A GREAT SURPRISE FOR MURIEL WAKE
MOLLY JENKINS had not been many days at Boscombe before a decided
change for the better was apparent in her appearance and spirits.
A faint colour came to her cheeks, her smile was less sad, and her
naturally brave heart took courage again. The children found her a
pleasant companion. They spent many hours of the day in hovering around
her as she sat on the sands, sometimes idle, but oftener with her work
on her knee.
"I feel happier when I am employed," she told them, when they
remonstrated with her for not taking complete rest; and so they allowed
her to do as she pleased.
Marigold had heard from her mother on several occasions since she had
been at Boscombe—bright, cheerful letters that showed how interested
she was in hearing all her little girl's doings.
One morning Marigold came to Molly with a beaming face, to tell her
that Mrs. Holcroft knew a lady who wanted to buy some Honiton lace
flounces, and would Molly undertake to work them? The lady was not in
immediate want of them, so the lame girl would be able to take her time
over the work.
"Mother says if you can make the flounces the lady will be willing to
pay a good price, and she thinks you had better write to her, and she
will explain exactly what is wanted," Marigold said.
This Molly accordingly did, with the result that she obtained an order
that would keep her busily employed for some months to come.
"I think it is so kind of your mother to interest herself in me," she
told Marigold, who was as glad as she was herself that the business had
been satisfactorily settled; "will you tell her how grateful I feel?"
Marigold assented. Her aunts were in the room at the time, and she
could see that they were pleased also.
How fast the August days were slipping away! Muriel Wake bemoaned the
fact bitterly one afternoon, as she sat by the lame girl's side on the
beach. The two were alone, for Marigold had gone for a walk with her
aunts.
"How quickly the holidays are passing, to be sure!" Muriel remarked,
with a deep sigh. "The time simply flies, and during the term how it
drags!"
"I wonder at that," Molly responded. "I always think the time goes so
quickly when one is working. Don't you work hard at school?"
"No, not very; not half so hard as Marigold. Miss Smith—she's our
governess, you know—says Marigold will leave me in the back-stocks; but
then, you see, Marigold has a reason for working. She wants to get on
so as to be able to earn her own living, and help her mother, who is
poor."
"I understand."
"I like Marigold," Muriel continued, "though I hated her when I first
knew her. Did you ever hear how shabbily I treated her?"
Molly shook her head, and Muriel explained the matter. Before she had
half finished her tale she regretted not having kept her own counsel,
for the other looked both astonished and shocked.
"I don't know why I've told you," the little girl said in conclusion,
"because I expect you'll think very badly of me."
"I don't believe you're capable of behaving like that now!" Molly
replied, after a minute's pause. Muriel flushed, and looked doubtful,
as she hastened to say—
"Oh, I don't know about that! I'm not a bit like Marigold, although
I've been trying to be! In spite of her being so lively and full of
fun, she's very religious, really! She thinks we ought to return good
for evil—there's another girl at our school like her—Grace Long. Such a
nice girl she is too! Do you think it makes one happy to be religious?"
"I think it makes one very happy, if by being religious you mean
trusting God with all your heart, giving the ordering of your life into
His keeping, and casting all your cares upon Him. Anyone who really
does that must be happy. We all have troubles and trials, but if God is
our Friend half the bitterness is gone from them. 'If God be for us,
who can be against us?' I expect you know who wrote those words?"
"No, indeed I don't!"
"It was Saint Paul in his Epistle to the Romans. Don't you ever read
the Bible?"
"No—o," Muriel answered reluctantly; "that is to say, we have Scripture
lessons at school, and, of course, I have to read portions of the Bible
then, but I never think of doing so otherwise. Marigold wanted me to
read a few verses every day, like she does—I almost think I will!"
"I wish you would. Don't put it off any longer. Do try to love God and
walk in His ways. Oh, my dear," and the lame girl's voice was tremulous
with strong emotion, "don't say 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a
Christian,' but make up your mind you will be one. Life is so short—at
any time we may be called upon to face our Maker, and how shall we meet
Him if we have not tried to keep His commandments?"
"Molly," said Muriel, in an awestruck tone, "do you ever think of
dying?"
"Often; and more than ever since poor father was struck down so
suddenly!"
