MARIGOLD.

Otago Witness, Issue 2524, 30 July 1902, Page 74

MARIGOLD.

By Crajjstoun Metcalf.

A skirt once green, now faded to the colour of a russet apple ; an orange blouse stained and discoloured by the weather ; a round face stained by the sun, and glowing with splendid health ; and over all, a s ijlory of auburn hair. That was the impression made by the child upon the man the first time he saw her. He called her Marigold upon the spot, and the name struck to her, it was so appropriate. Foreigners are regarded with suspicion in Combe, and Marigold, who was as yet too young to know the meaning of distrust, yet eyed the stranger with the same sort of expression that one may observe on the face of a dog meeting some human being for the first time, and suspending judgment until after further acquaintance. He came swinging down the hill, and although one or two women hastened from their cottages to have a look dt him, Marigold was the fiist inhabitant of the village with whom he had the opportunity of speech. She was standing by the gate befoie her home, and the nanow path behind her was bordered by mangolds and groundsel, and a few half-hearted yellow pansies ; the setting sun tinted yellow- the cob-walls of the cottage, and painted moie brightly the lichens on the thatch. It was a pretty place, and yet, in spite of its, cleanliness, there was an air of neglect about it : this was emphasised by the figure at the gate. Somehow, the child looked lonely and unloved.

The man paused before her.

" I want to find somewhere to stay in the village. Tell me, little woman, is there an inn where I can get a bed? "

"There's the Norris Castle,"' she answered, without a trace of hesitation ; "but I shouldn't go there if I was you." "Why not?"' said the stianger, lather taken aback by such decision.

" Because it's very dear, and it's not a nice place,"' she replied, firmly. The man was amused ; "but at that moment the conversation was interrupted by a woman who came down the path to learn what the visitor wanted. She gave a short laugh when he told her what the little girl had said.

"She'm old-fashioned," she remarked, not unkindly, but rather in the tone of one who thinks that old-fashioned is synonymous with mentally deficient. "She'm oldfashioned, but she's not far .wrong this time What was it you was wanting?"' " Rooms, ' the man replied, " or, at least, a bedtuum. i'ai au iutitU «id I waj,t .to

do some sketching here. That is my name."

He gave her a card which bore the name Leslie Herbert, well-known as that of a rising artist whom London society had lately discovered, and was delighting to honour. But in Combe it was not known, and the woman eyed -him doubtfully.

" 1 don't know," she said, " but perhaps if you liked this cottage we might agree about terms. The rooms are small, but they're clean. Could you afford 12s a week to include attendance?"'

Herbert thought he could, and inspected the rooms. They were rather bare, but spotlessly clean, and he took them there and then, establishing himself in his landlady's high favour by tendering a sovereign on account, and making no inquiries about extras. In point of fact, it was Marigold that decided him. He determined to paint her as he caught sight of her at the gate, and to take the rooms in her home Avas merely to follow the line of least resistance.

In a very short time he had won her complete confidenc , and the pair struck up a true comradeship. It was not long before Herbert ascertained the reason of the slight air of neglect about the child which hod struck him on the day he saw her first. No secret was made about it in the village, and Marigold herself took as abstract an interest in the matter as any of the gossips. She was a nurse-child, and the mystery that surrounded her parentage did not prevent a suggestion of shame conveyed by the fact that her relations were willing to part with her, and that for a long time nothing had been heard of them. Mrs Holly told Herbert all about it. "We had no children of our own," she said, "and my husband saw the advertisement in a London paper. We met a gentleman down to Exeter and brought the baby away from him. He gave my hueband £20. and bid me be sure to be kind to the baby. And so I have been. We got £520 each Christmas for three yeais after that, and though nothing's come for the last two years we've made money ty her. and she'm handy about the house ; and in a year or two she'll be old enough for service."

fcjhe poured out the little story volubly, and Heibert felt sorry for the child, before whom it was told, no doubt for the twentieth time.

There seemed to be an utter lack of consideration for the feelings of the little mai.l, and Mis Holly, if never unkind, wn? entierly devoid of any sentiment of affection for her charge. Children are so sensitive, too, to the opinions of their elders, and only God knows how keen may be the pain they suffer at their elders' hands, however ignorantly caused. Still, this same sensitiveness has its compensations, and the flower that closes beneath grey clouds opens wide its pretty heart to the warm greetings of the sun. So now, when Herbert turned with a smile of sympathy to Ma.rigold, she slipped her little brown hand into his, and went out happily with him.

"Never mind, Marigold !"' he said, "lots of little girls have no fathers and mothers, but you've got a new friend, anyhow, so you're not so unlucky after all.' 1

The picture was growing apace beneath the candid criticism of all the children in Combe. Marigold stood at the ga-te, better, from an artist's point of view, than many a professional model might have stood, because it was her wonted place and attitude of self-communion, and Herbert pitched his easel at the angle of the lane, where it turned sharply up the hill. Here the juvenile population congregated as it emerged from Echool, and watched with admiration the development of the work. Often did the truth of the old saying recur to Herbert's mind that it is unw i*e to submit any unfinished thing to the judgment, of children or of fools, but sometimes he derived advantage from their comments, which, it must be confessed, were for the most part depreciatory. The girls failod to appreciate the artistic feeling which made him insist on Maiigold veaiiug her shabby week-day clothes ; the boys failed to appreciate the picture because it embodied m idea instead of telling a, story ; but boys and girls alike were at last compelled to admit that the figure in the picture was very like the original and looked as if it were alive. And Herbert himself surveyed his finished work and knew that ;t was good.

