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A VISITOR.
HALF the evening went as nicely as possible, all the four being pleased and happy. Then, with no previous warning, a cloud came. The look which the girls well knew, came over Mrs. Plunkett's face—her "temper-look" they called it between themselves—and all brightness was gone. She lagged slowly by her husband's side, snapped at Marigold, silenced Narcissus, disagreed with whatever was said, refused to be interested, and finally declared that it was time to go home.
"But we can't! Father, need we? There's ever so many more creatures to see. Why, we haven't come across the snakes yet," protested Narcissus.
"You'll just do whatever you are told," said Mrs. Plunkett.
"Need we go?" implored Narcissus, appealing to her father.
Plunkett was at a loss. His wife turned her face towards the main entrance, with the air of one who had made up her mind; and he knew that she did not intend to go alone. He was capable of a blustering resistance under excitement, but in cooler moments, his extreme good nature made him yielding.
"Well, but now, Jane—" he expostulated.
"We've been long enough. A set of nasty beasts! I've had enough of 'em; and the girls aren't going to stay behind alone."
"Maybe you'll sit down here, and rest a bit, while I take them round," suggested Plunkett.
"Maybe I'll do nothing of the sort," returned she.
"But you'd like to see the snakes too, mother," urged Marigold, dismayed with the results of her own kind action. "The boa constrictor, you know, and the—"
"I don't care. I'm tired. Much you all care for that! I'm not going a step farther, not for nobody."
"Come now, Jane. You don't want to spoil the girls' treat. You don't really, you know," urged Plunkett. "And they haven't seen half yet."
"Then they needn't!" snapped Mrs. Plunkett. "It's time to get home."
But the blank face of Narcissus was too much for her father. "Well, then, if you're bent on going, you'll just have to go alone," he said, speaking roughly by way of showing courage. "I ain't going yet, nor the girls neither. We've lots more to look at. And you'll sit here quiet, till we're ready."
Mrs. Plunkett's face worked. "I'm not a-going to sit here, like a naughty child, and you three enjoying of yourselves," said she.
The others exchanged looks.
"Yes, of course, that's it! That's all you want. Just to get rid of me! Well, you may get along, and leave me; I'll manage." Wherewith she began to cry, and people around began to stare.
"I'll stay with mother, if you like, while you take Narcissus to see the snakes," proposed Marigold, with a mighty effort at self-denial.
"I say, now, you know that's all rubbish, Jane," protested the husband, direfully conscious of being under observation. "Nobody don't want to get rid of you. That's all nonsense. The girls want to see the snakes, and that's natural enough; and if you can't walk no farther, why then—"
Mrs. Plunkett jerked herself away, with a kind of indignant grunt, and went swiftly off towards the entrance, crying still. Marigold made a half movement to follow, and paused, because the other two waited.
"It don't matter," said Plunkett easily. "She's best at home; and we'll find her all right there by-and-by. Shouldn't wonder if she isn't well, and that makes folks cross, you know. Anyway, I don't mean to have you two disappointed. I promised you should see it all, and you shall."
"But if I ought to go after Mother?" said Marigold.
"She'll be a deal better, left alone for a while. Come—here's the way to the snakes."
"You can't go now. Mother would be home before you could get there; and father don't like us wandering about the streets alone so late," said Narcissus.
"No, that I don't," promptly added Plunkett. "It's a bad way girls get into, and I don't mean my girls to get into it. And Mrs. Heavitree don't allow it neither."
Marigold felt the matter to be settled for her, and settled as she wished; yet the thought of Mrs. Plunkett weighed upon her enjoyment like a wet blanket. Narcissus wont into raptures of admiration and disgust over the snakes; and Marigold looked on soberly, only half disposed to smile.
"That sort's a boa constrictor, Narcissus. He'd squash you to a jelly, if he got a chance, and swallow you whole," said Plunkett, who liked to air such knowledge as he had, and who, in so doing, was rather apt to outrun his knowledge.
"Would it really? But, father, I shouldn't think he was big enough! Not nearly!"
"Can't judge, looking at him so. Them boa constrictors can swallow pretty near anything. Make nothing of a man or two for a mouthful. And here's another sort—a small follow—and that's the kind that kills by stinging. You just see his forked tongue. If it wasn't for the glass, he'd stick his tongue into you, in a moment, and you'd be dead of the poison in an hour."
Plunkett suddenly found the General to be looking at the same object—not only looking, but listening, with an amused curl of his military moustache,—and the confident tone was lowered.
"That's it, sir, ain't it?" Plunkett ventured to ask.
"Well, no—not precisely 'it'," responded the General. "There is a widespread delusion afloat on the subject, and snakes are popularly said to 'sting.' The tongue, however, is perfectly harmless, though I grant that it has a vicious look."
"And wouldn't a man die of that creature's sting?" asked Plunkett, privately holding to his own view.
"Of its bite certainly, for the cobra is a deadly snake. But the mischief is in the teeth, not in the tongue. He has poison fangs,—sharp hollow teeth, each with a little bag of virulent poison at its root. If he could strike at you, and bite you, one tiny drop of that poison getting into the wound would be enough to put a quick end to your life. Sometimes the poison fangs are taken away from a living snake; and then, though he has the forked tongue still, he is powerless to injure anybody."
"Could that other big snake swallow a man, sir?" asked Marigold shyly; for she, like Narcissus, felt sceptical on the subject.
"The boa yonder? No! He might manage to get down something rather bigger than a rabbit, possibly. Boa constrictors do exist big enough to swallow a man, or even an ox; but these are comparatively small specimens. Not that you would enjoy a squeeze, even from them," added the General, smiling, as he again passed on.
"Well, I suppose he knows," said Plunkett dubiously.
"Why, father, he has been in India for years and years," said Marigold.
Plunkett rather objected to being found out in a mistake. He turned to other subjects, and soon led the girls away from the snakes.
Time passed more quickly than any of them knew; and though they meant to be home early, it was considerably past ten before they really did arrive. Mrs. Plunkett was still up. This they expected, and they expected also to find her crouching over the kitchen fire, peevish and unhappy. Instead of which she sat at the table, needlework in hand, and opposite to her sat a big fresh-faced young man, apparently doing his best to make himself agreeable.
"Todd himself? Well, I never," said Plunkett. "Why, I thought you was off in Africa for the rest of your life."
"So I thought, too," Todd answered, with an admiring glance at Marigold. "How d'you do,—eh? Not forgot your old playfellow?" he asked, as he shook hands with both the girls. "So I thought, too; but I got tired of Africa. Didn't seem to pay somehow. And I thought I'd come home."
