Chapter III: Marigold Makes the Acquaintance of Her Aunts

"MARY, you fidget me by continually getting up and going to the window to look-out. Pray curb your impatience."

Miss Pamela Holcroft spoke with considerable sharpness, and laid down her woolwork to look severely at her elder sister. A very handsome woman still, in spite of her sixty-five years, was Miss Pamela, tall and commanding in figure, with a clearly cut, colourless face, framed by snowy hair that was dressed high on the top of her head. Her eyes were large, dark, and piercing, and gave one the impression that they were always trying to find out people's weaknesses and bad qualities.

Miss Holcroft was quite an old woman, many years above seventy, in fact. She was shorter and stouter than her sister, and less dignified in manner. She wore her white hair in little corkscrew curls, her dark eyes were soft and gentle, and her countenance was set in good-tempered lines. At the present moment she was smiling brightly.

"I cannot help feeling impatient," she said, in answer to her sister's reproof, "and I know you are really as anxious to see the child as I am, though you do not acknowledge it. I should have liked to have gone to the station myself, but as you would send Barker—"

"Which was the wiser plan," Miss Pamela interposed. "You are so fussy, Mary!"

"Fussy!"

For a moment the elder lady looked indignant, but after a moment's reflection she smiled again.

"I wonder if she will be like her father, Pamela! I hope so! Marigold! It is a sweet name, I think!"

"A most absurd one!" Miss Pamela exclaimed. "No doubt the mother chose it! Marigold, indeed!"

"Well, well," in conciliatory tones, "I have an idea she will be a nice little girl. I cannot help feeling we have undertaken a very great responsibility in removing the child from her mother's care, and I hope God will guide us how to bring her up so that she may become a good woman. I trust she will prove docile and sweet-tempered."

"Her father was both; but, of course, she may take after her mother!"

"I liked the tone of her mother's letters, and I sometimes think we may have been prejudiced against her. You know I always thought dear Rupert acted impulsively and without consideration, rather than with any idea of disrespect to us. If you had allowed him to explain—"

"We do not want to go over old ground, Mary. Is not that a cab coming?"

"Yes, and it is stopping here! Oh, the child has arrived! See! Barker is helping her out! Oh, what a thin, pale, little creature she looks! She sees us watching! Oh, Pamela, do let us go into the hall to meet her!"

"No. Sit down, Mary!" Miss Pamela said, in the tones of command that her sister never thought of disobeying. "Barker will bring her in presently."

Miss Holcroft sank into a chair with a sigh of disappointment, and waited impatiently enough till there was a knock at the drawing-room door. Miss Pamela answered: "Come in!" and then Barker's voice announced: "Miss Marigold Holcroft!"

Marigold advanced towards her aunts timidly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. It was Miss Holcroft who, rising quickly, took the little trembling figure in her arms and gave her a welcoming kiss.

"I am very glad to see you, my dear," she said heartily, "and I hope you will have a happy home with us."

"Thank you," Marigold answered. She gave a quick look at the kind old face, and then returned the caress, feeling that here was one who meant to be her friend.

Miss Pamela now came forward to greet her niece, but her stiff manner repelled the child, and the cold, clear tones of her voice struck chill on her sensitive heart. It seemed to Marigold that those piercing dark eyes were looking her through and through, and she felt restive under their steady gaze.

"There is a look of our nephew about her, I think," Miss Pamela remarked to her sister. "Do you not see it? She has his eyes."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed, "I saw that at once. Are you considered like your father, my dear?"

"Mother says we are all three like him, and she is very glad."

A distinct look of approval was visible on both aunts' faces.

"Sit down, Marigold," Miss Holcroft said; "you must be tired after your long journey. You know which is which of us, I suppose? My sister is Aunt Pamela, and I am Aunt Mary!"

"Yes," the little girl answered smiling, "I thought so!"

"They will miss you at home," Miss Holcroft continued. "What will your brothers do, now they have lost you for a playfellow?"

"The boys are at school most of the day," Marigold responded, "but mother—she will miss me dreadfully!"

