A NEW STEP IN LIFE AND A NEW FRIEND
THE following morning Mrs. Holcroft, in spite of tears and
protestations from Marigold, wrote to her husband's aunts and declared
her acceptance of their offer, and in the course of a few posts
received the reply, written as the preceding letter had been by Miss
Pamela, the younger sister. Mrs. Holcroft knew that the elder Miss
Holcroft—Aunt Mary—had been her husband's favourite aunt, being a
much milder, gentler person than Miss Pamela, to whom she had grown
accustomed to defer in every matter, whether of importance or not, and
she rightly guessed that if Miss Holcroft had been allowed to entertain
a mind of her own, she would have been friends with her nephew years
before his death.
Mrs. Holcroft saw at once by the tenor of Miss Pamela's letter that
she was really eager to see the little girl, and decided that as the
parting was now inevitable it should not be delayed too long, or
Marigold would have time to dwell on the thought of separation from her
family. So the day was fixed for her journey westward, and preparations
were commenced to renovate her somewhat scanty wardrobe. Marigold,
who had at first been in the depths of despair at the idea of leaving
her mother and brothers, could not help feeling an interest in these
preparations, and as her mother was persistently cheerful, her own
spirits began to revive. As to the boys, Marigold was somewhat hurt, to
find that they did not seem to be much upset at the thought of being
parted from her.
"I don't believe you care in the least," she told them vexedly.
"Oh yes, I do," Rupert answered. "We shall miss you, of course, for
you're not a bad sort for a girl, Marigold! But think what a good time
you will have, with servants to wait on you and money to spend! Oh,
don't I wish I were in your place!"
"So do I!" little Lionel agreed.
"I wish you boys were going instead of me," Marigold grumbled. "I'm
sure I'd much rather stay at home with mother—think how hard she'll
have to work when I'm gone! She'll have to clean your boots, and—"
"No, she won't," Rupert interposed, "I'm to do that myself! I mean
to get up earlier in the mornings and help mother like you do now,
Marigold!"
"Oh, how nice of you, Rupert! And you'll write to me and let me know
how you get on with your fretwork, and if you are put in a higher form
at school next term, won't you?"
"Mother will be sure to tell you that. You're going to write to us once
a fortnight, aren't you? Mind you say what Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela
are like, and how you get on with them."
"Oh yes, I'll be sure to tell you that. I'm afraid I shan't like
them much, though. I have an idea Aunt Pamela will be very stiff and
disagreeable."
"I daresay," Rupert replied, not very hopefully. "Doesn't it seem funny
to think they brought father up? Mother says he went to live with them
when he was quite small. I say, Marigold, you are very expensive."
"Expensive?" the little girl said wonderingly. "What do you mean,
Rupert?"
"You are having all sorts of new clothes—a jacket, and a hat, and two
new frocks, and—"
"Oh, now I understand! Yes! Mother said she would not like me to go to
Exeter shabby and wanting new things immediately. Oh dear, only two
days more at home!"
Mrs. Holcroft coming into the room at that moment heard the conclusion
of the sentence, and echoed Marigold's sigh. She had made up her mind
that she would not fret at having to give up the charge of her little
daughter to those who were complete strangers to her; once having
decided in which direction her duty lay; she, never faltered in the
course she had taken. Nor would she allow Marigold to repine, for this
gentle woman, with her naturally nervous disposition, had a wonderful
fund of strength in reality, founded on a firm belief in God and His
power to uphold her in all trials of whatsoever nature.
The night before Marigold's departure she and her mother had a long,
long talk after the boys had retired to rest; and, much to the little
girl's surprise and delight, her mother put into her hands the Bible
that had been her dead father's constant companion.
"I wish you to have it, my dear," Mrs. Holcroft said tenderly. "You
will see by the flyleaf that it was given to your father by his aunts
when he was quite a boy. The writing underneath is his own: 'Fight the
good fight of Faith.' That was his motto, and I want it to be yours.
He told me that he wrote it down there the same day he obtained his
commission in the army, that he might not forget whilst he was serving
his Queen and country that he was fighting too for the cause of One
greater than any earthly monarch against mightier, more deadly evils
than are ever overcome by the sword. At one time I thought of keeping
this book for Rupert, but you are the first of my fledglings to leave
the nest, and I think your father would like you to have it now."
"Oh, mother, are you sure you do not want to keep it for yourself?"
Marigold inquired.
