Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Marigold vanished swiftly, and soon came back,
eggs in hand. Frontispiece.]
MARIGOLD'S DECISION
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF "MISS CON," "ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," "DECIMA'S PROMISE,"
"THE ANDERSONS," ETC. ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. LANCE
London
JAMES NISBET & CO.
21 BERNERS STREET
1896
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. WHAT SORT OF PEOPLE THEY WERE
II. SERVICE
III. WILD BEASTS
IV. A VISITOR
V. LATE AT NIGHT
VI. MARIGOLD'S LIKING
VII. MRS. PLUNKETT'S TROUBLE
VIII. A DECISIVE STEP
IX. NOT SO BAD
[Illustration]
MARIGOLD'S DECISION.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
WHAT SORT OF PEOPLE THEY WERE.
"MARIGOLD!" cried a loud voice, rough in tone, as working-men's voices
are sometimes apt to be.
"I'm coming, father."
There was a pause, but no Marigold appeared; and Josiah Plunkett set
down his bag of tools with a decisive bump, which showed disapproval.
He was undersized as to height, but broad in build, with long powerful
arms, and a large good-humoured face. Even when he frowned, as at this
moment, the look of good humour did not vanish. Like most of his sex,
he had a particular dislike to being kept waiting. Of course, he often
kept other people waiting, and thought nothing of it; but to be made to
wait himself was a different matter.
"I say! Mari-gold!" he shouted, with a vigour which made the walls of
the little house to ring.
It was a very small house, a mere rattle-trap in build, with lath and
plaster walls, from which paper peeled and damp exuded, and into which
no nails could be driven with the least prospect of remaining there.
Josiah Plunkett, being a carpenter, had done the best he could for the
inside of his home under the circumstances; but he could not make a
good house out of a bad one. Such untidiness as existed was not his
fault.
"What's that noise for?" demanded a sour voice, and a woman appeared in
the passage.
She was taller than Plunkett, and sallow skinned; not thin in figure,
but thin in face, while from the acidity of her expression, it would
seem that all the sweetness which once existed in her had been turned
to vinegar. There is always some original sugar in everybody's
composition, but the sugar does not always keep its sweetness.
"What's it all about?" she demanded sharply.
"What about! It's about me!" declared the husband. "Now, you just look
here. I've got to be off, and I want some'at to eat. I haven't a minute
to lose."
"Well, there's nothing ready for you, nothing at all!" Mrs. Plunkett
spoke as if rather gratified to be able to say this. "You said you'd go
and pick up something at the coffee-stall, to save the long tramp back;
and you know you did. We've had our dinner—just scraps—and I didn't get
anything fresh, and we've finished everything. There's no cheese, nor
bread, nor nothing left—only a bit of butter."
"You might as well make short work with what you've got to say, and not
go on for ever like the clapper of a bell," said Plunkett. "That's a
nice tale for a hungry man, ain't it? Where's Marigold?"
"Mary's up—"
"Now, I say!—You, Jane!"
"Well, I never do bother to call her nought but Mary, unless you're by.
Don't mean to, neither. It's ridiculous."
"She's not Mary, I tell you—she's Marigold. And Narcissus ain't Ciss,
she's Narcissus. That's what they was christened, in full—Marigold and
Narcissus—and I won't have 'em called by any other names. If they'd got
common names, you'd go out of your way to make 'em uncommon. Women's
that perverse!"
"If I was you, I'd be ashamed to have my girls called by such
outlandish names. It ain't respectable. The very lads in the street
calling out after 'em."
"They'd best let me catch them at that!"
"Well, it's no kindness to the girls, anyway; and Ciss cries."
"Narcissus is a little goose. Marigold don't cry. Marigold's got more
stuff in her. Now, I say, you be sharp, and get me something. I'm
famished, and I've got to work late; for I've promised Mr. Heavitree
faithful as I won't leave that schoolroom till the work's done, and
there's a lot to get done."
Plunkett followed his wife's retreating figure into the kitchen, and
took a look round. It was not very tidy; not such a kitchen as he had
been used to all his earlier married life, when the mother of Marigold
and Narcissus was living. She had died four years earlier; and about
two years and a half after her death, or eighteen months before this
time, Plunkett had married again.