"You loved your father very dearly, didn't you?"
"Very dearly!" Molly replied, weeping.
"Oh, don't cry! Don't cry!" Muriel implored, flinging her arms around
her companion's neck with a tenderness unusual in her. "I am so sorry
to think I have made you cry! What will Miss Holcroft say, if she sees
your eyes red and swollen?"
Molly took out her handkerchief and wiped her tears away, trying to
smile.
"That's right!" Muriel exclaimed, in accents of relief; adding in a
lower tone, "Would it make you any the happier, really, if I tried to
be a Christian?"
"Yes, indeed it would!"
"I will try, yes, I will! But I'm afraid I shall not succeed. You don't
know what a naughty girl I am sometimes, how I worry poor Mrs. Jones,
and tease the other servants. Then, too, during the term I don't learn
my lessons half my time, and I make Miss Smith so cross. She said one
day that I tried her temper more than any other girl in the school!"
Molly looked grave as Muriel made these avowals of misconduct. She
had never before come across anyone who confessed faults so openly,
and seemed to take them so little to heart. The fact was, the child
had grown up selfish and wayward simply because she had had no one
to correct her failings. The servants of her father's household had
always looked on her as mischief-making and disagreeable, and, with
the exception of Mrs. Jones, had found it expedient to keep her at a
distance. Mrs. Jones from the first had pitied the lonely little girl,
but she had not sufficient strength of character to guide her in any
way, and her affection showed itself in petting and spoiling her,
rather than in trying to uproot those characteristics which seemed
likely to mar her happiness in life and make her generally disliked. No
wonder Muriel had never been very happy.
Marigold had compelled her reluctant admiration and respect, by
generously forgiving the faithless treatment she had dealt her; and,
ashamed of her former treachery, Muriel had made diffident overtures of
friendship, which had been accepted. This friendship had brought her
more happiness than she had ever known in her life before, but with
it had come an uneasy sense of her own unworthiness. The feeling of
self-complacency that had been one of her chief attributes slowly fell
away from her, and she saw herself as she really was. She had never
cared for truth, but had always been accustomed to turn and twist a
tale to suit her own purpose; she had not been above telling a lie, if
she had considered it expedient to do so; but, daily brought in contact
with a nature that scorned falsehood, and was faithful in even little
things, doubts as to her own behaviour had not been long in appearing,
then shame, and lately a strong desire to be different.
She sat in silence for a long while, her blue eyes gazing far out over
the sea, whilst the lame girl watched her, wondering what thoughts were
in her mind, and if she would be given strength to overcome those bad
habits she had encouraged so long.
"Where is Mrs. Jones to-day?" Molly asked presently.
"Lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room," was the reply. "She said
she had a dreadful headache, and could not come out in the sun. She
often gets headaches like this."
"Poor thing!" in sympathising tones.
"Oh, she will be all right by and by."
There was a tone of careless unconcern in this remark that struck
discordantly on Molly's ear. There was gravity in her voice as she
suggested—
"Couldn't you do something for her?"
Muriel looked surprised at the idea, and raised her eyes to the
speaker's face to read its expression.
"I daresay you think me unfeeling," she said, "but Mrs. Jones often
gets bad headaches, and I'm afraid I'm not sorry, because I don't like
to have her always trotting about after me. However, if you don't mind
being left here alone, I'll go and see how she is."
"I'm going in myself now."
Molly picked up her crutches, and together she and Muriel returned to
Alma Terrace.
"Please tell Marigold not to forget her promise to go fishing with me
this evening after tea," Muriel said, as the lame girl turned into the
gateway of No. 8, and Molly nodded smilingly in reply.
A minute or two later Muriel entered the sitting-room of No. 5,
stepping lightly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Jones. She stopped on the
threshold in amazement, for Mrs. Jones was not there; instead, her
father was seated, reading a newspaper, by the open window.
"Father!" Muriel cried in surprise. "Why, I thought you had gone
abroad!"
Mr. Wake—a handsome, middle-aged man, with rather a formal manner—put
down his newspaper at the sound of his little daughter's voice, and
turned to her with a smile. She went up to him and gave him a kiss; and
then he held her at arm's length and regarded her earnestly.
