The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 457
“Dey’re too stubborn, dat pair,” Lazarre told Salome. “Hilda say Frank he mus’ spik first an’ Frank he say he be dam if he do.”
Marigold was sorry Frank was going West, which, as far as she was concerned, was something “beyond the bourne of time and space,” but she looked forward to this visit with him. He would show her the humming-birds and the water-garden, and she believed she could coax him to let her have a peep at the skeleton. And he would take her on his knee and tell her funny stories; perhaps he might even take her for a drive in his new buggy behind his little black mare Jenny. Marigold thought this ever so much more fun than riding in a car.
Of course she was sorry to leave Mother even for a night, and sorry to leave her new kitten. But to go for a real visit! Marigold spent a raptured week looking forward to it and living it in imagination.
2
And it was horrid — horrid. There was nothing nice about it from the very beginning, except the drive to the Head with Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, over wood-roads spicy with the fern scent of the warm summer afternoon. As soon as they left her there the horridness began. Marigold did not know that she was homesick, but she knew she was unhappy from her head to her toes and that everything was disappointing. What good was a case of humming-birds if there were no one to talk them over with? Even the water-garden did not interest her, and there were no signs of a skeleton anywhere. As for Frank, he was the worst disappointment of all. He hardly took any notice of her at all. And he was so changed — so gruff and smileless, with a horrible little moustache which looked just like a dab of soot on his upper lip. It was the moustache over which he and Hilda had quarrelled, though nobody knew about it but themselves.
Marigold ate very little supper. She thought every mouthful would choke her. She took only two bites of Aunt Flora’s nut cake with whipped cream on top, and Aunt Flora, who had made it on purpose for her, never really forgave her. After supper she went out and leaned forlornly against the gate, looking wistfully up the long red road of mystery that led back home. Oh, if she were only home — with Mother. The west wind stirring in the grasses — the robin-vesper calls — the long tree shadows across a field of wheaten gold — all hurt her now because Mother wasn’t here.
“Nothing is ever like what you think it’s going to be,” she thought dismally.
It was after supper at home now, too. Grandmother would be weaving in the garret — and Salome would be giving the cats their milk — and Mother — Marigold ran in to Aunt Flora.
“Aunt Flora, I must go home right away — please — please.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Aunt Flora stiffly. “Don’t take a fit of the fidgets now.”
Marigold wondered why she had never noticed before what a great beaky nose Aunt Flora had.
“Oh, please take me home,” she begged desperately.
“You can’t go home to-night,” said Aunt Flora impatiently. The car isn’t working right. Don’t get lonesome now. I guess you’re tired. You’d better go to bed. Frank’ll drive you home to-morrow if it doesn’t rain. Come now, seven’s your bedtime at home, isn’t it?”
“Seven’s your bedtime at home.” At home — lying in her own bed, with the light shining from Mother’s room — with a delicious golden ball of fluff that curled and purred all over your bed and finally went to sleep on your legs. Marigold couldn’t bear it.
“Oh, I want to go home. I want to go home,” she sobbed.
“I can’t have any nonsense now,” said Aunt Flora firmly. Aunt Flora was noted for her admirable firmness with children. “Surely you’re not going to be a crybaby. I’ll take you up and help you undress.”
3
Marigold was lying alone in a huge room in a huge bed that was miles from the floor. She was suddenly half wild with terror and altogether wild with unendurable homesickness. It was dark with a darkness that could be felt. She had never gone to bed in the dark before. Always that friendly light in Mother’s room — and sometimes Mother stayed with her till she went to sleep, though Young Grandmother disapproved of that. Marigold had been afraid to ask Aunt Flora to leave the light. Aunt Flora had tucked her in and told her to be a good girl.
“Shut your eyes and go right to sleep, and it will be morning before you know it — and you can go home.”
Then she had gone out and shut the door. Aunt Flora flattered herself she knew how to deal with children.
Marigold couldn’t go to sleep in the dark. And it would be years and years before morning came — if it ever did.
“There’s nobody here who loves me,” she thought passionately.