Plunkett moved his head dubiously. There was nothing of the rolling stone in Plunkett's nature. He liked to see an old acquaintance, but to approve was not possible. James Todd was one of those people who are always turning up on hand, when their friends count them to be comfortably disposed of. He was so big, bodily, that there was no chance of overlooking him, wherever he might happen to be; and he had such a genial manner, that everybody liked him; but, none the less, what to do with Todd had been a problem of long standing, and it recurred with embarrassing frequency. Two years earlier he had gone out as an emigrant to South Africa, having failed to find at home any work suited to his capacities and inclinations.
His affectionate relatives did at last hope that he was safely off their hands; but the hope proved futile. Here he was again, big and good-humoured, self-satisfied and lazy, as ever.
"Thought you'd come home—for what?" asked Plunkett.
"That's what I've been asking," put in Mrs. Plunkett. "And he don't know."
"I am ready for anything as may turn up. That's what it is," declared Todd cheerfully.
"Things don't turn up without they're looked for," said Plunkett.
"I'll look for 'em. Never you fear. I'm not come back to live an idle life." Todd spoke with an air of virtuous resolution. "There's always something wants doing, and there ain't many things I can't do." He kept his seat with the air of one very much at home, and in no hurry to depart.
Narcissus gaped sleepily.
"Getting late, and we're early folks," said Plunkett, glancing round the untidy kitchen. "Should have thought—she might ha' put things a bit straight,—" in an undertone, as he noted the supper things still unwashed on the table. His mutter was audible, and Mrs. Plunkett's face gloomed over.
"I'll clear away," said Marigold.
"No, you won't; it's time to go to bed, and I ain't going to have no more sitting up," said Mrs. Plunkett. "Them things can wait till morning."
"But—" began Marigold, and stopped.
"So good-night," said Mrs. Plunkett to Todd.
Todd smiled good-temperedly, rose slowly, lounged against the table for a few last words with Plunkett,—and failed to calculate his own weight. The loose leaf upon which he rested collapsed without warning, and the crockery thereupon descended to the floor with a startling crash. Todd nearly went down backwards, and a mass of broken china lay upon the ground.
"Oh!" Marigold exclaimed.
"There now!" said Plunkett. "If that had been put away—as it ought to ha' been—"
"Well now, I'm sure I'm very sorry. Didn't mean to do no harm," apologised Todd, regarding the ruin with mild amazement. "Why, the leaf o' the table couldn't ha' been properly fastened up."
"Shouldn't wonder! Nothing never is properly done in this house,—without Marigold has the doing of it," declared Plunkett.
"You needn't stand staring there!" said Mrs. Plunkett shortly to Marigold. "What's done can't be undone. You'd best sweep it up sharp."
Marigold flushed at the tone, but she at once knelt to obey; and James Todd, after looking slowly from one to the other, as if trying to understand the position of affairs, followed suit, with much deliberation.
"Take care, don't you cut your hands," he said to Marigold. "Them edges are worse than a knife. I say,—" in a lower tone, as Mrs. Plunkett moved off—"she wasn't here when I went away. Nor she don't seem improved by marrying. Why, she was as different—"
Marigold made no answer, and Todd was impressed with her silence. She carefully lifted away the larger pieces of broken china, gathered together the smaller bits, and swept into a dustpan all the finer remains. After which, Todd stood up to say good-bye, with a promise to reappear speedily, and Mrs. Plunkett shut the door behind him with an air of satisfaction.
"He won't come here often if I've my way," she said.
"Why, there's no harm in Todd. He's a nice young fellow. Not but what he might be more fond of work, but I always did like him," responded Plunkett. "One would ha' thought you was enjoying your talk with him. When we come in, you looked as if you was enjoying of it."
"Which, I wasn't! I just wished he'd make haste and go."
"He's seen a lot o' queer things abroad, no doubt. We'll get him to tell us all about it. As good as going to a beast show," laughed Plunkett.
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LATE AT NIGHT.
"WELL, I hope you are satisfied," Narcissus remarked sleepily, when she and Marigold had retired to their bedroom. "You'd better have left things alone, and not have got mother to go with us. It just spoilt half our pleasure. I told you, she'd be sure to turn cross."
"I can't think what it was that put her out."
"Anything puts her out. If nothing at all is said, she fancies something is meant. I know how it is. I've lived with her longer than you."
"Yes, I know you have."
"And I told you how it would turn out."
"Yes, I know you did." Marigold spoke dreamily.
"Then why couldn't you believe me?"
"I think I did. It wasn't believing or not believing. It was because I thought I ought."
Narcissus sat down on the bed, and leant against the iron frame at the foot. "Oh dear, I'm so tired—I don't know how to undress," she said. "Thought you ought to do what?"
"Get mother to come with us, if she was willing. Or at least—I thought she ought to feel free."
"She was free, of course. She could do as she liked."
"Yes; only if she fancied we none of us wanted her—"
"Well, that's only what was true."
"I don't think it ought to be true. Mother has her rights. She is father's wife, and it isn't right that we should leave her out of everything. It isn't fair."
"Then you don't mean ever to do anything, or go anywhere, without dragging her in!"
"I don't mean her to feel that we'd rather leave her behind."
"After this evening!"
"Yes—after this evening," echoed Marigold. She turned towards Narcissus with a wistful look.
"It isn't what I want to do," she said; "it is what I know I ought to do. And I think you ought to help me—not hinder. You haven't half such a quick temper as I have; and so it isn't so hard for you as for me. You ought to do all you can to help me to conquer, instead of—"
Narcissus was on the verge of tears. "I don't want to do wrong," she said. "Only if you knew how mother worries and worries. At least, I suppose you do know now, but you haven't had it so long. I don't feel inclined to fly out, but I do long to get away from her. If it wasn't for that, I shouldn't like leaving home at all."
"Only it must be even worse for her than for us—always to feel so cross," said Marigold. She came close to her sister, speaking more softly. "Narcissus, I've been praying lately, and making up my mind to try to have things happier—and then all at once I seemed to see what I ought to do. And you mustn't hinder. You must help me."
"You're a great deal better than I am," murmured Narcissus, in subdued accents. "Yes, of course I'll try—and I—I'll pray too. I will really, Marigold!"
James Todd strolled comfortably home in the darkness, not in the least troubled by the fact that his old mother would be worried by his long absence. He had not told her when he would return, or where he was going; and anxiety on her part seemed to him unreasonable. Todd liked to be perfectly free, and to have his own way on all occasions. It did not occur to him that the old parents, who, though by no means too well off, had given him a loving welcome, and had taken him in without a word of reproach or blame, possessed a claim to their way also.