There was a break in her voice as she spoke, and the ready tears welled into her eyes again. Miss Pamela shot a scathing glance at her sister, which was met by one of pure bewilderment. With the best intentions in the world, Miss Holcroft was a decidedly tactless person, and to remind Marigold how she would be missed at home was certainly unwise. Miss Pamela rang the bell, and told the parlour-maid to take Miss Marigold to her room.

"We shall have tea in about half an hour," she explained to the little girl, "so you will have plenty of time to remove the traces of your journey. Barker shall unpack your box for you by and by."

Marigold found a bright, sunny bedroom had been allotted to her, out of the window of which she had an excellent view of all the other houses in the crescent. She turned approving eyes upon the pretty brass bed with its chintz curtains, and the suite of white enamelled furniture looking so dainty and fresh, and evidently arranged with an eye to comfort as well as elegance. Close to the window was a small writing-table, on which stood a glass vase containing a bunch of white violets. It was altogether the prettiest bedroom Marigold had ever seen, she thought, as she mentally compared it with her little cupboard of a room at home.

Presently Barker came to her assistance, and brushed the dust from her blue serge frock, and proceeded to comb her hair. Marigold felt shy and uncomfortable, for she was accustomed to wait on herself, and Barker's face, as reflected by the glass on the dressing-table, was grim and unsmiling.

She was a plain-faced woman of about forty, and had been with her present mistresses for many years. Truth to tell, she did not approve of the new arrival, for she was not fond of children, and was anything but pleased to find she would be expected to assist Marigold in her toilette if necessary. She had yet to discover how few services at her hands the little girl would require.

"Thank you," Marigold said, with a sense of relief, when Barker had at last tied back her hair with its dark blue ribbon. "I am very much obliged to you."

"There's the tea-bell, miss!" Barker exclaimed. "You'd best make haste down, for the ladies don't like to be kept waiting. Come, I'll show you the room."

Marigold followed Barker downstairs and into the dining-room, where Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela were already seated at the large square table that occupied the centre of the room, the latter with the tea-tray in front of her.

"You will sit here at my left hand," Miss Pamela told Marigold; "that will be your place at mealtimes. We breakfast at eight, dine at half-past one, and partake of tea at five o'clock punctually. My sister and I have our supper at nine, but that is too late for you. I shall expect you to be in bed every night by nine o'clock, so you will find your supper ready for you an hour earlier. We are simple folks, and never dine late. What are you saying Mary?"

"I was remarking that Marigold must be hungry, Pamela."

"No, not very," Marigold answered. "I had some Banbury cakes in the train. There was a gentleman in the same carriage with me who was so kind, and he would make me have them."

"That was thoughtful of him," Miss Holcroft said.

"Did he get out at Exeter?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Yes, Aunt Pamela. He lives near here. He said his name was Joseph Adams, and that his friends called him 'Farmer Jo!'"

Miss Pamela's lips took a scornful curve, and she raised her eyebrows. Marigold flushed.

"He was so very kind to me," she said hastily. "I am sure he must be a good man."

Miss Pamela did not seem to think this statement required any answer, and there was a brief silence, daring which Marigold glanced around the room. The furniture of solid mahogany was heavy and handsome, the carpet rich and soft, and the walls were hung with oil paintings. The silver on the sideboard was massive and finely chased. Everything bespoke wealth and plenty. Marigold felt as though she must be dreaming, and that presently she would find herself in the little sitting-room at home with its cheap wall-paper, and thin, faded carpet. She awoke from her reverie with a start, as Miss Holcroft addressed her—

"So you have never been to school, Marigold?"

"Never, Aunt Mary."

"We are thinking of sending you to a day-school after Easter," Miss Pamela broke in; "I fear your education has been sadly neglected."

"Mother taught me all I know," the little girl explained. "She says she does not think I am backward for my age; but, of course, she could not spare much time to teach me, with all the housework to do, and—"

"But have you not a servant?" Miss Holcroft asked, in accents of surprise.

