"MARIGOLD, are you not well, my dear? Why do you crouch over the fire like that?"
The little girl, who was kneeling on the drawing-room hearthrug with her hands outstretched to the blaze, turned her face to the speaker—Miss Holcroft—with a smile as she answered—
"I am quite well, thank you, Aunt Mary—at least I think so. But I feel so dreadfully cold and shivery!"
"I hope you have not taken a chill. You must have got dreadfully wet returning from school this afternoon. You changed your clothes, did you not?"
"Oh yes, directly I came in. I was drenched to the skin. What a dreadful day it has been!"
A November gale was raging; the wind was howling mournfully around the crescent, and the rain was descending in torrents from a leaden sky.
"Have you prepared your work for to-morrow, Marigold?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary."
"We called upon the Wakes this afternoon," Miss Holcroft informed her niece presently, "and found husband and wife both at home. I think my first impressions of Mrs. Wake were correct. We like her exceedingly."
"Muriel is very fond of her," Marigold replied, "and I really think she is growing to love her father too. She sees so much more of him now he is married, and she says he seems quite happy and contented at home."
"Because his wife makes everything cheerful and comfortable for him. By the way, I have not seen Muriel here lately, how is that? I suppose you are still great friends?"
"Oh yes! But she has very little time to spare, Aunt Mary! She is working much harder at school this term than she did last. Really, she seems hardly like the same girl. Miss Smith says she never saw anyone so altered and improved in her life as Muriel. She is much nicer to the others, and she doesn't try to make mischief, or tell fibs, now."
"How has the change come about?" Miss Holcroft asked, greatly interested.
"I think she is trying to fight the good fight of faith, Aunt Mary!"
"You were the first to suggest that idea to her, were you not, my dear?"
"I believe so. But Molly Jenkins has talked to her about it, I know, and I think Muriel's stepmother helps her too."
There was a brief silence, during which the parlour-maid brought in the letters that had just arrived by the last post for the night. There was one for Marigold from her mother, which the little girl seized eagerly, and proceeded to read. Whilst she was in the midst of its perusal Miss Pamela entered; and a minute later Marigold dropped her letter, and covering her face with her hands, burst into a fit of weeping. Her aunts were much distressed, and strove to learn the cause of her agitation.
"My darling child!" Miss Holcroft cried. "Tell us what is amiss? Have you had bad news from your home?"
"No!" Marigold gasped, uncovering her face and pointing at the letter that lay on the hearthrug. "Please read it! I am very foolish, but—I—I can't help it!"
It was Miss Pamela who glanced first through Mrs. Holcroft's communication, after which she silently handed it to her sister. It told Marigold that a distant relative had lately died, and had left her mother two hundred pounds a year. To the little girl this amount appeared a big fortune, and her tears were shed for excessive joy.
"I am very silly," she said, half laughing, half crying, "but it is so—so wonderful! Oh, Aunt Mary! Oh, Aunt Pamela! To think mother will never need to work so hard again! She will be able to keep a servant, and live in a nicer place! Two hundred pounds a year is a lot of money, isn't it?"
"It is a good bit," Miss Holcroft responded; adding kindly, "I am very glad, dear!"
Miss Pamela sat silent, lost in thought. She took no notice when Marigold continued to talk excitedly of her mother's fortune; whilst Miss Holcroft entered fully into the child's delight.
But after Marigold had said good-night and gone to bed, and the sisters were alone together, Miss Pamela spoke.
"Mary, that woman will want to take Marigold away from us!"
For a moment Miss Holcroft's gentle face was full of astonishment, then a look of alarm and consternation crept over it, and she turned quite pale. "Pamela!" she cried, "you cannot really think that! What has put such an idea into your head?"
"Why did Marigold's mother allow us to have her here?" Miss Pamela demanded, almost fiercely. "Was it because she did not love the child, and was glad to get rid of her?"
"No, no; of course it was not!" Miss Holcroft answered soothingly, amazed that her sister, who was usually so cold and collected, should show such excitement. "Pray calm yourself, Pamela!"