In fact, he was not thinking about them at all, but about Marigold. She was a very nice girl, nice-looking, nice-mannered, nice in every way. He had known Marigold from childhood, and had always found her attractive; but she was very much more charming now than he had expected her to become. He liked particularly her resolute silence about Mrs. Plunkett's manner of faultfinding. A girl who was so cautious in blaming a stepmother would be also cautious in blaming a husband.
This idea developed slowly; for Todd's mental movements were not quicker than his bodily movements. It did develop, however, as he lounged homeward, turning Marigold admiringly over in his mind.
She might be just the very girl who would suit him for a wife! Why not? He had not seen her for two years, and those two years had made a woman of her. True, she was young still, barely eighteen, but her air was womanly.
What the two years had made of him—whether or no he was a man who would suit Marigold for a husband—how far he was in a position to support a wife at all—these were questions which did not enter into Todd's calculations. In fact, he was not in such a position. He had failed to make his way in England, and had been sent out to Africa with just enough money to start him. He had failed to get on as an emigrant, and had reached England in a penniless condition. The kind old parents, who had taken him in, were by no means able to undertake the support of a big useless son without a wife, much less of such a son with a wife. James meant, as he said, to do something; but he had no definite plans, no particular idea of what that something might be. It was as likely as not that he would try half-a-dozen things, and would fail in each as he had done in the past.
He knew all this, and it made not one iota of difference. James never troubled himself, and he never had troubled himself, to look forward. If he had a shilling in his pocket, and no prospect of any more to come, he would spend that shilling unhesitatingly on the first thing that he desired, without a qualm. He had flung up work in England because the fancy took him, and had emigrated by his friends' advice because he liked the notion. He had come home again, with equal light-heartedness, because he found that life in Africa could be no more a success than life in England without the trouble of steady toil.
If he wanted a wife, he would take her just so easily, unburdened by care for the future, untroubled by any thought of responsibility. James Todd was an absolute child still, as regarded any sense of responsibility. He did whatever he felt inclined to do, so far as lay in his power. If he wished to marry, he would marry; if he married, his wife might take her chance. He supposed that something would turn up in the way of work; and, should it fail, he would never blame himself for the consequent misery of his wife or children.
Such men as Todd never do blame themselves. If things go wrong, it is always somebody else's fault, never their own.
His notion of marriage was, in fact, simply of an event which should add to his comfort, and should give him pleasure. In a good-natured and easy fashion, Todd was eaten through and through with selfishness. The possible comfort or pleasure of his wife lay outside the range of his imagination; and the mere suggestion that he was strictly accountable, not only before man, but unto God Himself, for the well-being, the happiness, the training, of his future children, should he have any, would have made him open his eyes widely, with slow amazement.
Such a notion had never occurred to his imagination. He thought only of what he wanted, and of what would be agreeable to himself. Following this line of thought, he resolved to cultivate a closer acquaintance thenceforward with the Plunkett family.
"How long is that there young fellow going to hang dawdling about, doing nothing?" demanded Mrs. Plunkett of her husband, two or three weeks later. "He's got a lot too much time on his hands, and that's a fact."
"Todd? Well, he says he's on the look-out for work, and it isn't easy to find just the thing. He's had a job or two."
"And threw up the chance of something more than a job, because it wasn't to his mind!"
"Well, he said that sort o' thing wasn't in his line."
"Nor nothing else—seems to me—except dangling round and talking nonsense."
"Don't see that neither. If he can't do nothing else, he can talk."
"I'd like you just to hear him when you ain't at hand. That's all."
"Anyway, it ain't our business. I'm not given to meddling with other folk's concerns—never was."
"Shouldn't wonder if it is your business—more than you think." Plunkett shook his head; and she added with sharpness—"If you don't see to it, you'll lose Marigold—next thing."
"Lose Marigold!" Plunkett stared as if his wife were demented.
"Oh, you don't see—of course you don't. You men never see nothing! 'Tisn't you he comes mooning after, and you needn't think it! Marigold's tiresome enough some ways, but she ain't a bad-looking girl by any manner of means, and a young fellow like him knows it too."
"Marigold! Why—bless me! The girl ain't hardly eighteen."
"That's it! And James Todd is twenty-three. I won't go for to say that a man mayn't never marry at twenty-three, if he's got enough to marry on, and to keep a family in comfort. But if he hasn't—and James Todd hasn't—I say it's a sin and a shame. Who does he mean to keep his wife for him, I wonder?"
"I'll tell you what it is, Jane!" Plunkett waxed red in the face, and brought down his hand with a thump upon the table. "I'll tell you what it is—I'm not a-going to have nothing of that sort! A lass barely eighteen, and a lad without a penny to his name! It's folly. I've not got a word to say agin my girls marrying, all in good time, if it's a man I can approve of; and when that time comes, I'll not say no. But Todd,—why, he's got nothing to put in his own mouth, except what his old father gives him. I like him well enough; but I do say it's a disgrace for a lusty young fellow to be depending on his old father, and I wouldn't mind if I said it to Todd's face. And what's more, though I like the lad, I'm afraid he's not got much work in him. Never had, and maybe never will have. That's what it is; and a man who's got no work in him, ain't good for anything. If Todd marries, as like as not his wife 'll have to keep him; and that's a nice look-out for any girl. But Marigold ain't a fool. Marigold's got sense in her head, and she knows better than to take to Todd."
"Don't you be too sure. If she does take a fancy to him, her sense won't have much to say in the matter. I know the ways of girls."
"Well, it isn't to be! You mind that. She shan't have him, and he shan't have her. So you just see to it. I'll have no sort of nonsense between them two. So mind you take care."
"Anyway you needn't shout the house down. I ain't deaf," said Mrs. Plunkett.
"What makes you think anything o' the sort?" demanded Plunkett, in a lower key.
"Well, he said yesterday he'd had a chance of work, some miles off; and he said he wasn't going. He didn't mean to leave the place, not for nobody. And he looked at Marigold, and Marigold she got as red as anything. That's more work he's thrown up, when he might have got it."
"Marigold shan't marry Todd. That's settled," said Plunkett decisively.
But to say that a thing is settled is by no means identical with actually settling it.
Todd continued to come often to the house, despite a rigidly cold shoulder turned to him by Mrs. Plunkett. He did not care a brass farthing for Mrs. Plunkett, so long as Marigold smiled upon him. Plunkett, who might have done more, was not at all a good hand at turning cold shoulders. He could get into a brief rage, and speak out his mind loudly; but a course of quiet checking was beyond his power. He enjoyed seeing a friend; and, apart from Todd's idle inclinations, he liked the young fellow, and he preferred to leave disagreeable lines of action to his wife. So he welcomed Todd genially still, when the latter appeared, while privately exhorting Mrs. Plunkett to "see that things didn't go wrong."
