Chapter XVII: Marigold at Death's Door

"MARIGOLD, are you not well, my dear? Why do you crouch over the fire like that?"

The little girl, who was kneeling on the drawing-room hearthrug with her hands outstretched to the blaze, turned her face to the speaker—Miss Holcroft—with a smile as she answered—

"I am quite well, thank you, Aunt Mary—at least I think so. But I feel so dreadfully cold and shivery!"

"I hope you have not taken a chill. You must have got dreadfully wet returning from school this afternoon. You changed your clothes, did you not?"

"Oh yes, directly I came in. I was drenched to the skin. What a dreadful day it has been!"

A November gale was raging; the wind was howling mournfully around the crescent, and the rain was descending in torrents from a leaden sky.

"Have you prepared your work for to-morrow, Marigold?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary."

"We called upon the Wakes this afternoon," Miss Holcroft informed her niece presently, "and found husband and wife both at home. I think my first impressions of Mrs. Wake were correct. We like her exceedingly."

"Muriel is very fond of her," Marigold replied, "and I really think she is growing to love her father too. She sees so much more of him now he is married, and she says he seems quite happy and contented at home."

"Because his wife makes everything cheerful and comfortable for him. By the way, I have not seen Muriel here lately, how is that? I suppose you are still great friends?"

"Oh yes! But she has very little time to spare, Aunt Mary! She is working much harder at school this term than she did last. Really, she seems hardly like the same girl. Miss Smith says she never saw anyone so altered and improved in her life as Muriel. She is much nicer to the others, and she doesn't try to make mischief, or tell fibs, now."

"How has the change come about?" Miss Holcroft asked, greatly interested.

"I think she is trying to fight the good fight of faith, Aunt Mary!"

"You were the first to suggest that idea to her, were you not, my dear?"

"I believe so. But Molly Jenkins has talked to her about it, I know, and I think Muriel's stepmother helps her too."

There was a brief silence, during which the parlour-maid brought in the letters that had just arrived by the last post for the night. There was one for Marigold from her mother, which the little girl seized eagerly, and proceeded to read. Whilst she was in the midst of its perusal Miss Pamela entered; and a minute later Marigold dropped her letter, and covering her face with her hands, burst into a fit of weeping. Her aunts were much distressed, and strove to learn the cause of her agitation.

"My darling child!" Miss Holcroft cried. "Tell us what is amiss? Have you had bad news from your home?"

"No!" Marigold gasped, uncovering her face and pointing at the letter that lay on the hearthrug. "Please read it! I am very foolish, but—I—I can't help it!"

It was Miss Pamela who glanced first through Mrs. Holcroft's communication, after which she silently handed it to her sister. It told Marigold that a distant relative had lately died, and had left her mother two hundred pounds a year. To the little girl this amount appeared a big fortune, and her tears were shed for excessive joy.

"I am very silly," she said, half laughing, half crying, "but it is so—so wonderful! Oh, Aunt Mary! Oh, Aunt Pamela! To think mother will never need to work so hard again! She will be able to keep a servant, and live in a nicer place! Two hundred pounds a year is a lot of money, isn't it?"

"It is a good bit," Miss Holcroft responded; adding kindly, "I am very glad, dear!"

Miss Pamela sat silent, lost in thought. She took no notice when Marigold continued to talk excitedly of her mother's fortune; whilst Miss Holcroft entered fully into the child's delight.

But after Marigold had said good-night and gone to bed, and the sisters were alone together, Miss Pamela spoke.

"Mary, that woman will want to take Marigold away from us!"

For a moment Miss Holcroft's gentle face was full of astonishment, then a look of alarm and consternation crept over it, and she turned quite pale. "Pamela!" she cried, "you cannot really think that! What has put such an idea into your head?"

"Why did Marigold's mother allow us to have her here?" Miss Pamela demanded, almost fiercely. "Was it because she did not love the child, and was glad to get rid of her?"

"No, no; of course it was not!" Miss Holcroft answered soothingly, amazed that her sister, who was usually so cold and collected, should show such excitement. "Pray calm yourself, Pamela!"