"She sent Marigold to us because she could not afford to put her to school and give her a good education. If she could have kept her without injury to the child, she would have done so, and you know it as well as I do, Mary!"
"I—I suppose so," Miss Holcroft acknowledged.
"That having been the case, now she has two hundred pounds a year left to her, she will want Marigold back again. I feel sure she will, and Marigold will be glad to go!"
"Marigold is very fond of her mother, but I think she has grown to love us too. Mrs. Holcroft said nothing in her letter about taking Marigold away from us."
"No; that is to come! However, I shall write to her myself to-morrow, and inquire what her intentions are."
But Miss Pamela did nothing of the kind, for the following morning, when Marigold came down to breakfast, she seemed so poorly that her aunts sent her back to bed again, thinking she had taken cold, and would be better on the morrow; but as the day advanced she grew rapidly worse, and a message was sent to Dr. Nowell requesting him to call. Marigold knew the doctor quite well, for he and his wife were numbered amongst the Misses Holcroft's most intimate friends. He was a little, red-faced, sandy-haired man, whose genial temper and cheery manner made him a general favourite with children.
"What is amiss with her?" Miss Pamela inquired, as he followed her into the drawing-room, after having made a thorough examination of his patient.
"She is very ill," he answered, "and will want careful nursing. You had better get a trained nurse."
"I do not think that will be necessary. Barker and I will nurse her."
"Very well," and he proceeded to give her directions as to the treatment of the little girl.
"We shall see in a very few days how it is going with her," he added.
"What is her disease?" Miss Pamela asked.
"Pneumonia—a sharp attack."
Miss Pamela's face blanched, but she retained her composure.
"We must save her life if we can, doctor," she said, now fully realising the seriousness of the case. "My sister and I are very fond of the child."
"She is a dear little thing. My wife will be sorry to hear of her illness. However, we must hope for the best."
"What does he say, Pamela?" Miss Holcroft questioned nervously, joining her sister the minute the doctor had gone.
"He says Marigold is ill with pneumonia."
"Does he think she is very ill?" anxiously.
"Yes," was the brief response.
"Oh, Pamela!" Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief, and wiped away a few tears that rolled down her cheeks. "I hope God will spare her to us. Don't you—" hesitating—"don't you think we ought to send for her mother?"
Miss Pamela flushed at the suggestion, and darted a quick look at her sister.
"No!" she replied, "certainly not! There is no necessity yet, at any rate!"
"But if she should not recover—"
Miss Pamela did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but left the room, and went upstairs to Marigold, who lay with hectic cheeks, and panting breath.
The doctor paid another visit late that night, and shook his head when asked if the patient was not a little better.
The house was hushed, and the servants crept on tiptoe with anxious faces, for Marigold had endeared herself to them all. Miss Pamela elected to sit up through the night, and sent the rest of the household to bed.
"There is no necessity for anyone to remain with me," she said. "Barker shall sleep in the next room, and if I require assistance I can call her."
So it was arranged; and Miss Pamela took up her position by Marigold's bedside.
She never forgot that night as long as she lived. At first Marigold was conscious of her presence; but later she grew more feverish, and whispered to herself in disjointed sentences. Her aunt sat by and listened. The child evidently fancied herself back in her London home, for she talked of her brothers, calling them by name. The accents of her faint voice sounded full of distress and trouble. Seeing the condition she was in, a cold sensation of terror struck to Miss Pamela's heart; and she fell on her knees by the bedside and prayed to the Heavenly Father to spare her this bright, young life. She would not try to keep the child from her mother; she would be willing never to see her again, if only God would make her well!
At length Miss Pamela rose from her knees, and bent over Marigold, who was whispering her mother's name tenderly—longingly.
"Marigold, my dear," Miss Pamela said softly, laying her cool hand on the fevered brow, "do you know me?"
"Yes, Aunt Pamela," whispered the voice that was weak, and husky by reason of the panting breath.
"Would it make you very happy if I sent for your mother to come and nurse you?"
"Yes—oh yes!"
"Then, when morning comes, I will send for her first thing!"