"Quite sure. I have many other things that belonged to your father, and
I wish you to have his Bible, and take his motto for yours, will you?"
"Indeed, indeed I will!"
"And you will read from his Bible every day, and ask God to be with you
in your new life? You are going into a different world, my darling,
to the one you have been familiar with so long. Here we have worked
amongst working people, but in Exeter with your aunts, you will be
thrown with those who have always been accustomed to plenty of this
world's goods, and be tried with temptations that have never crossed
your path before. I pray my little daughter may be kept unspotted from
the world, that she may hold fast to her father's motto all her life,
and ever fight the good fight of Faith!"
Mrs. Holcroft had spoken very solemnly, holding Marigold's little hand
in hers, and looking earnestly into her wistful dark eyes. There was a
long silence, broken at length by Marigold's saying, with a deep-drawn
sigh—
"To-morrow this time I suppose I shall be at Exeter?"
"Yes, dear. I want you to try to please your aunts, and be attentive
to their wishes. They are getting old, and I have no doubt are rather
particular and fidgety, but you must never be impatient if they are.
I am afraid you are inclined to be untidy, so you must guard against
leaving things out of place; then again, you are apt to speak too
hastily, without reflecting if you are injuring anyone's feelings by
doing so. You must learn to curb that unruly tongue of yours."
"Yes, mother, I will really try. But oh, I know I shall be so
dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy!"
"You will be a little lonely at first, no doubt; and you will miss the
boys—"
"I shall miss you most of all, mother!"
"Ah, yes! But I shall be thinking of you, little daughter; and if you
want to make me feel happy you must learn to be happy yourself."
Marigold had to say good-bye to the boys before they started for
school, in the morning, as she would be gone before they returned. They
clung around her neck kissing her, and crying all the while, for, now
the parting had really come, they felt it quite as much as she did.
Rupert forgot to be ashamed of his tears, as he sobbed out: "It's hard
lines you should have to go, Marigold!" Whilst as for little Lionel he
was in too great trouble to speak coherently at all.
But the worst time for Marigold was when she stood by her mother's
side on the platform at Paddington Station, her modest trunk already
labelled and in the train, and her mother's arms around her. She felt
too dazed and shaken to say anything, and allowed herself to be placed
in a compartment without uttering a word.
"Good-bye, my darling child," Mrs. Holcroft said. "The guard will see
you get out at Exeter, and you know you will be met there."
"I'll see she's all right, ma'am," said a loud, jovial voice. "I'm
going on by this train, and my destination is Exeter, too; so, if
you'll entrust your little maid to me, I'll look after her to the best
of my ability."
Mrs. Holcroft cast a quick look at the speaker. He was a tall, stout
man, clad in a suit of tweed, and wore leather leggings. He had a
brick-red complexion, a clean-shaven countenance, and a pair of kindly
blue eyes; evidently a large man, with a large voice, and a large
heart, if the mother's perception told her truly.
"How good of you!" she cried. "My little girl has never taken a long
journey alone before."
"You may make your mind easy about her, ma'am."
"Thank you so much!"
There was no time for more conversation. The guard blew his whistle,
and the train steamed out of the station, leaving Mrs. Holcroft gazing
after it with the heaviest heart she had owned for many a day.
Marigold leaned back in her corner of the carriage, and tried hard not
to cry, because she did not wish her fellow-travellers to notice her
grief, and perhaps ask the cause. But, in spite of her efforts for
composure the hot tears would come, and roll down her cheeks, till at
last she had to take out her handkerchief and wipe them away.
She looked resolutely out of the window, trying to take an interest
in the view, but it was all no good, she felt as though her heart
was breaking. Having stealthily wiped her eyes for the third time,
she glanced hastily around the compartment, and was much relieved to
find that no one appeared to be paying her any attention, except her
opposite neighbour, the stranger who had spoken to her mother, and he
was peeping at her around the newspaper that he was holding open in
front of him. When he met Marigold's tearful eyes he withdrew behind
the newspaper, but the next moment he was peeping at her again, not
curiously, but with a look of evident concern. This time he spoke—
"Have you ever been westward before?" he inquired.
"No, never!" she answered shyly.
"Ah, you have a treat in store, then! Fine place Exeter! Fine county
Devon! I'm a Devonshire man; was born in a little village a few miles
from Exeter."
"Oh! My mother and father were both born in Devonshire too!"