The black endless hours dragged on. They really were hours, though to Marigold they seemed like centuries. It must surely be nearly morning.
How the wind was wailing round the house! Marigold loved the wind at home, especially at this time of the year when it made her cosy little bed seem cosier. But was this some terrible wind that Lazarre called “de ghos’ wind”?
“It blows at de tam of de year when de dead peop’ get out of dare grave for a lil’ while,” he told her.
Was this the time of year? And that man-hole she had seen in the ceiling before Aunt Flora took the light out? Lazarre had told her a dreadful story about seeing a horrible face “wit long hairy ear” looking down at him from a man-hole.
There was a closet in the room. Was that the closet where the skeleton was? Suppose the door opened and it fell out. Or walked out. Suppose its bones rattled — Uncle Paul said they did sometimes. What was it she had heard about Uncle Paul keeping a pet rat in the barn? Suppose he brought it into the house at night! Suppose it wandered about! Wasn’t that a rat gnawing somewhere?
Would she ever see home again? Suppose mother died before morning. Suppose it rained — rained for a week — and they wouldn’t take her home. She knew how Aunt Flora hated to get mud on the new car. And wasn’t that thunder?
It was only wagons rumbling across the long bridge over the East River below the house, but Marigold did not know that. She did know she was going to scream — she knew she couldn’t live another minute in that strange bed in that dark, haunted room. What was that? Queer scratches on the window. Oh — Lazarre’s story of the devil coming to carry off a bad child and scratching on the window to get in. Because she hadn’t said her prayers. Marigold hadn’t said hers. She had been too homesick and miserable to think of them. She couldn’t say them now — but she could sit up in bed and scream like a thing demented. And she did.
4
Uncle Paul and Aunt Flora, wakened out of their first sound sleep after a hard day’s work, came running in. Marigold stopped screaming when she saw them.
“The child’s trembling — she must be cold,” said Uncle Paul.
“I’m not cold,” said Marigold through her chattering teeth, “but I must go home.”
“Now, Marigold, you must be a reasonable little girl,” soothed Aunt Flora firmly. “It’s eleven o’clock. You can’t get home to-night. Would you like some raisins?”
“I want to go home,” repeated Marigold.
“Who’s raising the Old Harry here?” said Frank, coming in. He had heard Marigold’s shrieks when he was getting ready for bed. “Here, sis, is a chocolate mouse for you. Eat it and shut your little trap.”
It was a lovely, brown chocolate mouse with soft, creamy insides — the kind of confection the soul of the normal Marigold loved. But now it only suggested Uncle Paul’s mythical rat.
“I don’t want it — I want to go home.”
“Perhaps if you bring her up a kitten,” suggested Uncle Paul in desperation.
“I don’t want a kitten,” wailed Marigold. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll give you my coloured egg-dish if you’ll stay quietly till morning,” implored Aunt Flora, casting firmness to the winds.
“I don’t want the coloured egg-dish. I want to go home.”
“Well, go,” said Uncle Paul, finally losing his patience with this exasperating child. “There’s plenty of good road.”
But Aunt Flora had realised that Marigold was on the verge of hysterics, and to have a hysterical child on her hands was a prospect that made even her firmness quail. She had never approved of Paul’s whim of bringing the child here anyhow. This was a Winthrop trick if ever there was one.
“I think Frank had better hitch up and take her home. She may cry herself sick.”
“She’s a great big baby and I’m ashamed of her,” said Uncle Paul crushingly. That speech was to rankle in Marigold’s soul for many a day, but at the moment she was only concerned with the fact that Uncle Paul told Frank to go out and hitch up.
“Well, this is the limit,” said Frank grouchily.
Aunt Flora helped the sobbing Marigold to dress. Uncle Paul was so annoyed that he wouldn’t even say good-bye to her. Aunt Flora said it very stiffly. When Mother had kissed Marigold good-bye she had whispered, “When you come home be sure to thank Aunt Flora for the lovely time she has given you.” But it did not seem just the right thing to say, so Marigold said nothing.