But even after the picture was completed he lingered on in Combe, tilling Marigold's days with unspeakable happiness. Together they made expeditions into Loid Axinin«tei's preserves, where pheasants strutted down the broad ndes, so tame a^ yet that the child could almost tou^h them with her hand; where black rabbits sat tip to look at them with timid curiosity before tinning and whisking away with a neivous flourish of white scuts ; where great fntillaries opened their broad wings on the bracken, or, feniing danger, fold.d them upwaids so that their green and silver underwing should not &how agambt the colour of the fern ; where all sorts of delightful live things made their home. The old nurse opened her book before the child, ;md the man taught her to lead it.

At l;"-t the summer ended, and then the most wonderful thing of all happened. Herbert a*.ked Mrs Holly if she would part with her charge, and let Mangohl live with him. He knew it was only the income represented by the child that had ever appealed "to the woman, and that he undertook to make good and even to supplement. So, after some hesitation, it was arrange!. Heibert undertaking to render account of his stewardship if ever it should be required by Marigold's own relations, and instructing a solicitor who lived near Combe to purchase an annuity for Mrs Holly.

And when the harvest was gathered in and Lord Axminster's preserves were decked in all the splendid glory of ripe autumn's tints, the artist strapped his sketch books together, sent his valise and Marigold's tin box to the station in ihe farmer's putt, and hand in hand' walked away from Combe wilth the little child who had made her home in his heart May came, and with it the Academy exhibition. Herbert's picture was well hung, and many were the congratulations he received upon it. There was a curious fascir&tion in the portrait that arrested attention, a half sad tenderness in the eyes, a wistful drooping of the mouth ; the expression which in the living face had appealed so irresistibly to the artist was fixed upon the canvas, and made an equal mute appeal to all who saw the picture. Herbert himFelf frequented the galleries more tban he had ever done before, expecting he did not quite know what, but confident that something would occur as a direct consequence of this particular piece of work — the best Le had done so far.

And lie was right!

One day he entered the room in which his picture held the place of honour, and saw a httlo group of people standing in fiont of it, while one of the Academicians discussed its merits technically with them. One of the women in the group evinced no interest in th", technical discussion. With a puzzled, startled expression on her face she was gazing spell-bound at the canvas while the quick breath coming from her 311 st parted lips belied the still composure of her figure. The Academician beckoned to Herb?rt and introduced him to his fi lends; he pi ldtd himself on knowing inttresting people.

"Mr Herbert — Miss Florence Petherton,'' he said, and Herbert bowed to the famous comedy actress. "What a sad face you 1 little model has," she said.

"She had," Herbert corrected her, and involuntarily her hand went to her heart. "Had?" she murmured; "she is "

"She is quite happy now," said Herbert, fixing h;s eye 3 upon her, for he grasped the situation, "happy and well, with me!"

'"Thank Ood!" the woman muttered. The blood linked to her face as she drew Herbert; aside and sat down on a settee. "It is destiny," she said quickly, "and I see you guess the truth. I cannot be mistaken ! That is my little Florence, Mr Herbert. I must see her ! That is my little Florence !" Herbert hesitated.

"She is my Marigold,' he said. A deeper scarlet dyed the actress's face.

"I will tell you one thing more," the said. "The child has nothing to be ashamed of in her birth, nothing with which to reproach the mother who bore her. The injury is mine. My husband left me when she was two years old, and stole my baby from me. I did not love him, and lie rever.ged himself by robbing me of my little baby, whom I loved so much. He died abouL three years afterwards, but from the day he left me I never knew what had it come of her. God ! How I have suffered !*'

"Poor mother!" said Herbert softly. I must give her up!"'

The others had walked on, leaving these two together on tht settee.

"I have waited five whole years," Miss J'etherton said simply. "Full as my life is there is oi:e great empty space which only slip can fill. Tell me, you would not keep hei from me now even if you could?"

"No," said Herbert, "I will bring her to you to-night."

Miss Petherton rose and wiped her eyes. She held out her hand to Herbert, and the expression upon her face was beautiful.

"What can I say — what can I do — to show my gratitude?"

''Be very good to her," he answered, ";ind let her be my little god-daughter. My life was rather empty, Miss Petherton, \uiu\ I found her, and I love her very lmich. I must see her often."

"Whenever you like. She ov.e.s you everything. Only biing her home."

"Ah!" said Herbert, and though his lips smiled, his voi~e was very sad. "Yes, I will bring lier home. My little Mangold!" — M. A. P.