"She sent Marigold to us because she could not afford to put her to school and give her a good education. If she could have kept her without injury to the child, she would have done so, and you know it as well as I do, Mary!"

"I—I suppose so," Miss Holcroft acknowledged.

"That having been the case, now she has two hundred pounds a year left to her, she will want Marigold back again. I feel sure she will, and Marigold will be glad to go!"

"Marigold is very fond of her mother, but I think she has grown to love us too. Mrs. Holcroft said nothing in her letter about taking Marigold away from us."

"No; that is to come! However, I shall write to her myself to-morrow, and inquire what her intentions are."

But Miss Pamela did nothing of the kind, for the following morning, when Marigold came down to breakfast, she seemed so poorly that her aunts sent her back to bed again, thinking she had taken cold, and would be better on the morrow; but as the day advanced she grew rapidly worse, and a message was sent to Dr. Nowell requesting him to call. Marigold knew the doctor quite well, for he and his wife were numbered amongst the Misses Holcroft's most intimate friends. He was a little, red-faced, sandy-haired man, whose genial temper and cheery manner made him a general favourite with children.

"What is amiss with her?" Miss Pamela inquired, as he followed her into the drawing-room, after having made a thorough examination of his patient.

"She is very ill," he answered, "and will want careful nursing. You had better get a trained nurse."

"I do not think that will be necessary. Barker and I will nurse her."

"Very well," and he proceeded to give her directions as to the treatment of the little girl.

"We shall see in a very few days how it is going with her," he added.

"What is her disease?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Pneumonia—a sharp attack."

Miss Pamela's face blanched, but she retained her composure.

"We must save her life if we can, doctor," she said, now fully realising the seriousness of the case. "My sister and I are very fond of the child."

"She is a dear little thing. My wife will be sorry to hear of her illness. However, we must hope for the best."

"What does he say, Pamela?" Miss Holcroft questioned nervously, joining her sister the minute the doctor had gone.

"He says Marigold is ill with pneumonia."

"Does he think she is very ill?" anxiously.

"Yes," was the brief response.

"Oh, Pamela!" Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief, and wiped away a few tears that rolled down her cheeks. "I hope God will spare her to us. Don't you—" hesitating—"don't you think we ought to send for her mother?"

Miss Pamela flushed at the suggestion, and darted a quick look at her sister.

"No!" she replied, "certainly not! There is no necessity yet, at any rate!"

"But if she should not recover—"

Miss Pamela did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but left the room, and went upstairs to Marigold, who lay with hectic cheeks, and panting breath.

The doctor paid another visit late that night, and shook his head when asked if the patient was not a little better.

The house was hushed, and the servants crept on tiptoe with anxious faces, for Marigold had endeared herself to them all. Miss Pamela elected to sit up through the night, and sent the rest of the household to bed.

"There is no necessity for anyone to remain with me," she said. "Barker shall sleep in the next room, and if I require assistance I can call her."

So it was arranged; and Miss Pamela took up her position by Marigold's bedside.

She never forgot that night as long as she lived. At first Marigold was conscious of her presence; but later she grew more feverish, and whispered to herself in disjointed sentences. Her aunt sat by and listened. The child evidently fancied herself back in her London home, for she talked of her brothers, calling them by name. The accents of her faint voice sounded full of distress and trouble. Seeing the condition she was in, a cold sensation of terror struck to Miss Pamela's heart; and she fell on her knees by the bedside and prayed to the Heavenly Father to spare her this bright, young life. She would not try to keep the child from her mother; she would be willing never to see her again, if only God would make her well!

At length Miss Pamela rose from her knees, and bent over Marigold, who was whispering her mother's name tenderly—longingly.

"Marigold, my dear," Miss Pamela said softly, laying her cool hand on the fevered brow, "do you know me?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela," whispered the voice that was weak, and husky by reason of the panting breath.

"Would it make you very happy if I sent for your mother to come and nurse you?"

"Yes—oh yes!"

"Then, when morning comes, I will send for her first thing!"

A smile of perfect contentment crossed Marigold's face, and with the comforting thought that her mother was coming to her she passed the remainder of the night in far less distress of mind.

"She is very ill," Dr. Nowell said again, next morning, after his visit to his patient, which had been made early.

