THE LACE-MAKER'S STORY, AND MARIGOLD'S
CONFIDENCES WITH BARKER
MARIGOLD was sorry when she and her Aunt Mary at last said good-bye to
Molly Jenkins, for she had been deeply interested in the lame girl's
work and conversation. She was silent for a while as she walked soberly
along by Miss Holcroft's side, and it was not until they had left the
poorer parts of the city behind them that she began asking questions.
"Does Molly Jenkins live there all by herself, Aunt Mary?" she inquired.
"No, my dear. She has an old father who shares her home with her. She
has unfortunately to support him as well as herself, and that keeps her
poor."
Miss Holcroft was silent a moment, then she resumed—
"You are old enough, I think, Marigold, to know something of the
suffering that sin brings as its companion. There was never wrong done
without someone having to smart for it, and often an innocent person. I
will tell you the history of Molly Jenkins as an example, and then you
will see what I mean. Her father was a farmer in the north of Devon,
and her mother died when she was an infant. The times for farmers
were hard, crops failed, and there was great agricultural depression
generally, so that Mr. Jenkins lost a lot of money, and unhappily took
to drink. He was always very fond of his little daughter, and would
nurse her on his knee, and play with her by the hour; but one day he
came home in a state of intoxication, and let the poor child fall from
his arms to the ground, laming her for life."
"Oh, Aunt Mary, how awful!" Marigold cried, in horrified accents.
"Awful indeed! One would have imagined having done his child such a
terrible injury would have made the wretched father forswear drink for
ever, but such was not the case. Of course, he was dreadfully shocked,
but he did not give up the vice that had taken such firm hold upon him.
Poor Molly suffered a great deal, and could not go to school like other
children. She would have grown up utterly neglected and uneducated but
for the wife of the vicar of the parish, who not only taught her to
read and write, and lent her books, but paid for her being taught the
art of making Honiton lace, that she might have the means of earning
her own living. The vicar's wife was a poor woman herself, I have been
told, and therefore her treatment of her little lame neighbour was all
the kinder and more praiseworthy on that account. She used to keep
poultry, and sell the garden produce at the nearest market town, and
in that way add to her husband's slender income; but, you see, she did
not begrudge her time or her hardly earned money to the girl who had no
claim on her. I do not doubt that He who loves a cheerful giver will
reward her for what she did, and she has the satisfaction of knowing
that Molly Jenkins is really grateful to her."
Miss Holcroft's gentle face beamed brightly, and Marigold looked up at
her with an answering smile, for the two were beginning to understand
each other well.
"I have often noticed that there is a great difference in money,"
Miss Holcroft continued reflectively; "some seems to carry a blessing
with it, and some a curse! Money made in evil ways soon wears out; it
is never any lasting good to anyone. Whereas, one sometimes sees the
little that has been honestly earned doing incalculable good. I have
a fancy that the spirit of the giver has a great deal to do with the
value of the gift. However, to return to Molly Jenkins. Her father grew
more and more careless about his farm, and neglected his work worse
than ever as time went on, till at last the inevitable crash came.
There was but little money for his creditors, and when the farm-stock
and household furniture were sold to help pay the rent that was long
overdue, they removed to Exeter to the home where I took you just now.
That was two years ago, and since then Molly has supported her father
and herself by her lace-work. He is a great trouble to her, and I fear
will be a greater in the future, for he is fast becoming a broken-down
old man, and if he earns a little money he is certain to spend it in
drink."
"What a very sad story, Aunt Mary! I wonder how that poor girl manages
to look so bright and cheerful!"
"It is because she trusts in Him who will never fail her. She has
learnt to go to Him for strength in her weakness, and she knows He will
not put upon her more than she can bear."
"What a wicked old man her father must be!" Marigold cried indignantly.
"Weak and selfish he is, no doubt, but Molly loves him, and has hopes
even now of reclaiming him from his sin. Oh, it is a sad case!"
"I wish mother could have seen that beautiful lace; she understands
about all kinds of work, you know. When I write I must tell her about
that poor lame girl, for she will be so interested. I do wish mother
could get her some orders!"
"Do you think that is possible?" Miss Holcroft asked.
"I don't know, Aunt Mary; but when I write to her next I will ask her.
Mother has a few private customers herself, and perhaps they might be
glad to hear of someone who can make Honiton lace so beautifully as
Molly Jenkins."
"The work is not so well paid for as it should be. Since machine-made
lace has come into general use, and can be bought so cheaply, the
lace-makers have had a bad time. I remember when I was young, even
little children used to be seen sitting outside the cottage doors in
the villages about here with their lace cushions on their laps."
"Oh, do you think I could learn to make Honiton lace, Aunt Mary?"
Marigold asked eagerly.
"I have no doubt you could; but it strikes me you will have plenty of
other work to do shortly, so that your time will be fully occupied."
"Yes," the little girl agreed; "I mean to work so hard at school."
On her arrival at home Marigold found a letter from her mother awaiting
her. "Such a dear, dear letter!" she whispered to herself, as she sat
by her bedroom window, reading how they were all well at home, and how
much they had been interested in hearing about her new life at Exeter.
Rupert was to be raised to a higher form at school this term; he was
such a good, thoughtful boy, and helped his mother all he could. "Not,
of course, that he can take your place, my dear little daughter," wrote
Mrs. Holcroft. "I miss you every hour and minute of the day, but I am
grateful to your aunts for their kindness to you, and it makes me very
happy to think that you are going to school next week. You will learn
much that I was unable to teach you; but there is one lesson I wish
to impress upon your mind, that I hope you will ever remember before
all else: 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: a good
understanding have all they that do His commandments.' My little girl
must never forget that."
