Marigold's decision

WHAT SORT OF PEOPLE THEY WERE.

"MARIGOLD!" cried a loud voice, rough in tone, as working-men's voices are sometimes apt to be.

"I'm coming, father."

There was a pause, but no Marigold appeared; and Josiah Plunkett set down his bag of tools with a decisive bump, which showed disapproval. He was undersized as to height, but broad in build, with long powerful arms, and a large good-humoured face. Even when he frowned, as at this moment, the look of good humour did not vanish. Like most of his sex, he had a particular dislike to being kept waiting. Of course, he often kept other people waiting, and thought nothing of it; but to be made to wait himself was a different matter.

"I say! Mari-gold!" he shouted, with a vigour which made the walls of the little house to ring.

It was a very small house, a mere rattle-trap in build, with lath and plaster walls, from which paper peeled and damp exuded, and into which no nails could be driven with the least prospect of remaining there. Josiah Plunkett, being a carpenter, had done the best he could for the inside of his home under the circumstances; but he could not make a good house out of a bad one. Such untidiness as existed was not his fault.

"What's that noise for?" demanded a sour voice, and a woman appeared in the passage.

She was taller than Plunkett, and sallow skinned; not thin in figure, but thin in face, while from the acidity of her expression, it would seem that all the sweetness which once existed in her had been turned to vinegar. There is always some original sugar in everybody's composition, but the sugar does not always keep its sweetness.

"What's it all about?" she demanded sharply.

"What about! It's about me!" declared the husband. "Now, you just look here. I've got to be off, and I want some'at to eat. I haven't a minute to lose."

"Well, there's nothing ready for you, nothing at all!" Mrs. Plunkett spoke as if rather gratified to be able to say this. "You said you'd go and pick up something at the coffee-stall, to save the long tramp back; and you know you did. We've had our dinner—just scraps—and I didn't get anything fresh, and we've finished everything. There's no cheese, nor bread, nor nothing left—only a bit of butter."

"You might as well make short work with what you've got to say, and not go on for ever like the clapper of a bell," said Plunkett. "That's a nice tale for a hungry man, ain't it? Where's Marigold?"

"Mary's up—"

"Now, I say!—You, Jane!"

"Well, I never do bother to call her nought but Mary, unless you're by. Don't mean to, neither. It's ridiculous."

"She's not Mary, I tell you—she's Marigold. And Narcissus ain't Ciss, she's Narcissus. That's what they was christened, in full—Marigold and Narcissus—and I won't have 'em called by any other names. If they'd got common names, you'd go out of your way to make 'em uncommon. Women's that perverse!"

"If I was you, I'd be ashamed to have my girls called by such outlandish names. It ain't respectable. The very lads in the street calling out after 'em."

"They'd best let me catch them at that!"

"Well, it's no kindness to the girls, anyway; and Ciss cries."

"Narcissus is a little goose. Marigold don't cry. Marigold's got more stuff in her. Now, I say, you be sharp, and get me something. I'm famished, and I've got to work late; for I've promised Mr. Heavitree faithful as I won't leave that schoolroom till the work's done, and there's a lot to get done."

Plunkett followed his wife's retreating figure into the kitchen, and took a look round. It was not very tidy; not such a kitchen as he had been used to all his earlier married life, when the mother of Marigold and Narcissus was living. She had died four years earlier; and about two years and a half after her death, or eighteen months before this time, Plunkett had married again.

When first he brought home the new wife, people thought that he had made a good and wise choice, and that she would be a true friend to his two girls. She was a fine-looking woman, rather stout, almost handsome, with pleasant smile and manner, careful as to her appearance, and, indeed, rather fond of dressing well. The girls showed very nice feeling, welcoming her for their father's sake, and for a time all went well.

Then a gradual and extraordinary change came over her. She grew miserably gaunt and plain, untidy and careless, fretful and unhappy. What had caused the transformation, nobody knew; her husband least of all. She was plainly not in good health, seeming at times to suffer much, and talking of "rheumatism"; but she would not or could not say where the pain was, and she utterly refused to see a doctor.

Beside all this, she developed a grumbling and discontented temper, which might or might not have belonged to her in earlier days. It did not come to light until more than three months after her marriage. During those three months all had been smooth, and the girls were growing fond of their stepmother. Plunkett congratulated himself on the step he had taken; friends and neighbours said what a good arrangement it was. Then came the alteration in her, which altered the home, and cast a shadow on the lives of those who lived with her. One ill-temper in a house is quite enough to mar the happiness of the whole family.

Plunkett, reaching the kitchen, where pots and pans, plates and cloths, lay about in a haphazard fashion, dropped or rather plumped down on a chair, and stuck out his two legs in front of him.

"Now, then! Look sharp! I've got no time to lose."

Mrs. Plunkett slowly poked up the decaying fire, and placed a kettle thereon. Her husband watched with attentive eyes, which could never be otherwise than good-humoured, whatever tone of voice he chose to speak in.

"Now, then! What's that kettle for?"

"I thought you'd like a cup of tea, as I haven't got—"

"Cup o' tea, when I'm famished for want o' some'at substantial. I like that, I do! I'm to work like a slave, and have a cup o' tea to keep me going. Here's Marigold and Narcissus. Nice state o' things, ain't it, girls? Here am I come home to dinner, and not a scrap o' victuals for me to eat."

"Why, it's father," said Marigold.

She looked about seventeen years old, perhaps eighteen, and was not remarkably pretty; but what of that? Most people are more or less pretty in the eyes of those who love them; and as for those who do not, it matters little. Some girls think a great deal of having strangers say, "What a pretty face!" But when the stranger has said the words, and has passed on, forgetting, what has the pretty face gained?

If Marigold were not strictly pretty, except as seen by loving eyes, she was not without her charms. She had a neat figure, and rounded rosy cheeks, and her brown hair was smooth as satin, and when her light grey eyes smiled, they were full of sweetness. The mother's tidiness had descended in full measure upon her eldest daughter. Everything about Marigold seemed to have just come out of a band-box.

Narcissus, though eighteen months the younger, was the taller; a pale-faced girl, too colourless and thin, and too much disposed to stoop, for good looks. She had light-tinted hair, and rather listless eyes, suiting her listless manner.

But Josiah Plunkett admired his girls with all his heart—both of them in different ways; and Marigold the most, because of her likeness to his first wife. He might be rough in speech, and not too mannerly in manners; yet he really was a loving father, and he did not believe there were any two girls in the world equal to his Marigold and Narcissus. He was ready to back them any day against all the young women in the neighbourhood, for sense and niceness. So he often told his wife; but at the present moment he was too hungry for compliments.

"Not a scrap of victuals for me to eat! See, Marigold, what's to be done? I've got no time to lose. There's a lot of carpentering yet in the schoolroom, and I've promised Mr. Heavitree I'll get it all done to-night."

"Why, father, you said you wouldn't come back to dinner."

"That's what I've been telling of him! And then to be expecting a reg'lar spread, waiting for him on the chance!" complained Mrs. Plunkett.

"Well, if I didn't mean, I've changed my mind; and now I've got to eat. A cup o' tea ain't enough for my inside, without there's some'at more substantial to be washed down."

"Father, you wouldn't mind two nice fresh eggs! They've got a lot next door; and they'll lend me half a-loaf. Eggs don't take long to boil. We're out of cheese, but there's butter."