The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 462
“Oh, well, I haven’t got to wheel-chairs and gruel yet,” said Grandmother complacently.
They talked of the old days and the new days, and watched the moon rising over the old fields they knew. And Dr. Clow told her all the jokes he could think of. He was the only person in the world who dared tell jokes to Grandmother. And finally Grandmother — proud, reserved Grandmother — found herself telling him all about Marigold — who was asleep in her little room with tears still gemming her lashes. She had not taken any int’rest in Dr. Clow. He was Grandmother’s meat and, like Grandmother, must long since have forgotten the way to fairyland.
Grandmother had to tell somebody. Adam’s coming seemed providential. She had always found it easy to tell things to him — always, until now. To her amazement, she found it incredibly hard to tell Adam Clow that she had locked The Magic Door.
“She doesn’t seem to want to get better,” she concluded helplessly.
“‘A wounded spirit who can bear’?” quoted Adam Clow softly.
“I don’t understand,” said Grandmother in a hurt tone. “I — I think I’ve been very kind to Marigold.”
“And I think,” said Adam Clow rather sternly, “that she is dying of a broken heart.”
Grandmother began to say “Bosh,” and stopped. One didn’t say bosh to doctors of psychology.
“You don’t really mean to say you think she has got so ill because she can’t see that Sylvia of hers any more? Or imagines she can’t?”
Dr. Clow put his slender finger-tips together.
“I think I might talk a great deal of wise jargon about a neurosis caused by a suppressed desire for her playmate,” he said. “But I won’t. I simply advise you to give her the key of The Magic Door.”
“But — Adam!” Grandmother could not give in so easily. “Is it right to encourage her in those pretenses — those falsehoods—”
“They are not falsehoods. They are truths to her. She sees things invisible to us. She is a queen in the lovely Kingdom of Make-Believe. She is not trying to deceive anybody. She has the wonderful gift of creation in an unusual degree. It is such a pity that she will lose it as she grows older — that she will have to forego its wonder and live, like us, in the light of common day. Has this never occurred to you, Marian?”
No, it hadn’t. But — Grandmother gave a little sigh — of surrender. Dr. Clow stood up.
“I must be going. We have sat up terribly late for old folks.”
“I’m sorry you have to walk to Harmony,” said Grandmother. “Our horse is too lame to drive just now — and Horace is away — so his car—”
“I don’t like a car after dark. In a car you can never feel the charm of the soft enfolding night. I want to walk. It keeps me limber. Well, it’s good-bye for another year. I must go back to-morrow and begin work. And if I have to slip off this ‘robe of flesh’ before next summer I’ll save up my jokes to tell you in eternity. After all, there’s nothing quite so satisfying as an old friendship, is there, Marian? As for Marigold — the earth has grown very old for us, Marian. Let us be thankful it is still young and full of magic for Marigold.”
4
The next morning after breakfast Grandmother silently laid the key of the orchard door by Marigold’s blue bowl. Marigold lifted incredulous eyes.
“Oh, Grandmother! May I — may I?”
“Yes,” said Grandmother curtly. In spite of Adam’s fine phrases she did not relish defeat by this puss of a Marigold. And there was Lucifer cocking an insolent yellow eye at her, as if he were hugely amused over the whole affair.
Marigold stood still for a moment, transfigured. Her face was as blithe as the day. It was as if a little shower of joy had rained down upon her out of the sky. She flew through the orchard room — through The Magic Door — through the blue-eye grass of the orchard as if there were some Atalanta wizardry in her feet. Through the Green Gate. For another moment she stood, almost afraid. Suppose Sylvia — Then she shut her eyes and said her Rhyme.
5
Grandmother stood in The Magic Door at twilight. There was a pale moon-glow behind the cloud of spruce. There was a dance of great plumy boughs in the western wind. And there was a sound not heard in the orchard for a long time — the sound of Marigold’s laughter as she waved goodnight to Sylvia over the Green Gate.