A smile of perfect contentment crossed Marigold's face, and with the comforting thought that her mother was coming to her she passed the remainder of the night in far less distress of mind.
"She is very ill," Dr. Nowell said again, next morning, after his visit to his patient, which had been made early.
"I know she is," Miss Pamela answered sadly. "I am going to send for her mother."
"That is right," he replied. "Send at once!"
"Will you write to Mrs. Holcroft, Pamela?" her sister inquired, in eager tones. "Oh, I am so relieved to think that you are going to send for her!"
"No, I shall not write, I shall telegraph; and then she will have time to get here before night."
Miss Pamela took a telegraph-form from her desk, and wrote out the message—
"Marigold is very ill. Come at once." Then she rang the bell, and sent a servant off to the post-office with it.
So it came to pass that late that same evening Mrs. Holcroft arrived. As she stepped out of the cab that had brought her from the station, the front door was flung wide open, and she saw, standing inside, an old lady with white, corkscrew curls on either side of a gentle face that bore unmistakable traces of recent tears. Instinctively Mrs. Holcroft knew that this must be Aunt Mary.
"Is Marigold still living?" she asked, as she took the outstretched hand, and allowed herself to be led into the drawing-room. The thought that she might be too late to see her little girl alive had haunted her all the way on her journey down.
"Yes, yes," Miss Holcroft replied, "and now you are come she will get better, I hope!"
"Will you tell me what is amiss?"
Miss Holcroft briefly explained, and then Miss Pamela came in. The sight of Marigold's mother sitting quietly listening whilst her sister talked, was a surprise, and at the same time a relief to her. She had expected tears, but this slight dark-eyed woman was perfectly composed.
"I have just come from Marigold's room," she said; adding, as she shook hands with her nephew's widow, "you must not think we have neglected the child, for she is very dear to us."
"I am sure of it, and I can never repay you for your goodness to her. Does she know I am here?"
"No; but she knows I sent for you this morning. Will you go to her at once?"
"I think I will remove my cloak and bonnet first, then I shall look more myself."
The sisters led their visitor to the room that had been prepared for her, where she laid aside her outdoor garments, brushed her hair, and washed her face and hands.
"I shall not excite Marigold now," she said, as she turned towards them again, her face very pale, but her eyes full of the light of love. "Still, do you not think before I see her she had better be told I am here?"
"Yes, certainly," Miss Pamela responded; "that will be the better plan."
She entered the sick-room, and motioned to Barker, who watched at the bedside, to go away.
"Marigold, my darling child," she said gently, bending over the little sufferer, who opened her dark eyes, and looked into her face with a faint smile, "did you hear a cab stop outside here a short while ago?"
"No, Aunt Pamela."
"Someone has arrived who is longing to see you, and who is going to help us to nurse you well again, I trust!"
"Mother?" Marigold inquired breathlessly. "Oh, tell her to come to me quickly—tell her—"
Miss Pamela moved towards the door as it was opened from without, and Mrs. Holcroft crossed the room noiselessly, and clasped her little girl in her arms. Neither spoke a word, but in the one backward glance that Miss Pamela ventured to take before she shut the door, she saw that Marigold's head was cradled on her mother's breast, and that her frail arms were clinging tightly around her mother's neck.
Miss Pamela stole softly away, and joined her sister in the next room.
"I feel so relieved Mrs. Holcroft has come," she confessed, with a sigh. "I have a strong presentiment that Marigold will recover now."
Miss Holcroft regarded her with a slight feeling of awe, for it was years since she had seen tears in Miss Pamela's bright dark eyes, and they looked suspiciously moist at that moment.
"What do you think of Marigold's mother, Pamela?" she asked, in a hesitating tone.
"She made me feel ashamed of myself," Miss Pamela acknowledged. "Did you notice how quiet she was, how, though she must have been longing to see the child, she would not go to her till she was quite composed? She never thought of her own feelings in the matter at all, only of what was best for Marigold."
