MARIGOLD VISITS BARKER'S MOTHER
THE following Saturday afternoon Marigold accompanied Barker to pay a
visit to the latter's mother. The little girl had received permission
from her aunts to gather some flowers to take with her, and she
had picked a bunch of roses and lilies of the valley, which later
ornamented the centre of the tea-table in the old woman's tiny parlour.
Marigold had never been in an almshouse before. The one where Mrs.
Barker lived was one of a row, each having a strip of garden in front,
with a narrow path through the middle leading to the door, which was
painted bright green. The houses were all built exactly alike, but the
individual tastes of the occupiers could be seen from even a casual
scrutiny of the windows. In one hung a canary in a brass cage; in
another flowering plants showed between snowy muslin curtains; whilst
other windows had a neglected appearance, the curtains hanging limp,
and in some cases drab with dirt; one or two had merely under-blinds
and no curtains at all.
Barker paused before a trim, well-kept garden, where simple
cottage flowers bloomed gaily,—clumps of forget-me-nots and double
daisies—those known as bachelors' buttons—golden wallflowers, and
purple pansies. Mrs. Barker stood on the doorstep waiting to greet her
visitors, for she had been watching for them from the window. She was a
very old woman, whose sparse grey locks were tucked neatly away under
a cap—her best, which was adorned with mauve ribbons, and whose face
was lined and wrinkled, indeed, but nevertheless wore an expression
of perfect contentment. After a youth and middle-age of hard work,
Mrs. Barker was spending the remaining years of her life in peace and
happiness. She had no worries, no troubles nowadays.
Marigold soon discovered that Barker in her mother's parlour,
and Barker as she was known in her mistresses' house, bore but a
slight resemblance to each other. The silent, grave-faced maid was
metamorphosed into a bright, smiling woman, who seemed bent upon being
the life of the little party. She had brought a large basket with her,
the contents of which proved to be packages of tea, sugar, and other
groceries, and lying on the top, so that it should not be crushed, was
a summer mantle, which her own clever fingers had made for her mother.
"I remembered your old cloak would be too heavy for you to wear
these sunny days," she explained, "and I think this will be the very
thing-for you."
Mrs. Barker was delighted; her face was radiant with pleasure. She
tried on the new garment, at once, whilst her daughter and Marigold
looked on approvingly.
"I declare it's too good for me!" she exclaimed.
"Not a bit of it, mother. It suits her very well, doesn't it, miss?"
Barker said, appealing to Marigold.
"Yes; it does indeed, Mrs. Barker," the little girl answered. "You look
so nice in it!"
"I feel as grand as a duchess," Mrs. Barker declared. "My neighbours
will hardly know me when they see me out-of-doors next!"
Marigold enjoyed her tea immensely. She drank it out of a bright pink
teacup with "A present from Brighton" engraved upon it in gold letters.
She was debating in her mind whether it would be considered a breach of
good manners to remark upon it, when Mrs. Barker said—
"You are looking at your teacup, I see, miss. Isn't it pretty?"
"Yes, very pretty," Marigold replied. "I was going to say so, only I
was afraid you might think me rude for noticing it to you."
"Louisa brought it home from Brighton for me last winter," Mrs. Barker
explained.
"Louisa?" Marigold said questioningly.
"Yes, miss. Why, you don't mean to tell me you don't know who Louisa
is?" the old woman exclaimed, laughing.
"Who is she?" Marigold asked, feeling bewildered at the amusement she
saw on the faces of mother and daughter.
"Why, Louisa is my daughter, to be sure!" Mrs. Barker responded.
"What, Barker? Oh, how silly of me not to guess! But, do you know, I
never knew what her name was before!"
"They always call me by my surname at Powderham Crescent," Barker
informed her mother, "so, of course, Miss Marigold could not tell who
you were talking about."
Presently Marigold asked Mrs. Barker if she ever saw her old mistress,
Mrs. Adams, now.
"No, miss, never," was the reply. "When I married I went to live at
Plymouth; and afterwards, when my husband died, and I came back to
Exeter, I thought maybe Mrs. Adams had had so much trouble herself she
would not care about seeing me, and I did not wish to intrude on her
grief—poor lady! I daresay you've heard tell, miss, how she lost her
husband and children at one time—all but the baby?"
"No. Do please tell me," Marigold requested, in accents of deep concern.
