MARIGOLD IS INVITED TO ROCOMBE FARM,
AND HER ARRIVAL THERE
"I WENT to see Molly Jenkins this afternoon," I Miss Pamela announced
a few days later, as she joined her sister and niece at the tea-table,
"and I am sorry to say she is not at all well."
"Dear me! What is amiss?" Miss Holcroft asked, a look of concern on her
gentle face. "Has she been working too hard?"
"No, I do not think it is that. She told me she had finished the
beautiful bridal veil you saw her making some weeks ago, and has been
well paid for it. Since then, she says she has been taking things
easier. The poor girl was looking so pale and thin that I was struck
with surprise and dismay at the alteration in her appearance; her
spirits seem to have failed her too. She acknowledged she was not
feeling well, and said she thought the hot weather had tried her
health. It was stifling in her sitting-room this afternoon, not a
breath of air came in the windows, though they were both open."
"The heat has been quite overpowering to-day," Miss Holcroft said; "did
you not find it so at school, Marigold?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Mary. But think how much hotter it must be in London!"
Marigold sighed and looked thoughtful, for she had that day received
a letter from her mother, saying how glad she would be for the boys'
sakes when the holidays came, for the heat was making them languid, and
Rupert had not been very well lately. How the little girl wished she
could transplant her three loved ones to the Cornish fishing village,
where it had been decided she was to accompany her aunts as soon as the
term came to an end. She had never been by the seaside in her life,
and though she was excited at the thought of the pleasure in store
for her, yet her anticipation was shadowed by the remembrance of her
mother and brothers, who, she knew, must be needing a change of air and
scene far more than she did. She wondered if her aunts ever thought how
monotonous their lives must be from year's end to year's end in that
little suburban flat. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she
missed part of the conversation that was going on, and started when
Miss Holcroft called her by name.
"Yes, Aunt Mary," she answered quickly.
"What are you dreaming about, my dear? Have you not heard what Pamela
has been saying?"
"Not a word, I am afraid," Marigold confessed. "I am so sorry, Aunt
Pamela! Were you asking me something?"
"No, child. I was remarking that I saw Mrs. Adams in the city this
afternoon, and she inquired how you were. I told her you were looking
pale, and that we intended taking you away for a change next month;
whereupon she said she wondered if you would care to spend a Sunday
with them at Rocombe—that is the name of their farm."
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, her face shining with delight.
"I said I would ask you, and if you would like to go, Farmer Jo will
drive in to fetch you on Friday evening, and bring you back early on
Monday morning in time for school. It was a kind thought of Mrs. Adams,
was it not? I see you like the idea, Marigold."
"Oh yes, yes! How good of her! I have never seen a farm! Oh, how kind
people are to me!"
"I daresay two clear days in the country will blow the cobwebs away,"
Miss Holcroft said smilingly; "but need we trouble Mr. Adams to fetch
Marigold? We might drive out to Rocombe ourselves, and leave her there."
"Perhaps that would be the better plan," Miss Pamela agreed. "I will
write Mrs. Adams to that effect. The invitation was given with such
spontaneous kindness that I had no scruples about accepting it,
especially as I deemed doing so would be for Marigold's benefit."
"How good everyone is to me!" the little girl cried gratefully,
glancing from one aunt to the other with eyes that expressed even more
than her words.
"We believe you are trying to please us, Marigold," Miss Pamela
responded. "I met Miss Hardcastle as I was returning home this
afternoon, and she gave me an excellent report of your conduct at
school; she looks upon you as a promising pupil, for the says you have
ability, and are willing to work. I was much gratified to hear her
opinion of you."
"I wish mother knew!" were the words that rose to Marigold's lips, but
she did not utter them; instead, she remained silent, struggling with
the desire to cry, she hardly knew for what reason, except that every
kindness she received, every loving word her aunts gave her, seemed
to set her farther apart from her mother and brothers. The contrast
between her life and theirs was apparent to her more and more each day,
and her heart cried out: "It is not fair that I should have everything,
whilst they have nothing!"