“Cut out the weeps,” ordered Frank as he lifted her into the buggy. “Upon my word, I admire Herod.”
Frank was abominably cross. He had had a hard day’s work in the harvest-field and was in no mood for a twelve-mile ride, all for the whim of a silly kid. Lord, what nuisances kids were. He was glad he would never have any. Marigold conquered her sobs with an effort. She was going home. Nothing else mattered. Frank sent his black mare spinning along the road and never spoke a word, but Marigold didn’t care. She was going home.
Half-way home they turned the corner at the school, and Martin Richard’s house was just beyond — a little, old-fashioned white house with a tall Lombardy standing sentinel at either corner, and a tangle of rose-bushes fringing its short lane.
“Why, Frank,” cried Marigold, “what’s the matter with the house?”
Frank looked — shouted, “My Golly!” — stopped the mare — sprang out of the buggy — tore into the yard — hammered on the door. A window over the door opened — Marigold saw a girl lean out. It was Hilda Wright, who must have been staying all night with her cousin, Jean Richards. Frank saw her, too.
“The house is on fire,” he shouted. “Get them up — quick. There’s no time to lose.”
A wild half-hour followed — a most int’resting half-hour. Luckily Frank’s mare had been trained to stand without hitching, and Marigold sat there watching greedily. The house suddenly sparkled with lights. Men rushed out for buckets and ladders. Gigantic grotesque shadows went hurtling over the barns in the lantern-light. Dogs barked their heads off. It was very satisfying while it lasted. The fire was soon put out. The kitchen roof had caught from a spark. But after it was out, Marigold could see Frank and Hilda standing very close together by one of the Lombardies.
Marigold sat in the buggy and enjoyed the sudden swoops of wind. It was not a stormy night after all — it was a windy, starry night. How thick the stars were. Marigold would have liked to count them but she did not dare. Lazarre had told her that if you tried to count the stars you would drop down dead. Suppose — somewhere — a star fell down at your feet. Suppose a lot of them did. Suppose you were chasing stars all over the meadows — over the hills — over the dunes. Till you picked up handfuls of them.
Frank and Hilda came out to the buggy together. Hilda was carrying a little lantern, and the red silk scarf around her head fluttered about her face like a scarlet flame. The bitterness had gone out of her mouth and she was smiling. So was Frank.
“And you’ve sat here all this time alone without a word. And Jenny not even hitched. Well, you’re a plucky little kid after all. I don’t wonder you were homesick and scared in that big barn Flora calls a spare room. I’ll get you home now in two shakes. Nighty-night, honey.”
The “honey” was not for Marigold but for Hilda, who after being kissed, leaned forward and squeezed Marigold’s hand.
“I’m glad you were homesick,” she whispered. “But I hope you won’t ever be homesick again.”
“I guess Frank won’t go West now,” whispered Marigold.
“If he does I’ll go with him,” whispered Hilda. “I’ll go to the ends of the earth with him.”
“Look here, darling, you’ll catch cold,” interrupted Frank considerately. “Hop in and finish your beauty sleep. I’ll be up to-morrow night. Just now I’ve got to get this little poppet home. She saved your uncle’s house to-night with her monkey didoes, anyway.”
Frank was so nice and jolly and funny all the rest of the way home that Marigold was almost sorry when they got there. Every one at Cloud of Spruce was in bed, but Mother was not asleep. She came down at once and hugged Marigold when she heard Frank’s story — at least as much as he chose to tell. He said nothing about Hilda, but he gave Marigold a fierce parting hug and put two chocolate mice in her hand.
“Guess you can eat these fellows now without choking,” he said.
Marigold, safe in her own dear bed, with her kitten at her feet, ate her mice and fell asleep wondering if Frank were “dam” because he had, after all, spoken first.
CHAPTER V
The Door That Men Call Death
1
After all Old Grandmother did not live out her hundred years — much to the disappointment of the clan, who all wanted to be able to brag that one of them had “attained the century mark.” The McAllisters over-the-bay had a centenarian aunt and put on airs about it. It was intolerable that they should go the Lesleys one better in anything when they were comparative newcomers, only three generations out from Scotland, when the Lesleys were five.