"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed thoughtfully. "She looks thin and pale, does she not? I expect she has suffered mental agonies to-day, not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Indeed, I behave she would not have been surprised if she had been told the child was dead—and yet she was much calmer than you or I. The meeting with her was not nearly so awkward as I had anticipated it would be. I suppose, in reality, not one was thinking of ourselves, but of Marigold. How strange it seems that poor Rupert's widow should be under our roof at last!"
FOR many days Marigold lay at death's door, too ill to notice those who were nursing her with loving care, and unflagging attention. Poor Miss Holcroft was quite broken-down with grief, and could not restrain her tears even in the presence of the little patient, so she was banished from the sick-room entirely, and spent the greater portion of her time hovering around the closed door that hid Marigold from her sight, listening to the child's painful breathing with a sinking heart.
Mrs. Holcroft and Miss Pamela were indefatigable nurses. They took it in turns to watch by the little sufferer; and there came a day when they knew that their efforts were to be rewarded, and that God was going to allow them to keep the precious life that had been given into His care. By Marigold's sick-bed, without one word of explanation, those two learnt to understand each other.
Marigold was better. The servants heard the glad news and rejoiced, whilst Barker shed tears of relief and thankfulness. The parlour-maid's bright face, as she opened the door to inquirers after the sick child, was cheerful and smiling, and told the good report before her lips had time to frame the hopeful words. In the drawing-room, Miss Holcroft sat with a look of happiness on her face, ready to interview any caller who might come. During the long, dragging days that had passed, there had been many kind inquirers after Marigold. Mrs. Barker had arrived every evening, going to the back door to hear what the servants had to say of the patient; and Molly Jenkins and Marigold's school friends had made constant visits to Powderham Crescent, whilst Farmer Jo had ridden in every night to get the latest news of his little friend. But to Muriel Wake Marigold's illness had been a terrible grief; and when she was told that Marigold was actually out of danger, her delight knew no bounds. She ran past the parlour-maid and into the drawing-room, catching Miss Holcroft around the neck, and hugging her till the old lady laughingly pleaded for mercy.
"Muriel, my dear child, pray curb your excitement!" Miss Holcroft said. "I knew you would be glad to hear the good news."
"I am just wild with joy!" Muriel answered. "Oh, Miss Holcroft, I have been so miserable and unhappy since Marigold's illness, and I prayed to God to let her live! I don't know what I should do without her! Is she really and truly better?"
"Yes, thank God! She spoke to her mother this morning, and later to Pamela. Dr. Nowell says with careful nursing she will get well now!"
"Oh yes! oh yes!"
Muriel was so excited that she did not notice the door open, and turned with a start as Miss Holcroft said—
"Here is Marigold's mother, Muriel, to give us the latest bulletin!"
"Marigold is sleeping quietly, I am glad to say," Mrs. Holcroft responded, in hopeful tones; then, turning to Muriel, "Are you one of my little girl's friends?"
"Yes. I am Muriel Wake."
"Ah! I have heard of you. Marigold will want to see you as soon as she is a little stronger, I feel sure. You were at Boscombe during the summer holidays, were you not?"
Mrs. Holcroft sat down by Muriel's side and entered into conversation with her. At first the child was rather reserved in her manner, for the sight of Marigold's mother brought back the remembrance of her old treachery, but she soon lost all feeling of restraint, and chatted in her usual bright fashion, till Mrs. Holcroft's pale, tired face was lit up with smiles.
"Muriel, you will be late for afternoon school," Miss Holcroft reminded her at last. "I really think you must go, my dear."
"Yes, Miss Holcroft," Muriel agreed. "Oh, won't the girls be glad to hear my good news to-day!"
She took her departure hastily now, after a hurried farewell, and hastened on her way with a smiling face that told of intense happiness and joy.
The whole school learnt that Marigold Holcroft was better, with feelings of relief and thankfulness, for she was becoming a general favourite with the pupils now, as she had been with the teachers at first. Grace Long murmured a fervent "Thank God!" which Muriel echoed in her heart.
It was not many days before Marigold was well enough to think how wonderful it was that her mother was there helping Aunt Pamela to nurse her. She watched the two figures that were constantly at her bedside, with puzzled eyes. It was happiness indeed to have her mother with her, such happiness that sometimes she could scarcely realise it; and she often grasped Mrs. Holcroft's hand tightly in her weak fingers, to assure herself the dear presence was real, and not a dream.