Miss Holcroft noticed her little niece's emotion, and though she had
no clue to the cause, she considerately changed the conversation into
another channel by asking—
"Don't you think Mr. Jenkins may have something to do with poor Molly's
sad looks, Pamela?"
"Yes, very likely. I fear he is not going on well; in fact, his
daughter did not hesitate to say so in as many words. He returns home
in a state of intoxication every night now, and Molly is in continual
dread lest some accident should befall him. Poor girl, she has a heavy
burden to bear!"
Miss Holcroft shook her head sadly as she replied—
"I imagined the last time I saw her that her father was getting worse
and worse. Wretched man! What will be his end? There is nothing we can
do for that poor girl, I fear."
"No, nothing whatever. She will not hear of leaving her father, and
looked almost indignant when I suggested the advisability of such a
step, talked of her duty to him, her duty, indeed! I wonder if it ever
crosses his mind to think of his duty to her!"
"Ah, well, perhaps she is right," Miss Holcroft said gently. "She is
very patient with him."
"Patient! I should think so!" Miss Pamela cried indignantly. "And to
think how abominably he has served her from first to last! I could
hardly keep my tongue still about him this afternoon when she was
speaking of him, and looking all the while so fragile and slight as
though a breath of wind would blow her away, yet withal so firm of
purpose, and determined to remain with her father. 'He has no one in
the world but me,' she said, 'and if I deserted him, what would become
of him then?'"
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold exclaimed, forgetting everything but her
sympathy and admiration for Molly Jenkins, "how splendid of her!"
"Humph!" said Miss Pamela, "perhaps it was!"
Miss Pamela was one of those folks who never do themselves justice in
the sight of others. People often had a wrong impression about her,
deeming her cold, proud, and hard, when in reality she was kind-hearted
and sympathetic. She was not a favourite with her acquaintances, but
she possessed a few friends who had known her long enough to be certain
of her excellent intentions, her sterling worth. She was very true and
faithful, and hated nothing so much as deception and sham; therefore,
when Marigold's father had come to her with the story of his marriage,
her indignation had known no bounds, and she had jumped to the false
conclusion that his wife had induced him to keep the secret from his
aunts, for fear of their disapproval. She had not allowed him to enter
into any explanations, and they had parted in anger, never to meet
again, whilst she continued to harbour bitter thoughts against the
woman who had been the cause of the breach between them. Only since she
had known Marigold had she entertained any doubts as to her conduct in
the matter having been right. There had sprung up in her heart a warm
affection for her dead nephew's little daughter. She had fallen in with
her sister's desire to take the child and educate her from a sense of
duty; but now she loved Marigold dearly.
Marigold was like her father in appearance, she had his dark, beautiful
eyes, she was sweet-tempered and kind-hearted, as he had been, and
possessed his brave spirit; but Miss Pamela knew that the desire to do
right, that was Marigold's strongest characteristic, must have been
inculcated by the mother, and her alone. Miss Pamela's sentiments
towards her nephew's widow had been decidedly modified since she had
recognised that fact, though she had not acknowledged as much even to
her sister.
Marigold was in a great state of excitement when Friday evening arrived
at last, and she drove off with her aunts to Rocombe Farm. It was
only three miles from Exeter, close to a pretty village, and not many
minutes' walk from an old grey church which Miss Holcroft pointed out
to the little girl as they passed, saying—
"I expect you will attend Divine service there on Sunday."
Marigold looked at the ancient building with interest, but it was
soon lost to sight, and they were driving through the village, which
consisted of a few thatched cottages, with two or three larger
dwellings.
At length the carriage drew up in front of a long, low house with a
porch in the centre, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and before
which stretched a velvety lawn, edged with flower-beds. They alighted,
and entered the garden through a wicket-gate at the moment the front
door opened, and Mrs. Adams' small figure stepped lightly out to meet
her visitors.
"I am so glad to see you all," she told them. "You dear little soul to
accept my invitation!" she added, turning to Marigold and giving her a
hearty kiss.
"It was very kind of you to ask me to come!" the child responded
gratefully.