CHAPTER VIII
“It”
1
Mother was home — pink-cheeked and rested and well — and Marigold was going to Blue Water Beach to stay from Friday evening to Sunday night. In other words, a week-end, though that expression had not yet penetrated to Cloud of Spruce. And Marigold was delighted for several good reasons. The best reason was that she would see Nancy — fascinating Nancy of the brown eyes and russet hair; and not only see her but play with her — play with Nancy’s beautiful set of dishes kept in the little square box-cupboard in the wall, with the glass door, and not only play with her but sleep with her two whole nights in her fascinating little room, where there was a dressing-table with a lovely frill of sheer white muslin over a pink lining, and a turquoise blue jug and basin with fluted edges, and peacocks on the wallpaper. They would talk delicious little secrets which nobody in the world but their small selves knew. Aunt Stasia’s house was near a railroad, and it was such thrilly fun to watch the lighted trains go by in the night, like great dragons breathing smoke and fire.
Then there was to be a party on Saturday afternoon at Lily Johnson’s, just across the road from Aunt Stasia’s, to which Marigold was invited, and she had the loveliest new dress for it.
Moreover, Blue Water Beach was in that realm of magic “over the bay,” where at sunset there were dim old shores of faded gold and dusk. Who knew but that some time she might actually get down to Blue Water Point and see what was beyond it — the Hidden Land, which she had longed all her life to see? She had never dared to ask any one what was beyond Blue Water Point for fear she should be told that there were only the same red coves and headlands and blue silk water that there were on this side of it. Surely there must be something more than that if one could only reach that far purple misty outpost of the “fairylands forlorn” Aunt Marigold talked about. As long as Marigold didn’t know there wasn’t, she could still dream that dear dream.
In the third place, she wanted to wipe out the memory of that old disgrace three years ago, when she had behaved so terribly at Uncle Paul’s. Uncle Paul always ragged her about it every time he saw her, and Aunt Flora had never really forgiven her. To be sure, they had to admit that if Marigold had been the good and proper child she should have been, Martin Richard’s house would have burned down and Frank Lesley and Hilda Wright would probably never have married each other. Still, Marigold knew she had behaved badly and she burned for a chance to redeem herself.
Standing on the veranda of Cloud of Spruce, Marigold could see three houses in a row over the bay. Three little white dots only six miles away as the crow flew, but nearly fifteen when you had to drive around the Head of the Bay. Though there was a delightful possibility that Uncle Klon just back from the Coast would have his new motor-boat in time to run her over Friday evening.
The middle dot was Aunt Stasia’s house — an int’resting house — an unexpected kind of house; like one of those houses in dreams where you are forever discovering new, fascinating rooms; a house where there was red flannel in the glass lamps; a house with a delightful, uncared-for garden where gnarled old apple-trees bent over plots of old-fashioned flowers — thickets of sweet clover, white and fragrant, beds of mint and southernwood, honeysuckles and blush roses; and where there was an old mossy path running up to the ivy-grown front door. Oh, Blue Water Beach was a charming spot, and Marigold couldn’t eat or sleep properly for a week because of looking forward to her week-end there.
Of course, this world being as it is, there were one or two small flies in her ointment. Aunt Stasia herself, now. Marigold always felt a little frightened of Aunt Stasia — who wasn’t really an aunt but only a cousin. Aunt Stasia of the tragic, wrinkled face, where nothing was left of her traditional beauty but her large dark eyes. Aunt Stasia who always wore black and a widow’s veil and never, never smiled. Marigold supposed you couldn’t smile if, just a few minutes after you had been married, your husband had been killed by a flash of lightning. But Marigold sometimes wondered, supposing such a thing happened to her, if she wouldn’t have to smile now and then — after years and years had passed, of course. There were so many things in the world to smile at.
Then, too, Aunt Stasia was — fussy. In spite of her romantic and tragic airs, Aunt Stasia was very fussy. A crumb on the carpet unfitted her for the day. A fly on the ceiling sent her to bed with a headache. If you got a spot on the tablecloth, Aunt Stasia looked at you as if you had broken all the Ten at once. Marigold knew she would have to be exceedingly proper and perfect at Blue Water Beach if she did not want to smirch the honour of Cloud of Spruce. She liked gentle, kitteny Cousin Teresa better. Cousin Teresa was Aunt Stasia’s sister, but she was never called Aunt. There was nothing auntish about her. When Aunt Stasia wasn’t around Cousin Teresa could be just like a little girl herself. But then Aunt Stasia mostly was around.
