Chapter XI

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.