When first he brought home the new wife, people thought that he had
made a good and wise choice, and that she would be a true friend to
his two girls. She was a fine-looking woman, rather stout, almost
handsome, with pleasant smile and manner, careful as to her appearance,
and, indeed, rather fond of dressing well. The girls showed very nice
feeling, welcoming her for their father's sake, and for a time all went
well.
Then a gradual and extraordinary change came over her. She grew
miserably gaunt and plain, untidy and careless, fretful and unhappy.
What had caused the transformation, nobody knew; her husband least of
all. She was plainly not in good health, seeming at times to suffer
much, and talking of "rheumatism"; but she would not or could not say
where the pain was, and she utterly refused to see a doctor.
Beside all this, she developed a grumbling and discontented temper,
which might or might not have belonged to her in earlier days. It did
not come to light until more than three months after her marriage.
During those three months all had been smooth, and the girls were
growing fond of their stepmother. Plunkett congratulated himself on the
step he had taken; friends and neighbours said what a good arrangement
it was. Then came the alteration in her, which altered the home, and
cast a shadow on the lives of those who lived with her. One ill-temper
in a house is quite enough to mar the happiness of the whole family.
Plunkett, reaching the kitchen, where pots and pans, plates and cloths,
lay about in a haphazard fashion, dropped or rather plumped down on a
chair, and stuck out his two legs in front of him.
"Now, then! Look sharp! I've got no time to lose."
Mrs. Plunkett slowly poked up the decaying fire, and placed a kettle
thereon. Her husband watched with attentive eyes, which could never be
otherwise than good-humoured, whatever tone of voice he chose to speak
in.
"Now, then! What's that kettle for?"
"I thought you'd like a cup of tea, as I haven't got—"
"Cup o' tea, when I'm famished for want o' some'at substantial. I
like that, I do! I'm to work like a slave, and have a cup o' tea to
keep me going. Here's Marigold and Narcissus. Nice state o' things,
ain't it, girls? Here am I come home to dinner, and not a scrap o'
victuals for me to eat."
"Why, it's father," said Marigold.
She looked about seventeen years old, perhaps eighteen, and was not
remarkably pretty; but what of that? Most people are more or less
pretty in the eyes of those who love them; and as for those who do not,
it matters little. Some girls think a great deal of having strangers
say, "What a pretty face!" But when the stranger has said the words,
and has passed on, forgetting, what has the pretty face gained?
If Marigold were not strictly pretty, except as seen by loving eyes,
she was not without her charms. She had a neat figure, and rounded rosy
cheeks, and her brown hair was smooth as satin, and when her light grey
eyes smiled, they were full of sweetness. The mother's tidiness had
descended in full measure upon her eldest daughter. Everything about
Marigold seemed to have just come out of a band-box.
Narcissus, though eighteen months the younger, was the taller; a
pale-faced girl, too colourless and thin, and too much disposed to
stoop, for good looks. She had light-tinted hair, and rather listless
eyes, suiting her listless manner.
But Josiah Plunkett admired his girls with all his heart—both of them
in different ways; and Marigold the most, because of her likeness to
his first wife. He might be rough in speech, and not too mannerly in
manners; yet he really was a loving father, and he did not believe
there were any two girls in the world equal to his Marigold and
Narcissus. He was ready to back them any day against all the young
women in the neighbourhood, for sense and niceness. So he often told
his wife; but at the present moment he was too hungry for compliments.
"Not a scrap of victuals for me to eat! See, Marigold, what's to be
done? I've got no time to lose. There's a lot of carpentering yet in
the schoolroom, and I've promised Mr. Heavitree I'll get it all done
to-night."
"Why, father, you said you wouldn't come back to dinner."
"That's what I've been telling of him! And then to be expecting a
reg'lar spread, waiting for him on the chance!" complained Mrs.
Plunkett.
"Well, if I didn't mean, I've changed my mind; and now I've got to eat.
A cup o' tea ain't enough for my inside, without there's some'at more
substantial to be washed down."
"Father, you wouldn't mind two nice fresh eggs! They've got a lot next
door; and they'll lend me half a-loaf. Eggs don't take long to boil.
We're out of cheese, but there's butter."