Perhaps it was not surprising that Marigold liked Todd's attentions. She was, it is true, a very sensible girl in most respects; but she was extremely young, and she had of course her little feminine vanities. It flattered her vanity to be admired and run after by so big and comely a young man. To be sure, his slowness was sometimes a little exasperating; and she did wish he would find something to do, and would stick to it. But he always assured her that he was only waiting for "the right thing," and she did not realise that "the right thing" in Todd's eyes meant simply no hard work at all.
Mrs. Plunkett's frequent harsh words of blame about his laziness acted in a reverse fashion upon Marigold, driving her to find excuses for him. She was sure Todd was not lazy, only unfortunate so far; and indeed, to hear him talk, one might almost have imagined that he was the steadiest toiler in existence, when only he had the chance.
Moreover, he had such a pleasant manner. Everybody was agreed on that point. The manner alone was enough to take captive Marigold's girlish fancy.
Beside all this, she was not happy in her home.
Narcissus had gone to the Vicarage for a year of training, Plunkett was away all day, and Mrs. Plunkett grew more irritable, more worrying, more untidy than ever. Things really were most trying to a well-brought-up girl, tidy in her ways and affectionate in disposition, like Marigold. Jars between herself and her stepmother were incessant. Marigold could not see how to avoid them. She wanted to be on pleasant terms, but Mrs. Plunkett's gloom and ill-temper rendered pleasantness out of the question; and the disorder of the little house, which she would seldom permit Marigold to put right, was a perpetual misery.
If only Marigold might have worked hard, and have "kept everything nice" as she expressed it, she would have been happy; but she was checked and foiled at every turn. It could scarcely be wondered at, that the contrast of Todd's bearing caused her to think of him much more than she would otherwise have done. Whenever Mrs. Plunkett was especially cross, Marigold's mind fled straight to James Todd.
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MARIGOLD'S LIKING.
"WHAT have you been such a time about?" demanded Mrs. Plunkett one day, when Marigold came in from some shopping. She had been sent by her stepmother. Mrs. Plunkett for days past had not stirred out of the house.
"I met James, and he went round with me,—just for a little walk." Marigold confessed the fact unhesitatingly, for she was a thoroughly truthful girl.
"Oh, he did, did he? A great stupid idle fellow. I wonder how much longer he means to hang about, letting his poor old father support him." Mrs. Plunkett had a vein of common sense, which warned her that it was wisest not to suggest what Marigold might not yet have thought of. "I don't mean to put into her head that Todd wants to marry her," she had said to Plunkett; and the resolution was a wise one, only it made the keeping of Marigold out of Todd's way more difficult.
"It isn't James' fault. He has only waited till he could find something to do here. He doesn't want to go away," said Marigold, with a blush.
"Folks can't always do as they want. I wish to goodness he would go."
"I can't think why you dislike poor James so much, mother."
"I can't abide idleness," said Mrs. Plunkett.
Marigold's eyes travelled round the kitchen, and inwardly she echoed, "I can't abide untidiness and temper!"
Mrs. Plunkett saw the glance, and understood. It jarred her into hasty speech. "Well, I can tell you your father don't mean to have nothing between you and Todd, so you just needn't think it. If you wasn't too young yourself, Todd's got no means to support a wife, and he's too easy-going ever to do it properly; and he's got no business now to think of such a thing!"
The words were hardly uttered, before Mrs. Plunkett regretted them. Marigold made no immediate answer. She stood considering,—as if that which before had been only a shadow, had suddenly taken shape. Then she put down the duster that she held, and said quietly, "James has found work now, and he means to keep to it," and went out of the kitchen.
The subject was not resumed when they again met. Mrs. Plunkett, vexed with her own indiscretion, resolved to say no more: and unfortunately she was ashamed to confess the blunder to her husband, or she might have aroused him to action. But the mischief was done. If Marigold had not before understood Todd's wishes, she understood them now; and the thought of James as her future husband had a definite place in her mind. With the clue supplied by her stepmother, Todd's bearing became unmistakable. Marigold could no longer go on unconsciously; and when Mrs. Plunkett was especially trying, her thoughts flew more swiftly than ever to James Todd's pleasant face. A home with him had so bright a look, by contrast. She would be able to do as she liked, to keep the place so beautifully neat and clean.
Nobody there would ever look cross, and nothing would ever go wrong. James might have been a little unsettled and lazy in the past, but once married he would be so no more. She would keep him up to the mark, and he would work hard, and they would be so happy!
But no woman, however good a wife, has power to change her husband's nature. Divine power alone can do that. It was all very well for James to say now: "I'd do anything for you, Marigold!" Had she been not quite so young, not quite so ignorant of life and of human nature, she must have known that a higher motive is needed to transform a man's life.
One day a message came, asking Marigold to go to tea at St. Philip's Vicarage, with Narcissus. This would be her first sight of Narcissus, since the latter's year of training began, and Marigold was delighted. She wondered if perhaps she might get a little talk alone with her sister. It would be nice to speak to her about James, since at home Marigold scarcely ventured to mention his name.
"I s'pose your father 'll walk back with you," James said beforehand. One way and another, he contrived to see a good deal of Marigold.
"Oh, there's no need. I shan't be late. Mrs. Heavitree won't let me, because she does so dislike girls walking about alone late. Father will be busy."
"You won't get away early, and it's a long stretch. I'll be there, you may be sure. I'll be somewhere about outside."
Marigold hesitated. "I don't think father 'd like it," she said.
"Rubbish! Of course he'd like it. Mrs. Plunkett mayn't, and what then?"
"I don't think I ought to go against her. Mrs. Heavitree says I oughtn't."
"Well, you needn't. You've got nothing to do with the matter. If I just choose to be there, you can't help it."
Marigold's truthful nature rose against this crooked reasoning. She knew that she would be wrong to consent, yet she could not resolve to forbid him. Mrs. Plunkett had been fearfully irritable all day, and Marigold's patience was worn to a shred.
She let the question pass, and asked, "How do you like your work?"
"Oh, I've given that up. It meant a lot more than I expected. I shouldn't have had a moment, morning, noon, nor night. I've a mind now to get something to do with the care of horses. I like horses—always did—and I can manage 'em first rate."
"But you're not likely to get that here," said Marigold, experiencing a sense of disappointment.
"Don't see why not. There's Selby,—if one of his drivers was to fall ill, and give up, why, I might step into his shoes."
"But Selby's men have been with him for years. It isn't in the least likely they should give up."
"Well, they might. Or something else might happen. It's just waiting a while. I'm not come back to the old country, to slave. The old folks are as pleased as can be to have me at home. Of course I could get something to do any day, but it's no manner of use to be impatient. Once I get into the right line, I'll stick to it."