Also, Beulah. Beulah and Nancy were sisters, Aunt Stasia’s nieces — real nieces. The children of her dead sister. But whereas Marigold loved Nancy next to Sylvia, she did not like Beulah at all. Not at all. Not the least little bit. Beulah, she thought in her secret soul, was a mean, spiteful little cat. It was Beulah who had once deliberately pushed her into a bush of stick-tights; Beulah who had told her that Mother was disappointed because she wasn’t a boy. Marigold had never dared ask Mother about it for fear it was the truth, but it rankled bitterly along with her hatred of Clementine.
2
Marigold was sent from Cloud of Spruce spick and span, with her new dress and her best nightgown in her bag. She arrived at Blue Water Beach spick and span, just in time for supper, to which they at once sat down. Aunt Stasia had welcomed her kindly, though with the usual remote, haunting sound of tears in her voice. Cousin Teresa had kissed and purred; Nancy had given her an ecstatic hug; even Beulah had shaken hands in her superior way and proffered a peck on the cheek.
Marigold was hungry and the supper looked simply gorgeous. There were raspberries in generous blue saucers, and when Aunt Stasia had given her enough cream Cousin Teresa gave her a little more. Nancy was smiling happily and significantly at her across the table, as if to say, “Just wait till we get to bed. I’ve heaps to tell you.”
Altogether, in spite of Beulah and Aunt Stasia and the terrible spotlessness of everything, Marigold was rapturously happy. Too happy. The gods didn’t like it.
Then — it happened.
Marigold was sitting just where a burst of evening sunshine shone straight down on her shining pale gold hair, with its milk-white parting. Suddenly Aunt Stasia bent forward and looked with awful intentness at Marigold’s head. An expression of profound horror came into her eyes. She gasped and looked again. Then looked at Teresa, bent forward and whispered agitatedly in her ear.
“Im-possible,” said Cousin Teresa.
“See for yourself,” said Aunt Stasia.
Cousin Teresa rose and came around the table to the petrified Marigold, who was just realising that something perfectly awful must have happened, but couldn’t imagine what. She was so agitated that she slopped her tea over in the saucer. That was a terrible break.
“Oh, dear me,” wailed Cousin Teresa. “What can we do. What can we do?”
Cousin Teresa did something. Marigold felt a light touch on her head. Cousin Teresa dashed out of the room and came back a moment later looking ready to faint.
“Do you suppose — there are any more?” demanded Aunt Stasia hollowly.
“I don’t see any more,” said Cousin Teresa.
Beulah was snickering. Nancy was wirelessing sympathy.
“What is the matter with me?” cried Marigold.
No attention was paid to her.
“Is there — a comb — in the house?” asked Cousin Teresa in a low, shamed voice.
Aunt Stasia shook her head forcibly. “No — never was. There has never been any need of one here, thank heaven.”
Marigold was hopelessly bewildered. No comb at Blue Water Beach? Why, there was an abundance of them — one in every bedroom and one in the kitchen.
“I’ve a comb of my own in my bag,” she said with spirit.
Aunt Stasia looked at her.
“A comb? Do you mean to say that they sent you here — knowing—”
“It isn’t that kind of a comb,” whispered Cousin Teresa. “Oh, Stasia, what can we do?”
“Do. Well, we must keep her away from Nancy and Beulah at all events. Take her up to the spare room, Teresa, until we have consulted over the matter. Run along with Teresa, child — at once. And mind you don’t go near the bed. Sit on the hassock by the window. If you haven’t finished your supper, take a piece of cake and a cooky with you.”
Marigold did not want cake or cooky. She wanted to know what was the matter with her. She dared not ask Aunt Stasia but she indignantly demanded of Cousin Teresa on the stairs what she had done to be put away like this with such scorn and contumely. Marigold didn’t use those words but she felt them.