"How well you look, my dear! Have you been having a good time, you
gipsy?"
"Yes, father. What made you come here? When did you arrive? Are you
staying at the hotel?"
"Yes. I came especially to see you. We, that is myself and a friend,
arrived about two hours ago. We spent last night at Bude. Perhaps we
may stay here a few days, if you are very nice to my friend."
He laughed, seeming in unusually bright spirits, Muriel thought. She
looked puzzled.
"Have you seen Mrs. Jones, father?" she asked.
"Yes, she was here a minute or so before you came in, but has gone
upstairs to her own room to lie down, as she is suffering from
headache."
"I came home to see how she was."
"I would not disturb her now; she said if she could get a nap she would
awake better. You can come back to the hotel with me, and be introduced
to my friend, whom, by the way, I hope you will like."
"Had I not better change my frock, and put on a hat first?"
He glanced at the little serge-clad figure, and the scarlet cap
surmounting the golden curls, with more than usual interest, there was
even a tenderness in his regard.
"No; you will do very well as you are!" he declared approvingly.
They left the house together. Muriel wondering who her father's
friend was, for he was not usually anxious that she should know his
acquaintances. Arrived at the hotel, which was not more than five
minutes' walk from Alma Terrace, Mr. Wake led the way to a private
sitting-room, with a magnificent view from the windows of the great
Atlantic Ocean that now stretched blue and calm beneath the August
sunshine.
To Muriel's astonishment the only occupant of the room was a lady
clad in a soft grey gown, with ruffles of white lace at throat and
wrists—such a pretty lady, the little girl thought, as she met the
glance of a pair of lovely dark brown eyes.
"Marian," said Mr. Wake, as he took Muriel by the hand and led her to
the stranger, "this is my child. Muriel, this is my wife!"
Before Muriel had time to realise the situation, the lady caught her in
her arms, and kissed her as she had never been kissed in her whole life
before.
"You dear little thing!" said a bright, kind voice. "I do hope you will
learn to like me by and by! How astonished you look, and I'm sure it's
no wonder!"
The lady drew her to a chair, and sat down by her side. Muriel glanced
around for her father, but he was gone.
"He has run away," said her companion, rightly interpreting the look.
"Perhaps he thinks we shall get to know each other better without him."
"Are you—has he—that is, is it really true you are his wife?" Muriel
asked, finding her tongue at last.
"Quite true. We were married in London early yesterday morning, and
arrived at Bude last night, coming on here to-day, so that I might see
you. Now, you won't begin to dislike me before you've given me a fair
trial as a stepmother, will you?"
There was something in this question that made Muriel smile. She
glanced quickly at Mrs. Wake, and saw that she was smiling as well.
"Because," the latter continued, "I want to love you very much, if you
will let me, and I hope in time you will grow to love me too."
Muriel gave another shy look at the pretty smiling face that had more
than a little anxiety in its expression, then dropped her eyes.
"We must be great friends. You will be able to tell me all about the
Exeter people—"
"But we shall not see much of each other," Muriel interposed quickly.
"Father is hardly ever at home!"
"Oh, but he will be now!"
"Will he?" doubtfully.
"Yes; you will see. We are going to Switzerland for a little while, and
afterwards we are coming home to settle down!"
"Oh!"
"I hope we shall all be happy together. Will you try to like me, my
dear?"
"I think I do like you," Muriel answered slowly.
"And I like you! I mean to love you very dearly," her stepmother went
on. "You never knew your own mother, did you?"
"No. I have often wished she had lived. I have a friend called Marigold
Holcroft, who is always talking about her mother, what she does, and
says, and so on."
"Yes?"
Once on the subject of her friendship for Marigold, Muriel talked
without restraint, till presently her father reappeared upon the scene.
His wife turned to him with a smile.
"Are you going to take us out boating this evening?" she asked. "Of
course Muriel will spend the remainder of the day with us. You would
like to, wouldn't you, my dear?" appealing to the little girl.
"Yes, I should. But I had made an appointment to go shrimping with
Marigold Holcroft, and I think I had better go and explain, don't you?"
The others agreed, and Muriel darted away, and was soon hastening
towards No. 8 Alma Terrace, to see if Marigold and her aunts had
returned.