"I'm afraid—people will say—"
"Say what? Out with it."
"They'll say—you don't keep long to anything."
"They won't say that, when they see how long I'll keep to you."
Marigold blushed, and was pleased in spite of herself.
"But I do wish—" she began.
"Wish I'd make haste. Why, so do I. I wish the right thing 'ud turn up this minute. And don't you be afraid but what I'll stick to it then. Maybe I've changed about a pretty good deal; but I promise you that's not going on. I'd do anything for you, Marigold."
Marigold's remonstrances died out. She was so sure that all would be right in the end—or rather, she was so anxious to be sure, that she would not look doubts in the face.
When James said casually, a little later, "Well, what time shall you be leaving the Vicarage to come home?"
She answered without thought, though not without a conscience prick, "Oh, somewhere about seven o'clock. Tea's at five, and I always stay a good two hours there."
The Vicarage nursery was a big low room, with three windows, plenty of cupboards, picture-covered walls, and generally toy-strewn floor.
There were four children, ranging from eight years old to almost babyhood. When Marigold arrived, tea was already laid, with cakes and jam as a treat. The children were eagerly looking out for her, since Marigold was their especial favourite. They liked Narcissus,—"but not so much as Marigold," Minnie the eldest would say, sagely shaking her little head.
Narcissus had no chance of even getting near Marigold, till the welcomes of the little ones were ended; and then Marigold could not but notice how well and happy Narcissus looked—how nice, too, in her neat black dress, and pretty white cap and apron. Quite a colour was in her cheeks, and already she had gained in plumpness. One glance satisfied Marigold that Narcissus had thoroughly fitted into her new life, and that the plan would prove a success.
"I do declare, Narcissus looks the best of you two; and she's always been such a puny thing till now," declared old Nurse, who had known both girls from infancy. "It's the regular living, and regular food, and plenty of fresh air, and plenty to do. That's what it is. Lots of girls that come here get like that."
"Aren't you well, Marigold?" asked Narcissus.
"O yes; only—of course there are worries."
"I know," murmured Narcissus. "I'm glad enough to be out of it all."
"Out of what? Narcissus, you shall tell us," cried Minnie, overhearing.
"Miss Minnie, I'm ashamed of you," said Nurse. "Whatever business is it of yours, I wonder?"
The child subsided, deeply abashed, and Nurse added:
"I advise you both to wait. You shall have a talk together after tea."
"Nurse always says we're little pitchers, you know, 'cause we've got such long ears," declared mischievous Polly, the next small girl; and nobody could help laughing.
Tea was a merry meal—the merriest Marigold had known since she left the Vicarage. When it ended, Mrs. Heavitree came in for a few kind words.
"Now what are you going to do?" she asked. "You and Narcissus will like to be together. Suppose you take your work out into the arbour at the end of the kitchen garden for an hour. Marigold has work with her, of course." Mrs. Heavitree had no notion of idleness; and Marigold, smiling, produced a thimble. "If not, nurse can find something, I dare say, to keep your fingers busy. You can have a nice chat there, undisturbed. Nurse said she would spare Narcissus."
"To be sure I will, ma'am," added Nurse; and the plan was forthwith carried out.
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MRS. PLUNKETT'S TROUBLE.
"ISN'T that like Mrs. Heavitree?" said Marigold, as the sisters reached the arbour. "Always thinking of other people, and planning for them. Don't you like her, now you're here?"
"I should just think I did. It's all true, every bit of what you told me, and I'm as happy as the day is long. I wish I could live here always."
"That's what I felt."
"Yes, I know you did; and I thought it was funny of you. But I don't think so now. I understand quite well, now I'm here. Everything is so nice and clean and pretty; and everybody is so kind. But I want to know about you at home. Is mother as cross as ever?"
"Worse, I think. She gets worse some days. Nothing I can do or say is right; and the mess the house is in!—It makes me miserable. Father isn't at home near so often in the evenings now; and I know that is the reason. He does like a tidy place to come to; and she won't have things tidy. He can't stand the mess, nor her temper."
Narcissus was silent for two or three seconds.
"That don't seem—" she said slowly.
"Don't seem what?"
"As if—our praying had done much good."
Marigold blushed a little. Had she prayed steadily—following out her own advice to Narcissus? This question arose at once.
"I don't seem to have heart for it sometimes," she said, "living in the midst of all that worry."
"But you wanted me to ask that things might be different; and I have. I've thought of it every night, when I said my prayers. I have, really."
"I suppose answers don't always come directly," said Marigold, in a subdued voice. "Mr. Heavitree says we often have to wait. But if you'll go on—I will, too. I have been wrong."
She hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how the main hindrance to prayer had been pre-occupation about James Todd.
"Yes, of course, I'll go on. Why shouldn't home be happier? It might be. Mother was so different at first."
"Sometimes she is now, just for a little while; and then it goes off, and she's as bad as ever again. I do try to bear with her, because I know I ought; but it is hard;" and Marigold's eyes were full of tears. "I can't make out what's the matter, and why she's so cross. Sometimes I think it's all jealousy. She don't seem to like father to be so fond of us."
"Mrs. Heavitree says mother is ill."
"Does she?"
"Well, she did one day lately. At least, she said she'd never seen anybody so altered, nor grown so different, and she couldn't help feeling sure that mother had a lot of pain to bear. She asked me if I didn't know what was wrong, and I said mother had rheumatism now and then; and Mrs. Heavitree said it must be something worse than rheumatism. And I don't see why mother shouldn't tell us, if there was."
"I don't know. People are so funny about health. Some are always fussing about nothing, and others won't say a word if they're downright bad. I'll keep a look-out and see if she does seem ill. That would make a lot of difference."
"It wouldn't make her any sweeter to live with."
"No; only there 'd be an excuse. I could bear with her temper, if I knew it only meant that she was in pain, poor thing! I never thought of that."
The mind of Narcissus was on a fresh tack, and she asked abruptly, "What is this about you and James Todd?"
Marigold coloured, not expecting the question.
"They do say you and he are making up together—and some say it's a downright engagement. But I couldn't believe I shouldn't have been told."
"O no, indeed—"
"But you are seen about with him."
"Well, he's been to our house pretty often since that night. Father likes him, though mother doesn't. Sometimes he meets me when I'm out, and comes a little way with me . . . I don't see why he shouldn't! . . . I'm sure he's such a nice steady fellow; and he wants to work, only he has been so unfortunate. But he'll get something regular soon . . . I don't see why I need snub him, like mother does, only because he's been unfortunate."
"But he did get work. What made him give it up?"
"He said it wasn't the right sort. It wasn't what he is fitted for. He'd like something to do with horses."