"'Tis a very sad story, miss. Someone who read about it in the
newspaper told me of it first of all, whilst I was at Plymouth, and
then, when I came back to Exeter, I met a friend who was at Exmouth at
the time, and knew all about the accident. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Adams
and their five children were in lodgings at Exmouth for change of air,
and one day master—I mean Mr. Adams—took the four children out mackerel
fishing. Mrs. Adams stayed at home with Master Jo, who was a little
chap about two years old, I should think, then. Well, miss, it was a
fine day, but breezy, and—no one ever knew how it happened—the sailing
boat capsized, and master, and the children, and the boatmen were all
drowned. The boat was found afterwards bottom upwards, and next tide
all the poor dead bodies were washed ashore."
"Oh, how sad, how terribly, terribly sad!" cried Marigold, the tears
rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, I wonder it did not kill poor Mrs. Adams!"
The old woman shook her head sorrowfully as she continued—
"The shock would have killed some women, but she was not one of the
sort to lie down and die. Besides, she had little Master Jo left to
live and care for; and they tell me those two are all in all to each
other. I have seen him many times, and often I've been tempted to stop
him and ask after his mother, for he has a gentle face, although he is
such a big man!"
"He is one of the kindest men I ever met," Marigold declared, with
conviction in her tones; and she proceeded to give Mrs. Barker an
account of her journey from Paddington to Exeter, when she had been so
sad after parting from her mother, and Farmer Jo had proved himself
such a cheering companion.
"Ah, he's like his father, I take it," the old woman said. "I never met
a happier couple than Mr. and Mrs. Adams, and to think he should have
been taken from her like that, and all those dear children too! The
ways of God are mysterious, and it must have been a sore trial to her
faith when He laid such affliction upon her."
"Yes," Marigold agreed. "I wonder she could ever feel happy again, and
yet, do you know, Mrs. Barker, she has such a bright face!"
"Has she, miss? Ah, you may depend upon it, she has learnt to say, 'Thy
will be done.'"
Marigold looked thoughtful. The story she had heard from Mrs. Barker's
lips had impressed her deeply, and she was somewhat silent during
the remainder of the visit. She had stepped along lightheartedly by
Barker's side in the afternoon, but on their return journey she walked
soberly and sedately, with an expression of unusual gravity on her face.
"Well, miss, what do you think of my mother?" Barker asked, at length.
"Oh, I like her so much!" the little girl replied promptly. "That is a
dear little house she lives in."
"She was very glad to get it, Miss Marigold; and it's a great relief to
my mind to know that she will have a comfortable home as long as she
lives. It's a bit lonely for her sometimes, though!"
"I daresay it is. I hope you will take me to see her again, Barker;
that is, if you think she will not mind. But perhaps she would rather
you went alone?"
"Oh no, Miss Marigold! I could see she took quite a fancy to you, and
I'm sure she will be always very glad whenever you care to go and see
her, for she dearly loves to have visitors. Until lately she has been
accustomed to lead a busy life, and not being able to read—"
"What! Can't she read?" Marigold cried, in accents of profound surprise.
"No, miss," Barker replied. "When she was a child, parents were
not bound to send their children to school, like they are now. My
grandfather was only a farm labourer, and as mother was the eldest of
a long family, she went into service when she was barely fourteen, and
before that she had to look after her little brothers and sisters, so
you see she never went to school at all. As I was saying, not being
able to read, I'm afraid the time sometimes hangs heavy on her hands."
"How sad not to be able to read the Bible!" Marigold said, lifting a
pair of thoughtful dark eyes to her companion's face.
"I read her a chapter when I go home every other Sunday," Barker
replied. "She says she thinks of it afterwards, and of what she hears
in church too. She has a wonderful memory, and can repeat many of the
psalms word for word, and a great many hymns."
Marigold found her aunts seated placidly in the drawing-room as usual,
on her return. Both greeted her with brightening faces, and Miss
Holcroft said—
"Come here, Marigold, and tell us what you have been doing. Did you
find Mrs. Barker at home?"
"Yes, Aunt Mary; she was expecting us, you know. She seemed very glad
to see us, and her parlour is such a nice little room—it is, really!"
seeing a doubtful look on Miss Holcroft's face. "It is not so very much
smaller than our sitting-room in London. Everything was so clean and
tidy, you would have been delighted with it, Aunt Pamela."
Miss Pamela smiled as she inquired—
"Did you have tea?"
"Oh yes! At a little round table with the bunch of flowers I took from
our garden in the centre. They looked beautiful, and quite scented the
room. Mrs. Barker was so pleased with them. She has a little garden
of her own, you know, and it is full of flowers, though not lilies or
roses—ones that are cheap and easy to grow."