Marigold went downstairs to tea with smiling lips and bright eyes. Miss
Holcroft looked at her kindly, for she guessed the cause of the child's
happy face; but it was otherwise with Miss Pamela, who had cherished
her dislike for Marigold's mother so many years that she had become
perfectly incapable of thinking of her without prejudice. Miss Pamela
would have liked nothing so well as to be enabled to break the strong
tie between mother and daughter; although she had given permission
for Marigold to write herself, and receive letters from her home, she
nevertheless hoped that in time the communications would gradually
shorten, and perhaps ultimately drop altogether. Upon most points the
younger Miss Holcroft showed great common sense, but where her late
nephew's widow was concerned she seemed utterly incapable of judging
fairly, and was obstinately determined to keep her at a distance.
"Did you see Molly's father?" Miss Pamela asked, as she poured out the
tea.
"No; he was evidently from home," Miss Holcroft responded; "and I could
not help feeling relieved at his absence. Molly was looking as bright
as ever; she seemed in very good spirits, and was busy at work on some
beautiful sprigs of rose-buds for a bridal veil. Marigold was much
interested in Molly; were you not, my dear?"
"Oh yes, indeed I was," the little girl answered. "I never saw anything
so lovely as her lace-work."
"Molly is an artist to her finger-tips," Miss Pamela said; "and she is
a good girl too! Go to see her what time of the day you like, you will
always find her sitting-room the picture of neatness!"
Marigold hung her head and blushed, for she rightly guessed this remark
was intended as a reflection on her own untidy ways. She felt her Aunt
Pamela's eyes were upon her, and her guilty confusion was intensified
when she looked up and met her cold glance. "Aunt Pamela, I understand
what you mean," she said at length. "You were quite right about my room
this afternoon, and I know it was wrong of me to leave it like that. I
hope I shall not be so untidy again!"
"I hope not, Marigold!"
"I behaved very badly, because I knew my room was in a dreadful
muddle," the little girl continued. "I wanted to finish the book I was
reading, and I did not think you would go into my room and see how
untidy it was. It was very wrong of me, though I never thought about
it at the time. I am very sorry, indeed I am!" There were tears in
Marigold's eyes as she made her confession, and expressed her sense of
contrition, and Miss Pamela's face softened as she listened.
"You will be more careful for the future, will you not, Marigold?" Miss
Holcroft interposed, her kind voice sounding a trifle anxious.
"Oh, I will, I will!"
"That being the case, and seeing you really regret your fault, we will
say no more about it," Miss Pamela said. "Untidiness is a bad habit,
and a difficult one to break off. Your father as a boy was inclined to
be very careless, but when he went to boarding-school he was glad that
we had insisted on his keeping his things in their right places, and
also that we had taught him the advantages of punctuality. I have heard
it said that the Duke of Wellington attributed his successes to the
fact that he was always in time. I can well understand that disorder
and confusion must be distasteful to a great mind."
After tea Marigold slipped upstairs to read her mother's letter again;
and whilst she was in the midst of it Barker came in, bearing an armful
of clean clothes that had been brought home from the laundry.
"Shall I put your things away for you, miss?" she asked.
"Oh, you need not trouble, thank you, Barker; lay them on the bed, and
I'll see to them directly." But Barker still lingered.
"I think I heard you speaking of a Mrs. Adams to Miss Holcroft," she
remarked, with curiosity in her tones. "Is it the little old lady who
is so friendly with Mrs. Nowell?"
"Yes;" Marigold replied. "Do you know her, Barker?"
"No, miss. But I've heard a deal about her from my mother, who lived
with her as a servant—oh, I don't know how many years ago! Mrs. Adams
was a young woman then, and mother couldn't have been much older than
her mistress."
"Is your mother still alive?" Marigold inquired, with interest in her
voice.
"Yes, miss; though she's getting up in years now."
"Oh, do tell me about her, Barker!"
Barker smiled, and it was wonderful how a smile changed her usually
grim face, and gave it a comeliness Marigold had never thought it could
wear.
"There's not much to tell," she answered. "Mother lives in an
almshouse, and has everything she wants. She says her old age is the
happiest, most comfortable time she has known; and I daresay she's
right, for she had a long family to provide for and put out in the
world as best she could. Father died, and left her with seven children;
but she'd a brave heart of her own, had mother, and she worked hard to
bring us up respectably."
"Why, that is like my mother, only there are but three of us instead of
seven!" Marigold cried.
Then she was encouraged by Barker's face to tell her about her own dear
mother, and was surprised how sympathetic and interested her aunts'
maid seemed to be. They had quite an animated conversation together,
and in one half hour Barker learnt more about Marigold and her London
home than she had discovered in the weeks they had spent under the same
roof.
"How you must miss your brothers!" Barker remarked at length. "Ah!
It must be dull for you here after living with young folks. I'm glad
you're going to school, Miss Marigold, for I daresay you'll soon
make friends there. Well, I must get about my work, or I shall be
behind-hand, and I've all the household linen to put away."
Whereupon Barker took her departure reluctantly, for she had been much
interested in what Marigold had said about her mother and the boys;
whilst Marigold's mind had fresh food for reflection in thinking of
Barker's old mother and Barker herself, who was a much pleasanter
person than the little girl had thought.