Soon came the time when she began to ask questions.
"Aunt Pamela," she said one day, "it was you who sent for mother, was it not?"
"Yes, my dear. Don't you remember that first night I sat up with you I promised to do so next day?"
"Yes. It all seems so unreal. How could mother leave the boys, I wonder?"
"Oh, that was easily managed. She arranged with a neighbour to take them in, and board them till she returns. At first, when you began to get better, she thought of taking you back to London with her, but Dr. Nowell thinks that is not advisable. He says you must not live in London, at any rate till the winter is past, so you will have to remain with your old aunts a little longer, Marigold."
"Is mother going to have me to live with her again soon then, Aunt Pamela?"
"Yes, child."
Marigold was silent after that, thinking deeply. Of course she wanted to return to her mother and brothers, her heart beat joyfully at the thought; but she could not help feeling sorrowful at the idea of leaving Exeter.
"Mother," she whispered lovingly, when she was next alone with Mrs. Holcroft, "dear mother, it made me so happy to think of your having had that two hundred pounds a year left to you."
"Yes, darling, I knew it would," her mother replied. "I was wondering how I should do as the boys grow older and want more money spent on their education; and now it has been managed for me, you see. We are going to leave where we are living at present, and take a little house all covered with roses and ivy, and you will be with us, my darling!"
"Oh, mother! How wonderful it seems! But, oh, how Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela will miss me, and how I shall miss them! You don't know how good they have been to me!"
"I think I do, my dear."
"I have so many friends here—"
"I have found that out," her mother interposed, smiling, "for I have seen several of them myself, and thanked them for their kindness to my little girl. The first I saw was a golden-haired, blue-eyed fairy, who has made me promise to let you see her before anyone else."
"Muriel!" Marigold cried, laughing.
"Yes. Next, there was Barker's mother, who said you had been very kind to her."
"I don't think I was ever very kind to her," Marigold said. "There wasn't much I could do for her, except read a chapter from the Bible to her now and then."
"I think from what she said she valued that above all. She sent her love and her blessing to you. Then there was that lame girl you wrote so much about, and several of your school friends, including Grace Long, whom I seemed to know quite well from your description of her. And last, but not least, there was Farmer Jo!"
"Oh, when did you see him, mother?" Marigold asked eagerly.
"This morning, my dear. When you are a little stronger he is going to bring his mother to pay you a visit. Why, Marigold, you have made more friends in the few months you have been here than in the years you spent in London. Do you remember how you came against your will, almost; and how difficult you found it to believe that your duty lay here? Yet you found love and friendship awaiting you, and have been the means of softening your aunts' hearts towards your father and me!"
Marigold remained silent, her heart too full for words.
"I shall be obliged to leave you shortly," her mother continued, "for I must return to the boys; but you will soon see me again, and ere long we shall be living once more under the same roof."
"Oh, how I am longing to see the boys!" Marigold cried.
"And they are longing quite as much to see you, my darling! You will find them both grown. It seems to me that Rupert gets more like his father every day."
"Have you noticed father's likeness, when he was a little boy, on the dining-room wall?" Marigold inquired.
"Yes. What do you think your aunts are going to do? They are going to have a copy made of the original likeness, and give it to me."
"Oh, mother, how good of them! How glad I am! Aunt Mary thought of that, I am sure!"
"You are quite wrong! It was your Aunt Pamela!"
Marigold was a little low-spirited after her mother had returned to London; but her aunts strove to cheer her by assuring her Mrs. Holcroft would soon be back again—perhaps before Christmas.
Meanwhile, Marigold was growing rapidly well. She was now able to interview visitors, and Muriel Wake came to see her every day.
Muriel was a much pleasanter companion than she used to be, for she was a better and happier little girl, on friendly terms with her schoolfellows, and beloved in her own home. December was mild that year; and Marigold, carefully wrapped up, was soon able to walk out with her aunts.