"Does she cultivate them herself?" Miss Pamela asked, with interest in
her tone. "If so, perhaps she would like some roots from us. The lilies
of the valley increase rapidly, and we could well spare her a few
roots."
"I think she would be very glad to have them," Marigold replied.
"Perhaps I might go and see the old woman one of these days."
"Oh, do, Aunt Pamela! She loves having visitors, Barker says."
"We have had visitors in your absence, my dear," Miss Holcroft
interposed at this point. "Now, I wonder if you can guess who they
were."
Marigold shook her head smilingly.
"One of them is really more your friend than ours, I'm sure," Miss
Holcroft continued. "Now you know, do you not?"
"No, indeed; I cannot imagine who they were," Marigold responded,
looking puzzled.
"Farmer Jo and his mother have been here. They had been to see Mrs.
Nowell, and afterwards they called here. They both seemed very
disappointed you were not at home, did they not, Pamela?"
"Yes, I'm sure they were sorry to have missed you, Marigold," Miss
Pamela said.
"Mrs. Adams said she was very fond of children."
"Oh, I wish I had been at home!" the little girl cried, in disappointed
accents.
"We have promised to drive out to their farm one fine day," Miss Pamela
continued. "If all is well, we will take you with us, Marigold."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Pamela!"
Marigold had spoken in bright, glad tones; but now a shadow crossed
her face, and in a few words she told them the sad story she had heard
from old Mrs. Barker that afternoon. Her aunts listened in silence, but
when she had finished her tale, Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief
and wiped her eyes, whilst Miss Pamela's usually cold face was full of
sympathy.
"And to think that she should have lived to be happy again!" the latter
exclaimed. "She looked so cheerful this afternoon. I'm sure I thought
she had lived an ordinary, uneventful life, and instead of that she
must have suffered as few women are called upon to do. To lose husband
and four little children at once, and in such a heartrending manner!
Oh, I wonder it did not kill her!"
"That is what I said to Mrs. Barker," Marigold put in; "but she said
Mrs. Adams was not one of the sort to lie down and die."
"What did she mean by that remark, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked.
"I think she meant that Mrs. Adams trusted in God, and knew it was His
will," Marigold answered reverently. "I suppose she felt like mother
did when father died—only, of course, mother had all of us left," the
little girl added.
"How did your mother feel?" Miss Pamela questioned abruptly.
"First of all as though she did not want to live without father, and
then she thought that it was very selfish to wish to die, when perhaps
God had so much work for her to do, and she remembered she was only
parted from father for a time, and it was wicked to be sorry because he
had finished the fight."
"'Finished the fight?'" Miss Pamela repeated inquiringly.
"Yes—the good fight of faith," Marigold explained.
There was a brief silence, broken by the little girl's remarking—
"It must be dreadful not to be able to read. Poor Mrs. Barker never
went to school in her life, so she never learned; of course it is not
her fault, but it does seem a great pity, does it not? Barker reads to
her every other Sunday when she goes home, and then she has something
to think about afterwards."
"Poor old soul!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed sympathetically.
When Marigold wrote to her mother, which she did in the course of
a few days, she found she had many topics to write about. Many new
acquaintances had come into her life, many new interests occupied her
thoughts. Hitherto, in her London home her life had been of necessity a
somewhat narrow one, because her mother had always been much occupied,
and had no time for making new friends; but, now, Marigold found
herself in a very different position. She had a comfortable home, ample
pocket-money, and everything that wealth could give; but, oh! how she
longed sometimes for the sight of her mother's face, the touch of the
loving arms, the sound of the gentle voice.
Then, too, how happy she would have been, if her mother and brothers
could have shared the good things she was learning to take as a matter
of course—the spacious house with its comfortable belongings, the
well-trained servants, the plentiful food, all of which had seemed to
her at first to be great luxuries.
The little girl had on her arrival been prejudiced against her aunts
on account of their having ignored her mother, but Miss Holcroft had
won her love at once; and she was beginning to discover that there was
much to admire and respect in Miss Pamela's sterner character. But, in
spite of the kindness of both her aunts, in spite of her comfortable
surroundings and freedom from the petty cares that she had shared with
her family in her London home, Marigold never ceased to long for the
day, years hence though she knew it would probably be, when she would
return to her mother, never, as she trusted, to be parted again.