He brought his great hands down on his knees with a sounding smack that
made his fellow-passengers start and regard him with amazement. Nothing
abashed he laughed loudly.
"That's capital!" he cried. "Capital! That was your mother, I suppose,
the lady on the platform at Paddington?"
"Yes."
At the thought of her mother the tears rose afresh to Marigold's eyes.
Her new acquaintance saw them, and hastily turned the conversation to
himself again.
"Yes, I'm Devonshire born," he continued; "my name's Joseph Adams, and
my friends call me 'Farmer Jo.' Now, what, if I may make so bold as to
ask, is your name, little missy?"
"Marigold Holcroft," she answered.
"Marigold! Why, that's the name of a flower! What made them call you
that, I wonder? Marigold!" he repeated reflectively.
"It's quite a common flower, I know," she said, "but my mother loves
it, because in the garden of her old home marigolds used to spring up
year after year, and her father used to like them."
"Ah! you've got a good mother, I take it, little missy!"
"Yes, a very good mother," the little girl responded, and this time as
she mentioned the dear name a smile crossed her face and drove away
the tears. Her new friend looked at her approvingly, his jovial face
radiant with good humour.
"I've got an old mother at home," he told her, "nigh upon eighty years
of age she is, and hale and hearty still! She's a wonderful woman!"
Marigold looked interested, for to her young eyes the farmer, who was
not more than forty-five, seemed quite old, and she was surprised to
hear he had a mother living. She wondered if he had a wife and children
too.
"I'm a bachelor," he continued, as though in answer to her thought,
"and my mother keeps house for me. There's not a cleverer housewife in
the county than she is! If you stay in Exeter long, I may run across
you one of these days. Mother and I always drive into the city on
Fridays—market-days, you know—and in the afternoon we give ourselves a
treat. We go to the cathedral to hear the anthem."
"I am to live with my aunts," Marigold explained, "and their house is
in Powderham Crescent. Perhaps you know that part?"
He nodded an assent. Marigold, who had by this time got over her first
shyness, felt her spirits rising. At Didcot, Farmer Jo bought a packet
of Banbury cakes, and gave it to her. The little girl, who had hardly
tasted her breakfast, and was beginning to get hungry, thought she had
never eaten anything so nice in her life before.
She began to enjoy the journey, and feasted her eyes on the beautiful
scenery through which they were passing. The train sped on through
meadowlands verdant with the rains of early spring, where young lambs
skipped and jumped at play, and the little girl clapped her hands with
delight at the sight.
"How beautiful everything is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, please, what are
those flowers?"
"Cowslips," Farmer Jo answered, smiling at her enthusiasm, "and as we
get farther down the line, you will see plenty of primroses too!"
"Oh, how lovely! I am so fond of flowers! I wish mother could see them!"
It was about four o'clock when the train at length neared Exeter.
"We are nearly come to the ever faithful city, little missy," Farmer Jo
remarked.
Marigold looked at him inquiringly, wondering what he meant.
"The city's motto is Semper fidelis, and that's Latin for 'Ever
faithful,'" he explained.
"Oh, I did not know that!"
"Have you had a pleasant journey?" he inquired.
"Indeed I have! You have been so very kind to me!"
"Oh, that's nothing! I like to have someone to talk to. Well," as the
train slowed into the station, "here we are at last!"
He assisted Marigold to alight. The little girl's heart beat fast as
she looked around, to see if her aunts had come to meet her. In a few
minutes a tall woman, neatly attired in black, came to her side, and
touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Are you Miss Marigold Holcroft?" the stranger asked.
"Yes. You—you are not my aunt?" Marigold answered doubtfully.
"Certainly not!" was the quick reply, spoken in rather sharp tones. "I
am your aunts' maid, and they have sent me to meet you. What luggage
have you brought?"
"Only one, box."
"Well, little missy, seeing you're in safe keeping, I'll say good-bye,"
Farmer Jo put in at this point.
"Good-bye!" Marigold answered, as she clasped his great hand between
her two small palms, feeling as though she was parting from a real
friend. "Good-bye! When I write to mother I shall tell her what good
care you took of me, and how very, very kind you have been!"
"No matter! no matter!" he responded hastily. "I am glad we happened to
meet, though!"
The little girl gazed after his big tweed-clad figure as it disappeared
in the crowd with a sinking heart and a quivering lip; then she
obediently followed her aunts' maid, and having claimed her box, they
passed out of the railway station, and entering the first cab at hand,
were driven away.