One day, Farmer Jo drove up to the Misses Holcroft's house in Powderham Crescent, and declared he must not go home unless Marigold was allowed to accompany him, for his mother had set her heart on having Marigold for a visitor for a few days. To the little girl's extreme delight she was permitted to go, and spent a very pleasant week at Rocombe Farm.
It wanted but a few days to Christmas when Farmer Jo drove Marigold back to Exeter. On this occasion he did not offer to let her drive, at which she rather wondered. She was looking cheerful and happy, whilst her companion was unusually silent, though he appeared in good spirits.
"So you are going to desert the old aunts!" he remarked presently.
"Yes," she replied, with a slight sigh. "How I shall miss them!"
"Perhaps they will invite you to visit them sometimes," he suggested.
"Perhaps so," she agreed.
Farmer Jo laughed, whilst Marigold looked at him in surprise, for she did not think she had said anything to cause amusement.
"We are not taking the right road, are we?" she asked presently.
"Oh yes!" was the quick response.
"I thought we had passed the turning that leads to Powderham Crescent."
Farmer Jo made no verbal reply to this; but he laughed again, his great form shaking, and his jovial face one broad beam of good humour.
"Oh, surely we are going the wrong way!" she cried, as they turned down a quiet road with pretty villas on either side.
But Farmer Jo took no heed. He pulled Colonel up before a little house overgrown with creepers, and before she could remonstrate, jumped out, lifted her down, and carried her up the garden path to the front door, placing her carefully on the doorstep. Then, still laughing, and with a quickness unusual in so large a man, he retraced his footsteps, swung himself up into the dogcart, and drove away. Scampering footsteps were now heard within the house, and voices that made Marigold's heart beat wildly. In another moment the door was flung open wide, and she was dragged into an adjoining sitting-room by a pair of merry, laughing boys who clung around her neck, kissing her and crying—
"Welcome home, Marigold! Here you are at last!"
"Rupert! Lionel!" she exclaimed, for they were her own dear brothers whom she had pictured miles and miles away; and it was her mother who now took her in her arms, and kissed her tenderly.
"Poor child! How puzzled she looks!" Mrs. Holcroft said. "How well your aunts must have kept our secret! Did neither Farmer Jo nor his mother give you a hint of the truth, darling? This is our new home. I selected the house after your illness, and your aunts have superintended the furnishing of it for me."
"Do you mean that you and the boys are going to live here, mother?"
"Yes. We only arrived last night."
"Oh, mother, it seems too good to be true! I can hardly realise it yet!"
But the presence of her mother and brothers soon made Marigold understand the truth; and when later her aunts came in, she could not help crying for joy at the thought that she was not to be parted from them after all.
"I could not bear the thought of leaving you," she told them, "and now I shall always be near you, and able to run in to see you every day! Oh, how thankful I am!"
It seemed to the little girl that her cup of joy was full. She was to remain at Exeter, where she had made so many friends, and have her nearest and dearest with her; and she was delighted to see how well the boys got on with Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela.
Rupert was his father over again, both aunts declared, and Lionel was a dear little fellow. In fact, their nephew's children were all that they could wish. They were very glad that circumstances had allowed Mrs. Holcroft to make her home in Exeter; they did not know how they could have endured to part with Marigold altogether.
Mrs. Holcroft was a wise woman, and she never made reference to the past, or to Miss Pamela's unforgiveness in the years gone by; perhaps she understood better than anyone else the character of the undemonstrative woman who was constantly trying by little acts of kindness to make up for past neglect, and dislike.
"Mother," said Marigold one day, "can you realise that you and I were parted for eight long months?"
"Yes, dear, quite well. Do you know, I think the separation did us both good?"
"Oh, mother!"
"You were accustomed to rely too much on me, my darling, but now you have learnt to go straight to God Himself for help in trouble or doubt; whilst I, who was so fearful lest my little girl should fall back from the good fight, have a fuller trust in Him who sent her to her father's old home to obtain forgiveness for him, and to bring happiness into the lonely lives of his aunts. I think you will agree with me, that our separation has been fraught with nothing but blessings to us all."
THE END