyed a good draught of the sweet, frothy beverage. Presently Mrs. Adams came down, and welcomed her young guest with a bright smile and an affectionate kiss.
What a happy day that was! Mother and son were eager that Marigold should enjoy herself and make the best of her short visit, which both declared must be repeated often.
She saw the butter made, fed the poultry, and investigated all the outbuildings, even to the pig-styes, in one of which she discovered a sow with eleven young ones; the sweetest, prettiest little creatures she had ever seen, only a few days old, black, and slippery as eels, as she found when she tried to catch one.
"I did not hurt him, indeed I did not!" she exclaimed, as having succeeded in grasping piggy in her two hands, the little animal uttered such piercing shrieks that she let him drop in alarm.
"No, no, of course not!" Farmer Jo, who was standing by looking on in some amusement, answered reassuringly.
"I never heard such a dreadful noise in my life," she continued. "Do little pigs always cry like that, Mr. Adams?"
"Always, if you touch them."
"They are very pretty; I thought pigs were ugly, dirty things!"
"That is quite a mistaken idea."
Marigold accompanied her host around his farm. He gave her a great deal of information about matters of which she had known nothing before; and she feared he must consider her extremely ignorant, especially when she mistook barley for wheat, and had to confess that she did not know the difference between a rook and a blackbird!
In the afternoon Dumpling was brought around to the front gate in the little basket carriage, and Mrs. Adams took Marigold for a most delightful drive through narrow shady lanes rich in ferns, where foxgloves grew tall, and meadow-sweet scented the air with its fragrance.
Dumpling was very fat, and his mistress allowed him to take his time; so the little girl could look about at leisure, and feast her eyes on the beautiful scenery visible from every gateway—wooded valleys, pleasant meadows, through which flowed a rippling stream, and far away in the distance the massive tore of the Dartmoor hills faintly visible through a soft blue haze.
"When Dartmoor looks near, we say it is going to rain," Mrs. Adams explained; "but if the distance appears great, as it does to-day, we know the weather will continue fine."
"How interesting everything is in the country!" Marigold said thoughtfully. "Oh, how I wish mother and the boys could have half the pleasures I get!"
"Perhaps their turn will come some day," was the cheery response. "One can never tell what the future holds in store for us. Your aunts seem very good, kind women, and anxious to make you happy."
"Yes; and indeed I am happy," the little girl declared earnestly.
"Then you can say, like the Psalmist: 'The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places.' Is it not so?"
"Yes."
After a moment's hesitation, Marigold explained to her new friend all about her mother and brothers, and her London home. Mrs. Adams listened with great interest, her bright dark eyes full of kindly sympathy.
"I see the thought troubles you that life is so much easier and pleasanter for you than for your mother and brothers," she said gravely; "but I would not let that worry me if I were you. It seems to me that your duty lies with your aunts at Exeter, for the present, at any rate. Has it ever occurred to you that they may want you more than your mother does?"
"No, never!"
"I think it is very possible they do. You tell me they make a happy home for you; you should enjoy it with a thankful heart, as a blessing God has given you, and not wonder why He has selected you instead of others to receive so many benefits. It is His will it should be so. When God bestows the good things of this world upon anyone, depend upon it He means them to be made the most of and appreciated. Do not worry about your mother, child; she has her Heavenly Father for a Guide, and He will mark out the fitting path for her, as He does for all who trust in Him. It seems to me that to be troubled because your dear ones are denied the pleasures you enjoy is almost to mistrust God."
"But it is so hard that I should be going away for a holiday by the seaside, when I know they want a change far more than I do!" Marigold cried, her voice full of a wistful sadness. "Poor mother has not been out of London for years, and the boys have so often talked of what they would do if they were in the country. Oh, Mrs. Adams, don't you think it is hard?"
"It appears so to you and me, my dear; but depend upon it God knows best. As you grow older you will learn, I hope, to trust Him more and more. It is difficult sometimes, when He takes from us what we love, whether it be riches, or home, or those dear to us, and bids us seek fresh interests in life. But we must be satisfied to let Him choose our path, remembering that He has promised to be with us always. As to that path—"