"I know she is," Miss Pamela answered sadly. "I am going to send for her mother."

"That is right," he replied. "Send at once!"

"Will you write to Mrs. Holcroft, Pamela?" her sister inquired, in eager tones. "Oh, I am so relieved to think that you are going to send for her!"

"No, I shall not write, I shall telegraph; and then she will have time to get here before night."

Miss Pamela took a telegraph-form from her desk, and wrote out the message—

"Marigold is very ill. Come at once." Then she rang the bell, and sent a servant off to the post-office with it.

So it came to pass that late that same evening Mrs. Holcroft arrived. As she stepped out of the cab that had brought her from the station, the front door was flung wide open, and she saw, standing inside, an old lady with white, corkscrew curls on either side of a gentle face that bore unmistakable traces of recent tears. Instinctively Mrs. Holcroft knew that this must be Aunt Mary.

"Is Marigold still living?" she asked, as she took the outstretched hand, and allowed herself to be led into the drawing-room. The thought that she might be too late to see her little girl alive had haunted her all the way on her journey down.

"Yes, yes," Miss Holcroft replied, "and now you are come she will get better, I hope!"

"Will you tell me what is amiss?"

Miss Holcroft briefly explained, and then Miss Pamela came in. The sight of Marigold's mother sitting quietly listening whilst her sister talked, was a surprise, and at the same time a relief to her. She had expected tears, but this slight dark-eyed woman was perfectly composed.

"I have just come from Marigold's room," she said; adding, as she shook hands with her nephew's widow, "you must not think we have neglected the child, for she is very dear to us."

"I am sure of it, and I can never repay you for your goodness to her. Does she know I am here?"

"No; but she knows I sent for you this morning. Will you go to her at once?"

"I think I will remove my cloak and bonnet first, then I shall look more myself."

The sisters led their visitor to the room that had been prepared for her, where she laid aside her outdoor garments, brushed her hair, and washed her face and hands.

"I shall not excite Marigold now," she said, as she turned towards them again, her face very pale, but her eyes full of the light of love. "Still, do you not think before I see her she had better be told I am here?"

"Yes, certainly," Miss Pamela responded; "that will be the better plan."

She entered the sick-room, and motioned to Barker, who watched at the bedside, to go away.

"Marigold, my darling child," she said gently, bending over the little sufferer, who opened her dark eyes, and looked into her face with a faint smile, "did you hear a cab stop outside here a short while ago?"

"No, Aunt Pamela."

"Someone has arrived who is longing to see you, and who is going to help us to nurse you well again, I trust!"

"Mother?" Marigold inquired breathlessly. "Oh, tell her to come to me quickly—tell her—"

Miss Pamela moved towards the door as it was opened from without, and Mrs. Holcroft crossed the room noiselessly, and clasped her little girl in her arms. Neither spoke a word, but in the one backward glance that Miss Pamela ventured to take before she shut the door, she saw that Marigold's head was cradled on her mother's breast, and that her frail arms were clinging tightly around her mother's neck.

Miss Pamela stole softly away, and joined her sister in the next room.

"I feel so relieved Mrs. Holcroft has come," she confessed, with a sigh. "I have a strong presentiment that Marigold will recover now."

Miss Holcroft regarded her with a slight feeling of awe, for it was years since she had seen tears in Miss Pamela's bright dark eyes, and they looked suspiciously moist at that moment.

"What do you think of Marigold's mother, Pamela?" she asked, in a hesitating tone.

"She made me feel ashamed of myself," Miss Pamela acknowledged. "Did you notice how quiet she was, how, though she must have been longing to see the child, she would not go to her till she was quite composed? She never thought of her own feelings in the matter at all, only of what was best for Marigold."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed thoughtfully. "She looks thin and pale, does she not? I expect she has suffered mental agonies to-day, not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Indeed, I behave she would not have been surprised if she had been told the child was dead—and yet she was much calmer than you or I. The meeting with her was not nearly so awkward as I had anticipated it would be. I suppose, in reality, not one was thinking of ourselves, but of Marigold. How strange it seems that poor Rupert's widow should be under our roof at last!"