"No, Aunt Mary. Our home is only a workman's flat. Mother and I used to do the cleaning and cooking, and now she will have to do it all by herself—Rupert says he will help though; I am forgetting! Then mother has her needlework to do besides!"

"Needlework?"

"Yes. She sells it to a shop—"

Marigold paused abruptly, conscious of the astonishment and disapproval on her aunts' countenances. Miss Pamela was the first to speak—

"I never imagined our nephew's widow could have fallen so low as that!" she exclaimed.

The hot, angry colour rushed to Marigold's face, flooding it from brow to chin. She was about to make a passionate retort, when she caught an appealing glance from Miss Holcroft, and the words died on her lips. Already she had forgotten her mother's warning, and nearly allowed her unruly tongue to have its way.

"Mother has not fallen low," she said gently, when she had sufficiently overcome her wrath to choose what her reply should be; "I don't think you quite understand, Aunt Pamela. Mother has to work because father had not enough money to give her when he died to keep us all. Mother says we need not be ashamed of being poor; and God helps those who try to do their best!"

"Yes, yes, so He does," Miss Holcroft put in hastily. "I believe in the old proverb: 'God helps those who help themselves.' It is very true."

As Marigold ate her tea, her eyes kept wandering to the wall opposite where she was seated, to an oil painting that represented a little curly-haired boy who appeared to her to bear a strong likeness to her brother Rupert. At last, seeing Miss Pamela noticed what was attracting her attention, she ventured to ask who was the original of the picture.

"That was your father at ten years old," Miss Pamela answered; "and a very good likeness it was considered."

"Oh!" Marigold exclaimed, with excitement in her tones. "It is exactly like our Rupert at home!"

A slight smile crossed Miss Pamela's face, and was gone in an instant; but Marigold had noticed it, and it emboldened her to add—

"Mother says Rupert is the living image of father."

"Then he must be a very handsome boy," Miss Holcroft declared.

"And he is a very good boy too!" the little girl cried, anxious to make an impression in her brother's favour; "and so clever!"

After the meal was over, Marigold accompanied her aunts to the drawing-room, and sat with her hands folded in her lap whilst Miss Pamela talked to her, saying she hoped she meant to be a good girl, and do her best to please them.

"Indeed I will try, Aunt Pamela," she answered earnestly.

"You will find us strict and particular in many ways; but it is our desire that you should be happy with us. Your father had a very happy boyhood, he always said, and I believe he spoke truly. You cannot remember him, I suppose?"

"I do just remember him, but that is all."

"He was a noble boy! Mary and I were proud of him!"

"We were indeed!" Miss Holcroft agreed.

"Oh, please, Aunt Pamela," Marigold said hastily, "mother told me to ask you if you would be good enough to let her know I had arrived safely."

"I should have done so if you had not mentioned it," Miss Pamela answered. "Have you any message to send?"

"Please give her my love—nothing else, thank you."

The letter was written and sent to post. Marigold was allowed to remain idle that first evening, and she sat watching Miss Pamela busily employed with woolwork, with a sense of unreality upon her. Miss Holcroft took some needlework too, but she continually put it down to scan her little niece's features afresh, and smile upon her with such evident goodwill that Marigold's heart could not but feel less lonely. Yet, when she lay down in her pretty chintz-covered bed that night, and thought longingly of her mother and brothers, the tears would come, and painful sobs shook her slender form.

"Oh, to be back with her dear ones once more! To feel the clasp of loving arms, the touch of loving lips! Were they thinking of her at this moment, saying: I wonder how Marigold is getting on, and if she misses us much!"

She felt she had never known how much she loved them till now. Oh, it was hard that she should have had to leave them; it seemed a little unkind her mother should have insisted on sending her away. But no, that was a wrong thought. Mother knew what was best.

Marigold tried to cease crying; she buried her face in the soft, downy pillow, and finally succeeded in stopping her sobs. Then she prayed to God to take care of her dear ones, and to help her to do what was right in His sight, till at length a feeling of comfort and peace stole over her aching heart, and she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.