"And if he gets the horses, I suppose he'll want something next to do with cows and sheep." The keenness of this rejoinder made Marigold stare at Narcissus, and Narcissus relented. "Please don't think me unkind, only people do say things—"
"People say very unkind things—people who don't know James. I shouldn't think you need, Narcissus . . . I'm sure it is no wonder if I do find a friend out of the house, now home is so different. Father is away all the day, and you are away, and she is so cross. It's a comfort to have somebody to speak a kind word. And James is always kind . . . I don't mean that anything is settled . . . James hasn't exactly asked me—and we're not engaged. But I can't help seeing and knowing—what he feels . . . Mother did say one day that father wouldn't allow anything of the sort, and that made me know that she saw it too. But I don't see how she can be sure what father would like. He always seems glad to have James come in. It's only mother who is disagreeable to him. And he is so quiet and steady—"
"Is he steady?"
"Why, Narcissus!—Yes."
"I've heard that he takes too much sometimes."
"He doesn't! I don't believe it. If I thought he did—"
"You wouldn't marry a man that drinks! You couldn't be happy with a man you couldn't respect."
"No, I couldn't, of course,—I mean I wouldn't! But James doesn't. I know he is not like that. I think he is a—good man," hesitating. "I am sure he wants to do right. People say such things."
"Only, if it were true."
"It isn't true! Who has been talking to you?"
"I've heard in one or two ways. Of course the servants in this house hear of things; you know they do."
"Mrs. Heavitree always liked me to keep to the nursery, and not to be in the kitchen."
"No, I know,—and I don't gossip, really—truly! I'm very little with any of the servants except Nurse. But of course I hear things sometimes; and when it came to your name and James Todd's being put together, I did ask to know more. They say it's such a pity, because he isn't one quarter good enough for you."
"I don't see that it is other people's business, if I think him good enough—"
"But if he drinks?"
"He doesn't. I know that is not true."
"You think so, but you don't really know. Marigold, you wouldn't go against father?"
"Father likes James."
"But if he didn't allow this, you wouldn't go against him?"
"No; but I don't mean to be interfered with. You are not to speak to father, Narcissus. I can manage my own affairs."
Narcissus was silent, her eyes filling with tears. She had said as much as she dared, and they talked of other matters,—not with any great gusto. Marigold was not exactly vexed, but she seemed under constraint; and after a while they were both glad to go back to the nursery and to the children.
At seven o'clock punctually, Marigold said good-bye; and Narcissus, watching her departure from the window of the nursery-bedroom, saw her joined by a big man, as she crossed the little piece of common near.
"Oh!" Narcissus uttered mournfully. "It is—"
"'Tis what?" asked Nurse's voice in her rear.
Narcissus turned to see if any one else were present.
"It's that man, James Todd. He was waiting among the bushes on the common, and he's walking home with Marigold."
"Then you think there's something in it?"
"I'm afraid she likes him too much. And I'm afraid he likes her. They're not engaged yet, but I do think they soon will be, and I don't know what's to be done."
"He's an idle ne'er-do-well," said Nurse, folding up some clothes. "If Marigold marries him, she'll rue it all her life."
"I told her I'd heard that he sometimes took too much. I didn't say I'd heard it from you, Nurse."
"No,—best not. If Marigold's taken the bit between her teeth, you nor I can't stop her from running away. I've a mind—" Nurse stopped.
"Couldn't you speak to her, Nurse?"
"Well, I'll think about it. I'd sooner give a hint to mistress. That girl would be thrown away on such a fellow."
"Marigold told me not to interfere."
"Well,—don't," said Nurse, composedly. "You couldn't help my hearing all I'd heard, nor asking you about it. You're the younger, and it wouldn't be seemly for you to meddle. But if I choose to speak to mistress, I don't see who's to hinder. She does care for Marigold, and it would go to her heart if the girl did such a silly thing."
"Marigold has always seemed so sensible."
"So she may be, but if a girl takes a fancy to a man, it don't do to trust overmuch to sense," said Nurse, unconsciously echoing Mrs. Plunkett. "It's principles that's wanted. Marigold is a good girl, and she ought to feel she can't marry any man who isn't a good man."
"She says she thinks he is good."
"She don't think so in her heart. She wants to believe it."
"And she said she wouldn't go against father, nor marry a man who drinks: only she won't hear that he does. It's all a mistake, she says."
"I'll see what I can do," said Nurse. "I know what it is when a young thing like her gets caught, and marries before she knows what it means. There's hundreds of wives now, this minute, who 'd give everything they have in the world, if they could just undo the past and be free again. It's an awful thing to be tied for life to a drunkard, or a swearer, or even to a great lolloping idle fellow, who never sticks to nothing, and wants his wife to put bread into his mouth."
"Oh dear! I shouldn't like that, I don't think I'll ever marry," said Narcissus, appalled at the picture presented.
"Well, you needn't make up your mind to that neither. There's good and true and God-fearing men in the world, though there's none too many of them. If you marry one of that sort, why, you'll have troubles of course, because there's no going through life without 'em, but you'll be happy. If you marry one of the other sort, you'll just be miserable," said Nurse. "I wouldn't have such a husband—not I!—I'd sooner starve any day! A husband ought to be the sort of man a wife can look up to, and lean upon, and go to for advice; not a miserable drinking wretch, nor a great lazy lump who wants nothing but to be waited on. James Todd is the one, if he isn't the other; and I'm afraid there's no sort of mistake about his being seen the worse for drink last week. Likely as not he should be! A man must do something; and if he won't work, he's pretty sure to take to drinking! See if he don't."
"I can't understand Marigold. She's so particular—some ways—and so anxious to do right. And she don't seem to think about it here. At least she won't see what's wrong."
"That's just it exactly, Narcissus. She won't see. She could if she liked, and she won't. But Marigold's a good girl, and I shouldn't wonder if she was soon to wake up out of this. She's taken in, maybe, for the moment; but I doubt it won't last. I hope it won't, for Marigold's own sake. Things haven't gone too far yet; but they might."
Marigold did not enjoy her walk home with Todd. The little talk with Narcissus, though seemingly a failure, had thoroughly awakened her conscience. Although she had not at the time seemed convinced, she knew that Narcissus had spoken truth. She knew that her stepmother's warning would not have been uttered entirely without cause. She knew that her father did not in the least realise the state of matters between herself and Todd.
Marigold would have scorned to utter a falsehood; but she had kept silence at home about her frequent meetings with Todd, to an extent which she well knew was not absolutely true, and which she would have been the first to condemn in anybody else.