"I think she does look a trifle pale," Mrs. Adams continued; "but come
inside, come inside."
She led them into the parlour, a large comfortable room with dark
oak furniture that showed off well against a blue wall-paper. There,
in spite of Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela's protestations, they were
served with strawberries and clotted cream. Then Farmer Jo appeared on
the scene, and they made such a merry, happy party that Marigold saw
her aunts were sorry to leave.
"We shall trust to you, Mr. Adams, to bring Marigold back in time for
school on Monday morning," Miss Pamela told Farmer Jo, after she and
her sister were seated in the carriage ready to be driven home.
"You may rely upon me to do so, ma'am," he replied promptly.
"Thank you. You are very good. Good-bye, Mrs. Adams! Good-bye,
Marigold."
The little girl sprang into the carriage and gave each of her aunts a
kiss, then hopped out again, and stood between mother and son, smiling
and nodding, as the carriage was driven away.
"Now what would you like to do this evening, my dear?" Mrs. Adams
inquired. "Suppose I show you over the house first of all?"
"And when you've done that, mother, I'll take her around the place
out-of-doors," her son suggested. "You'd like to see the farm
buildings, wouldn't you?" he added, turning to Marigold, who acquiesced
readily.
Accordingly Mrs. Adams led the way into the house and upstairs to a
low-ceilinged room, in the centre of which stood a large four-post
bed. A servant—a cherry-cheeked damsel whom her mistress addressed as
Sally—had already unpacked Marigold's portmanteau, and was leaving the
room as they entered.
"I gave you this bedroom because it is next to my own," the old lady
explained. "I feared you might be lonely in a strange house."
Marigold glanced around her quickly. The apartment was furnished in an
old-fashioned manner, the dressing-table being draped with white muslin
looped up with bows of pale blue ribbon, and the walls were covered
with a paper over which trailed full-blown roses. In one corner was a
large doll's house on a stand, and as Marigold's glance rested upon it
in wonder, Mrs. Adams said simply—
"Perhaps you have heard that I once had two little daughters of my own?
God took them from me many years ago. Well, this was their room. Look
here, my dear!"
She opened a cupboard door, and revealed to sight upon a shelf a lot of
children's toys, including two old-fashioned Dutch dolls with cheeks
whose bloom was as vivid and whose eyes were as black and staring as
they had been half a century before.
A lump rose in Marigold's throat as she looked at the dead children's
treasures, and she impulsively slipped her little warm fingers into the
old lady's wrinkled hand.
Mrs. Adams smiled, and hand-in-hand they went over the rest of the
house. Marigold was especially delighted with the dairy, its tiled
floor and shining milk pans, and was promised that on the morrow she
should be taught how to turn the rich cream into butter.
Then Farmer Jo came in and claimed her attention. She accompanied him
to the stables, and was introduced to Colonel, the tall black horse
that was driven in the dogcart, and to Mrs. Adams' pony, Dumpling,
whose sole duty in life was to take his mistress about in a little,
low basket carriage. After that they went for a stroll in the meadows
near by, where the cart-horses were enjoying a rest after the work of
the day, and the placid cows were lying down among the daisies and
buttercups, pictures of ease and contentment. Then back to the house
again, where supper was awaiting their return; and afterwards Marigold
went to bed "comfortably tired," as she said, and lay down in her nest
of feathers, meaning to go to sleep at once. But, instead, she remained
awake, thinking of Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo, till she heard the former
come upstairs and pause outside the door.
"I am not asleep, Mrs. Adams," Marigold called out.
"How is that?" asked the old lady, as she entered and bent over the
little girl. "Do you not find the bed comfortable?"
"Oh, very comfortable! I never felt such a soft bed before!"
"Ah, you have been accustomed to sleep on a mattress, and not a feather
bed, I expect. Now, close your eyes like a dear child and try to sleep,
or you will be tired to-morrow, and that will never do! Good-night, and
may God bless you!"
Mrs. Adams pressed a kindly kiss on Marigold's forehead as she spoke,
and went away, closing the door softly behind her. A few minutes later
her little visitor was sleeping peacefully.