But Death was not concerned about clan rivalry and somehow even Old Grandmother’s “will to live” could not carry her so far. She failed rapidly after that ninety-eighth birthday-party and nobody expected her to get through the next winter — except Marigold, to whom it had never occurred that Old Grandmother would not go on living forever. But in the spring Old Grandmother rallied amazingly.
“Mebbe she’ll make it yet,” said Mrs. Kemp to Salome. Salome shook her head.
“No; she’s done. It’s the last flicker of the candle. I wish she could live out the century. It’s disgusting to think of old Christine McAllister, who’s been deaf and blind and with no more mind than a baby for ten years, living to be a hundred and Lesley with all her faculties dying at only ninety-nine.”
Marigold in the wash-house doorway caught her breath. Was Old Grandmother going to die — could such a thing happen? Oh, it couldn’t. It couldn’t. The bottom seemed to have dropped out of everything for Marigold. Not that she was conscious of any particular love for Old Grandmother. But she was one of The Things That Always Have Been. And when one of The Things That Always Have Been disappear, it is a shock. It makes you feel as if nothing could be depended on.
She had got a little used to the idea by next Saturday, when she went in to say her verses to Old Grandmother. Old Grandmother was propped up on her rosy pillows, knitting furiously on a blue jacket for a new great-grandson at the Coast. Her eyes were as bright and boring as ever.
“Sit down. I can’t hear your verses till I’ve finished counting.”
Marigold sat down and looked at the brides. She did not want to look at Clementine’s picture but she had to. She couldn’t keep her eyes from it. She clenched her small hands and set her teeth. Hateful, hateful Clementine, who had more beautiful hands than Mother. And that endless dreamy smile at the lily — as if nothing else mattered. If she had only had the self-conscious smirk of the other brides, Marigold might not have hated her so much. They cared what people thought about them. Clementine didn’t. She was so sure of herself — so sure of having Father — so sure of being flawlessly beautiful, she never thought for a moment of anybody’s opinion. She knew that people couldn’t help looking at her and admiring her even though they hated her. Marigold wrenched her eyes away and fastened them on the picture of an angel over Old Grandmother’s bed — a radiant being with long white wings and halo of golden curls, soaring easily through sunset skies. Was Old Grandmother going to die? And if she did, would she be like that? Marigold had a daring little imagination but it faltered before such a conception.
“What are you thinking of?” demanded Old Grandmother so suddenly and sharply that Marigold spoke out the question in her mind before she could prevent herself.
“Will you be an angel when you die, ma’am?”
Old Granny sighed. “I suppose so. How it will bore me. Who’s been telling you I was going to die?”
“Nobody,” faltered Marigold, alive to what she had done. “Only — only—”
“Out with it,” ordered Old Grandmother.
“Mrs. Kemp said it was a pity you couldn’t live to be the hundred when old Chris McAllister did.”
“Since when,” demanded Old Grandmother in an awful tone, “have the Lesleys been the rivals of the McAllisters? The McAllisters! And does anybody suppose that Chris McAllister has been living for the last ten years? Why, she’s been deader than I’ll be when I’ve been under the sod for a century! For that matter she never was alive. As for dying, I’m not going to die till I get good and ready. For one thing, I’m going to finish this jacket first. What else did Mrs. Kemp say? Not that I care. I’m done with curiosity about life. I’m only curious now about death. Still, she was always an amusing old devil.”
She didn’t say much more — only that the Lawson baby couldn’t live and Mrs. Gray-over-the-bay had a cancer and Young Sam Marr had appendicitis.”
“Cheerful little budget. I dreamed last night I went to heaven and saw Old Sam Marr there and it made me so mad I woke up. The idea of Old Sam Marr in heaven.”
Old Grandmother shook her knitting-needle ferociously at a shrinking little bride who seemed utterly lost in the clouds of tulle and satin that swirled around her.
“Why don’t you want him in heaven?” asked Marigold.