As Nurse said, Marigold was a good girl—a girl of good disposition, of good principles, of an earnest desire to do her duty. From very childhood she had loved her Bible, had loved to go to Church, had loved to pray. She had a simple faith in God, a simple trust in and love for her Saviour. Naturally quick-tempered, she strove to be gentle; naturally impatient, she tried hard to be patient; naturally wilful, she sought to become submissive. All this was as it should be with Marigold; and in a general way, she was not only clear-sighted as to the right, but prompt in doing that right.
It sometimes happens, however, that the truest-hearted children of God are unexpectedly drawn aside from the straight path of duty by some new temptation or pull upon the inclinations. This was now the case with Marigold. Todd had obtained a sudden mastery over her; and the clear sight was blinded, the steady judgment was warped. Marigold the truthful had not been of late quite true; Marigold the open-hearted had been of late not perfectly open. She knew the fact, of course; but she did not yet recognise or allow it to herself.
She knew that prayer, and Bible-reading, and church-going, had of late lost much of their zest; but she refused to believe in any change. That which ought to have been a warning as to "something wrong," she declined to perceive.
This resolute blindness had been partially chased away by Narcissus. Marigold might keep saying to herself that Narcissus was wrong, and that all would come right; but a struggle had begun. She was absent, full of thought, with little to say to her companion.
"What's the matter with you this evening?" Todd asked, as they neared her home. "You're not yourself—eh? Something gone wrong at the Vicarage?"
"O no, nothing," Marigold could honestly answer. "I always like going there. And Narcissus is so well and happy. Just as I was. She would like to stay there always."
"Catch me liking it!"
"Why, James—what do you know of the Vicarage?"
"I know! The way they're all expected to work!"
"Well, and they are happier for it. Of course they all work at the Vicarage—Mr. and Mrs. Heavitree most. Everybody is happier for hard work," said Marigold, with spirit. "I should be miserable if I couldn't be busy. That is what makes me unhappy at home, because I see things left, and I am not allowed to do them."
"Your husband 'll be a lucky chap, Marigold."
"What! Because I'm to do everything, and he to do nothing?" Marigold flashed out this retort before she knew what she was saying. And when she had said the words, she knew that she meant them. "No, that wouldn't do. I'd work any amount, but I couldn't put up with an idle husband . . . I should despise him so."
"Now, I say, Marigold!"
"I should! I do despise laziness. And how could I go on caring for a man I couldn't respect? It wouldn't mean him or me being happy."
"Oh, well, we ain't talking about lazy folks. I only said your husband 'ud be a lucky man; and so he will be—to have such a girl for his wife. Couldn't be luckier. Of course he'd work. No chance of his not having enough to do. But he wouldn't have an idle useless wife to support."
"I hope not," Marigold said; and then they reached the door. "Coming in to-night?" she asked.
"Well, no; your father is out, and she ain't best pleased to have me. If I was you, I wouldn't say nothing about our walking this evening."
Again the sense of something wrong. "Why not?" Marigold asked.
"Well, I wouldn't, you know. That's all."
"If it's right to do, it's right to speak about. I shouldn't like to do a thing I mightn't tell."
"I say, you seem a bit cantankerous. What's come to you? Well, good-bye, and I advise you to hold your tongue."
Marigold entered the front door, and became aware of loud groans. The sound frightened her. Groan after groan issued from the kitchen. She shut the front door and went into the kitchen. Mrs. Plunkett was alone, crouching on the floor in a heap.
"Mother! Why, mother, what's the matter?"
No answer came, and she tried to raise Mrs. Plunkett, but the attempt was resisted.
"Mother, you can't stay here. Get up, and tell me what's wrong. Would you like a cup of hot tea?"
"Don't want—nothing," was all she could hear.
"But you do; I am sure you do. Let me see your face." She managed to obtain a glimpse, and saw no marked difference. Mrs. Plunkett had constantly of late looked sallow and ill. "Try to get, up and sit on this chair, and tell me what's wrong."
By dint of persuasion and pulling, Marigold brought about the desired move.
"Now tell me, what is it?" she asked; and to her amazement, Mrs. Plunkett burst into sobbing.
"I can't do no more! I've kep' up till now, and I can't, do more. It's killing me, and I'm—just beat. I'll have to—give in!"
"Give in to what, mother?"
The sobs went on. An impulse of pity and tenderness took possession of Marigold. Yielding to it, she put her arms round Mrs. Plunkett and kissed her.
"Mother, you'll tell me. I know something's wrong. It isn't natural your being like what you've been lately. It's ever so much better to speak out, and then I could be a help. I do want to be nice to you, if only you'll let me."
"You're a good girl, and you mean it all, I do believe." Mrs. Plunkett began to recover herself a little. "And I know I've been cross—sometimes . . . I don't know who wouldn't, if they'd that to bear . . . It ain't only the pain . . . though I don't know how to stand the pain pretty often . . . but it's the thing itself . . . knowing what's coming . . . I've had no rest night or day since the doctor said what it was . . . and I couldn't bear to speak . . ."
"But you ought to have spoken. If you were ill, you ought to have let me do everything. Don't you see? I do wish I had known. Where is the pain, and when did it begin?"
"It wasn't long after I was married. I didn't think anything much of it at first, and then I knew some'at was wrong . . . And then I went to a doctor. Not a doctor living here,—just a stranger going through the place. Lots of people went to him. And he told me what it was. He said I might have to have an operation, and I said I couldn't. I never could bear the thoughts of it. And then he gave me a bottle of medicine, and he said that 'ud do me good, and it didn't. I wasn't a scrap better. And I made up my mind I wouldn't tell nobody. And nobody has known. I've kep' it all to myself. It's been hard work, more especially of late. It's got so much worse lately. Sometimes I don't know how to move nor breathe. And at last to-day, it was so bad, I couldn't bear up no longer."
"Mother, you don't mean to say it's—"
The dread word she feared was whispered in answer.
"He said if I didn't get better, I'd ought to have an operation. But I couldn't—I couldn't!"
"It wouldn't hurt. You'd have something given to make you sleep, and you would know nothing."
"I tell you I couldn't!"
"Only, if it is right? If you ought?"
Mrs. Plunkett shook her head.
"I didn't think it 'ud be such a comfort to tell you. Narcissus would ha' been no good. She'd only have got frightened, and wanted to run away. I didn't know the sort of girl you really were."
"You'll know me better now. And you'll give up doing things, won't you? And let me do them instead. Perhaps you'll feel better then."
"No, I shan't. There's no 'better' for me in this life. I know what it means, and I'm miserable."
Marigold was silent for a space before she answered. "Mother, I don't think it ought to make us 'miserable' to think of dying. Not when God's own Son came to die for us. And it's much better there than here,—there, with Him. Only I shouldn't like to think I was going sooner than He wanted me to go—I mean, if there was something I could do that might cure me, and if I wouldn't do it."