“Hush,” said Cousin Teresa nervously, as if the walls around had ears. “The less said about IT the better. Of course, I don’t suppose it is your fault. But it’s simply terrible.”
3
Marigold found herself alone in the spare room. Humiliated — frightened — and a little angry. For all the Lesleys had a bit of temper, and this was no way to treat a visitor. What a hateful grin she had seen on Beulah’s face as Cousin Teresa walked her out of the room! She went to the dim mirror and scrutinised her countenance carefully and as much of her sleek head as she could see. Nothing was wrong apparently. Yet that look of horror in Aunt Stasia’s eyes!
She must have some terrible disease. Yes, that must be it. Leprosy was an awful thing. Suppose she had leprosy — or smallpox. Or that dreadful thing Uncle Klon flippantly called T. B.? What was it she had heard “ran” in the Lesleys. Agatha Lesley had died of it. Something about the heart. But this had to do with the head evidently. She wondered if and how soon it would prove fatal. She thought pathetically that she was very young to die. Oh, she must get home right away if she had anything dreadful. Charming Blue Water Beach was now simply a place to get out of as soon as possible. Poor Mother, how terribly she would feel —
Marigold was suddenly aware that Aunt Stasia and Cousin Teresa were talking together in the parlour below the spare room. There was a little grating in the floor under the window, where a small “heat hole” penetrated the parlour ceiling. Marigold had been trained not to eavesdrop. But there were, she felt, exceptions to every rule. She must find out what was the matter with her head. Deliberately she lay down on the rag carpet and laid her ear to the grating. She found she could hear tolerably well, save at such times as Aunt Stasia dropped her voice in a fresh access of horror, leaving tantalising gaps which might hold who knew what of ghastly revelation.
“We can’t let her go to the party,” said Aunt Stasia. “What if any one were to see — what we saw. I don’t believe such a thing has ever happened to a Lesley before.”
“Oh, yes — once — to Charlotte Lesley when she went to school.”
Now, Charlotte Lesley was dead. Marigold shuddered. Of course, Charlotte had died of IT.
“And Dan,” continued Cousin Teresa. “Remember Dan?”
“A boy is different. And besides, you know how Dan turned out,” said Aunt Stasia.
How had Dan turned out? Marigold felt as if she would give anything to know.
“Such a disgrace,” Cousin Teresa was wailing when Marigold could hear again. “Her hair will have to be shingled to the bone. I suppose we could get a — comb.”
“I will not be seen buying a comb,” said Aunt Stasia decidedly.
“And where is she to sleep?” moaned Cousin Teresa. “We can’t take her home to-night. In the spare room?”
“No — no. She can’t sleep there. I’d never feel sure of the bed again. We must put her in Annabel’s room.”
“But Annabel died there,” objected Cousin Teresa.
“Marigold doesn’t know that,” said Aunt Stasia.
Oh, but Marigold did — now. Not that it mattered to her how many people had died in Annabel’s room. But she would not be able to sleep with Nancy. This was a far more bitter disappointment than not going to the party.
“There was only one,” Cousin Teresa was saying hopefully, when their voices became audible again.
“There are sure to be more of them,” said Aunt Stasia darkly.
Them! Marigold had a flash of awful illumination.
Germs, of course. Those mysterious, terrible things she had heard Aunt Marigold speak of. She was — what was it? Oh, yes — a germ-carrier. Germs that perhaps she would never be able to get rid of. She must be an outcast all her life! Horror fell over her small face like a frost.
Aunt Stasia and Cousin Teresa were going out of the parlour. Marigold got up and crept pathetically to the window, feeling as if it were years since she had left home that afternoon, so happy and light-hearted, never dreaming of IT. Away out beyond the harbour, a little lonely ship was drifting over the edge of the world. The lonely red road wound past Blue Water Beach in the twilight. A lonely black wind was blowing. Marigold always felt that winds had colour — and this one was certainly black. Everything was black. No party — no night of soul-satisfying exchange of thought with Nancy. Nothing but — germs.
