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."
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