"You don't know nothing about it, Marigold."
"Well, we needn't talk of that now, need we? You'll see a doctor, and we'll hear what he says. And now don't you think you'd better go to bed and I'll see to father."
"I won't have father told."
"No, not a word, till you say I may."
"Well, I don't mind if I do go. I've felt so bad all day."
Mrs. Plunkett dragged herself up the stairs, and Marigold followed, deftly helping. She saw her stepmother into bed, put the disorderly room into a state of neatness, shaded the candle from Mrs. Plunkett's eyes, and asked gently, "Anything more I can do?"
"No. You're a good girl, Marigold," in a voice which told of tears.
"I want to be good, and you'll help me now."
"I'm sorry I've been so cross. There! But I couldn't help it."
Marigold kissed her and slipped away. Downstairs she had just time to put everything into apple-pie order before Plunkett himself appeared.
He cast a gratified glance around. "That's something like!" he said. "If I'd knowed, I'd have been back an hour ago. Where's she?"
"Mother's gone to bed."
"Eh?
"She didn't seem well, and I persuaded her."
"Shouldn't mind if you was to persuade her again," with another satisfied look. "It's—comfortable."
Marigold dished him up a nice little supper, cooked out of the veriest odds and ends. Mrs. Plunkett would have served them cold, or in a half-warmed greasy mess. Plunkett smacked his lips.
"That's something like!" he repeated.
"Father, please don't say anything about it to mother. I do want to get her to let me do things; and there isn't a chance if—"
"If she gets jealous, eh?"
"I don't want her to feel that you think my way better than hers, that's all. If I was her, and she me, I shouldn't like it, I know."
Plunkett laughed. "All right, my girl. So long as you make things comfortable, I don't care how it's managed. I'll hold my tongue—see if I don't."
Marigold was astonished, not only that evening, but during many days afterward, to find how little her thoughts were engrossed by James Todd. Pity for and sympathy with her suffering stepmother left little room for aught else. Mrs. Plunkett, having once given in, made no further effort to keep up, and sank into a complete invalid. Everything was left in the hands of Marigold. She might scour and scrub, rub and polish, dust and arrange, spend and cook, as she chose.
To her delight, the little house might once again look as it had done in past days, under the rule of Marigold's own mother. Mrs. Plunkett ceased to resist. Probably the relief of no longer fighting to do what was beyond her power mastered all other sensations, and with the cessation of the struggle, came also a marked decrease in irritability.
It was impossible to hide from Plunkett the state of his wife's health. "I don't know what has come over you both," he said in perplexity several times.
During three or four days Marigold managed to evade his inquiries, though all the time she felt that he ought to know, that he had a right to be told. Then he came in, unexpectedly, at an unusual hour, and found his wife lying on the little sofa, suffering greatly. The truth was allowed to slip out, though not without some pressure on his part.
In his own fashion, Plunkett was much moved.
Ill-tempers on her part had deadened affection on his; but the fact of so terrible a cause for her ill-tempers swept away all possibility of vexation. Marigold herself had not shown greater pity than Plunkett on first hearing the news; and Mrs. Plunkett burst into tears as she said:
"You're both a deal too kind to me."
"But I say I'll have you see a doctor, Jane; that's certain," observed her husband.
"No, no, I don't want doctors nor nothing; only just to be left in peace. I can't stand what they'd say nor do. Marigold 'll nurse me, and that's all I want."
Plunkett shook his head. "Won't do, Jane! Won't do at all! It wouldn't be right," he said. "Marigold's a clever lass, but she ain't a doctor; and I couldn't have you go on like this. Couldn't think of such a thing. A doctor won't do nothing without you consent to it; but I'll have an opinion before you are many days older. I'll ask Mrs. Heavitree who'd be best to go to. She's sure to know all about it, and you needn't be afraid. She won't talk, neither. It ain't her way to tell folk's troubles to other folk."
"I don't want to see no doctor. I'd rather not," pleaded Mrs. Plunkett, less resolutely than before.
"Well, then, you'll have to do it for my sake, and for Marigold's, not for your own," said Plunkett.
"Father, I have had a message from Mrs. Heavitree to-day. She wants me to go to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon. Shall I ask about a doctor when I'm there?"
"Do, my girl. And, mind you, I won't spare expense, so long as it's within my means. I've got enough laid by to meet a call o' that sort, I hope."
Plunkett went off; and Mrs. Plunkett said: "I wish he wouldn't; I don't want to see nobody."
"Only if it's right, mother?"
Mrs. Plunkett sighed.
And a quick thought flashed through Marigold's mind,—Had she always attended lately to that question of "right"?
"If it is right, mother?" she repeated.
"I couldn't go to a hospital—I couldn't, and I wouldn't. I wouldn't dare! If I've got to die, I'd sooner die quiet in my bed here."
"But, mother, suppose you're not meant to die yet? Suppose you are meant to get well,—and suppose that's the way to get well?"
"You don't know as it is!"
"No; I only said, 'Suppose!' It may be, mayn't it? And you wouldn't like to say 'No,' and to make your life shorter, if God meant it to be longer—would you?"
"But if I shouldn't get through? Folks don't always! And I'm not ready. I couldn't bear to die like that—all of a sudden! Marigold, I should be terrified;" and she shuddered at the thought.
Marigold sat down, and bent over her.
"Mother, there's no need," she said. "Why should you be frightened, when you know that JESUS loved you, and died for you? HE loves you now, just as much."
"I don't seem to feel anything—only frightened. It turns me cold to think o' dying."
"It wouldn't, mother, if you knew HIM a little better, and how loving HE is; and how HE always keeps HIS promises. Won't you have a talk with Mr. Heavitree some day?"
"I don't know. Some day, perhaps. I like to hear you talk."
"Mayn't I read to you sometimes, out of the Bible?"
"I wish you would. I'd like that. My eyes are so weak, I can't make out many words now. And I'd like you to speak, too, just as you're doing now."
A sense of unworthiness crept over Marigold as she looked over the past few weeks. What was she, to be allowed to bring help to this poor sufferer?—She who had thought mainly of pleasing herself, of having what she wanted; she who had so far forgotten matters of weightier import! Yet in this moment of self-searching, Marigold knew which were the true realities of her life; and she knew that her real happiness did not depend upon Todd.
"Mother, I'll try," she said humbly. "I'd do—anything I could. I'm not fit, and I know I haven't been right lately. I mean, I haven't done as I ought about James. But I won't go on so any longer,—indeed I won't . . . And if you'll let me read to you sometimes, I think perhaps it'll help you and me too . . . One does forget so sometimes. I've forgotten a little, lately, perhaps."