"Well, well, I shouldn't wonder if I could make shift with the eggs.
Get three when you're about it, my girl; and be quick."
Marigold vanished swiftly, and soon came back, eggs in hand, nice big
brown ones, appetising in look. The neighbours kept fowls in their
little back garden, and had often an abundance of eggs to use or sell.
Why do not English working-men and their wives oftener keep fowls? The
outlay and trouble are not great, and it would be well worth their
while. Enormous quantities of eggs come to England from abroad; and
the money which pours out of England to pay for all those foreign eggs
might just as well be poured into English pockets for English eggs, if
only fowls were more plentifully kept. Of course, people need to learn
how to manage their fowls, how to feed them economically, and how to
balance the good and bad times of the year, so as on the whole to be
gainers.
"What's that there dirty saucepan lying on the chair for?" demanded
Plunkett, as Marigold gave the eggs to Mrs. Plunkett. She would have
cooked them herself, but the elder woman stood guarding the fire.
"It's been all the morning," murmured Marigold.
"Well, why don't somebody clean it, and put it away? Eh? That's what I
want to know."
"I'd do it, if I might, father."
"She's not a-going to meddle with me nor my work. So there!" spoke Mrs.
Plunkett aggressively, dropping the two biggest eggs into a saucepan,
and keeping back one.
"All three!" ordered Plunkett. "I'm famished, I can tell you! What's an
egg to a hungry man—eh?"
"Mother, that water don't boil," said Marigold.
"You just mind your business, and I'll mind mine," said Mrs. Plunkett.
Marigold gave her father a look, and he returned it with meaning. Hers
said, "You see, I can't help myself!" His said, "What next, I wonder?"
Then Marigold brought out a clean cloth, and spread it neatly on one
end of the kitchen table. Bread and butter, plate and cup, followed.
Plunkett watched her with satisfaction.
"That's something like!" he said. "Them eggs ain't ready yet!"
"They're boiled," said his wife; and she brought them.
"There! I told you so!" Plunkett gave a sharp tap with his spoon, and
thin liquid spurted from the crack. "'Tain't begun to be cooked. Here,
Marigold—you know how! Put 'em in again, and boil 'em properly. Not
you, Jane! Marigold!"
Plunkett raised his voice, and his wife retreated. Marigold did not
wish to show any triumph, but perhaps she looked rather too well
pleased, as was natural, though not wise. She covered the crack with
salt, brought the water to boiling pitch, and dropped the eggs lightly
in. This time the venture was successful.
"I've been having a talk with Mrs. Heavitree," said Plunkett, taking a
gulp of tea.
"What about, father?"
"About Narcissus. Mrs. Heavitree wants to have her for a year—now.
Not to put off no longer. She said she thought Narcissus was turned
sixteen, and I said, yes, she was. So then she said, now was the time.
The nursery girl is leaving next week, and Mrs. Heavitree thinks that
'ud suit Narcissus better than house-work. And I've promised she shall
go."
"Rubbish!" said Mrs. Plunkett.
"May be, or mayn't be. That's neither here nor there. Anyway, I've
given my word. I promised the girls' mother I'd let 'em go, each in
turn, and I'm not a-going to draw back from that for nothing nor
nobody. And I've promised Mrs. Heavitree, too."
"She's not going, though."
"She is going," said Plunkett.
"It's rubbish, I tell you," repeated his wife. "And what's more,
it can't be. I can't spare Ciss. She's a deal more use to me than
Marigold. Mary likes her own way a lot too much."
"Most folks do. Anyhow, you've got to manage. I've promised, and I'll
stick to my word. Narcissus 'll go next week."
"I don't mean her to."
"She'll go, all the same. I don't want to part with her, but I'm not
the man to go back from my word. I've promised, and I'll do it."
Plunkett took another large mouthful of bread, and another huge gulp of
tea. "Look here, you just talk it over with the girls, and see what's
wanted. Caps and aprons, and all the rest. Marigold knows."
"I wish I was going!" said Marigold.
"Can't spare the two of you at once! You'll be a good girl, and help
your mother. And Narcissus 'll be as happy as the day is long. So now
that's all settled, and what do you think? I'm going to take you both
to-morrow to see the wild beast show."
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