And at first—Mats. Mats lived on the next farm and had been christened Martha. But she had lived that down. She was a fat, jolly little soul with round gray eyes, notorious freckles, luxuriant unbobbed sugar-brown curls, a face meant for laughter, and a generous mother who made enchanting pies. For a week she and Marigold had “no end of fun” together and got into no more mischief than two normal small girls should with no Grandmothers around. And the soul of Marigold was knit into the soul of Mats and all was harmony and joy—until Paula came. Came and took immediate possession of the center of the stage, as is the way of the Paulas.
2
It happened at Sunday-school. All the Lesleys were Presbyterians—of course—but the Presbyterian church over-the-bay was three miles away, so Marigold was sent to Sunday-school in the little white Baptist church on the other side of the pond, with the spruce-trees crowding all around it. Marigold loved it. She thought it seemed like a nice, friendly little church. She wore her pretty new green dress, with its little embroidered collar, and her smart little white hat with its green bow. And kid gloves—new kid gloves—real kid gloves. Mats, who knew no jealousy, was puffed up with pride over having for a chum a girl who wore real kid gloves. All the other little girls in Sunday-school cast envious glances at her and Marigold.
All but one. That one was sitting by herself on a bench, reading her Bible. And when Marigold and Mats sat down beside her that one got up and moved away—not contemptuously or proudly, but as some consecrated soul might remove itself automatically and unconsciously from the contamination of worldly contact.
“Well, I never,” said Mats. “Aren’t we good enough to sit beside you, Paula Pengelly?”
Paula turned and looked at them—or rather at Marigold. Mats she seemed entirely to ignore. Marigold looked back at her, spellbound from the start. She saw a girl, perhaps a year older than herself, slight as a reed, with large, glowing hazel eyes in a small, pale-brown face. A braid of long, straight, silky, dark-brown hair fell over each shoulder. Her cheek-bones were high and her lips thin and red. She was hatless and shabbily dressed and the Bible she clasped dramatically against her breast in her very long, very slender hands seemed to have been a Bible a great many years. She was not pretty but there was Something in her face. “Int’resting” was hardly a strong enough word and Marigold had not yet picked up “fascinating.” She could not help looking at this Paula. There was—something—in her eyes that made you suddenly feel she saw things invisible to others—things you wanted ardently to see, too. A look that made Marigold think of a picture over Aunt Marigold’s desk—the look of a white saint in ecstasy.
“No,” said Paula, in an intense, dramatic way that made Marigold shiver deliciously, “you are not. You are not Christians. You are children of wrath.”
“We ain’t,” cried Mats indignantly. But Marigold felt that they might be. Somehow one believed what Paula said. And she did not want to be a child of wrath. She wanted to be like Paula. She fairly ached with her desire for it.
“We’re just as good as you,” continued Mats.
“Goodness isn’t enough, wretched child,” answered Paula. “Hold your peace.”
“What does she mean?” whispered Mats as Paula turned away. Whispered it rather fearfully. Was she a wretched child? She had never thought so, but Paula Pengelly made you believe things.
“She means hold your yap,” said another girl passing. “Paula’s ‘got religion,’ didn’t you know?—like her father.” Whatever it was that Paula had, Marigold felt she wanted it too. All through Sunday-school she yearned for it as she watched Paula’s saintly little profile under that prim, straight hair. Grandmother and Mother were Christians, of course. But they never made her feel as Paula had done. At one time Marigold had believed Gwennie was very saintly. But Gwennie’s supposed goodness only aggravated her. This was different. Marigold stayed for church that day because Mats was a Baptist, and Paula sat opposite them in a side seat. All through the waiting time before service Paula read her Bible. When the service began she fixed her eyes unwinkingly on the top of one of the little oriel windows. Oh, thought Marigold passionately, to be saintly and wonderful like that! She felt religious and sorrowful herself. It was a beautiful feeling. She had never felt anything quite like it before, not even when listening to Dr. Violet Meriwether. Once Paula looked from the window and right at her—with those compelling, mystical eyes. They said “Come” and Marigold felt that she must go—to the world’s end and further.
When church was out Paula came straight up to Marigold.
“Do you want to come with me on the way of the cross?” she asked solemnly and dramatically. Paula had the knack of making every scene in which she took part dramatic—which was probably a large part of her fascination. And she had a little way of saying things, as if she could have said so much more and didn’t. One yearned to discover the mystery of what she didn’t say.
“If you do, meet me under the lone pine-tree at the head of the pond tomorrow.”
“Can Mats come too?” asked Marigold loyally.
Paula flung Mats a condescending glance.
“Do you want to go to Heaven?”
“Y-e-es—but not for a long time yet,” stammered Mats uncomfortably.
“You see.” Paula looked eloquently at Marigold. “She’s not One of Us. I knew you were the moment I saw you.”
“I am,” cried Mats, who couldn’t bear to be left out of anything. “And of course I want to go to heaven.”
“Then you must be a saint.” Paula was inexorable. “Only saints go to heaven.”
“But—do you have any fun?” wailed Mats.
“Fun! We are saving our souls. Would you,” demanded Paula hollowly, “rather have fun and go to—to—a place too dreadful to speak of?”
“No—no.” Mats was quite subdued and willing—temporarily—to do and surrender everything.
“Tomorrow then—at nine o’clock—under the lone pine,” said Paula.
The very tone of her voice as she uttered “lone pine” gave you a thrilling sense of mystery and consecration. Marigold and Mats went home, the former expectant and excited, the latter very dubious.
“Paula’s always got some bee in her bonnet,” she grumbled. “Last summer she read a book called Rob Roy, and she made all us girls call ourselves a clan and have a chieftain and wear thistles and tartans. Of course she was chieftain. But there was some fun in that. I don’t believe this religious game will be as good.”
“But it’s not a game.” Marigold was shocked.
“Maybe not. But you don’t know Paula Pengelly.”
Marigold felt she did—better than Mats—better than anybody. She longed for Monday and the lone pine.
“Old Pengelly’s her father,” said Mats. “He used to be a minister long ago—but he did something dreadful and they put him out. I think he used to get drunk. He’s—” Mats tapped her forehead with a significant gesture, as she had seen her elders do. “He preaches a lot yet, though in barns and places like that. I’m scared to death of him but lots of people say he’s a real good man and very badly used. They live in that little house on the other side of the pond. Paula’s aunt keeps house for them. Her mother is long since dead. Some people say she has Indian blood in her. She’s never decently dressed—all cobbled together with safety pins, Ma says. Are you really going to the head of the pond tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” Mats sighed, “I s’pose I’ll have to go too. But I guess our good times are over.”
3
Monday and the lone pine came though Marigold thought they never would. She told Aunt Anne and Uncle Charlie at the breakfast-table where she was going, and Uncle Charlie looked questioningly at Aunt Anne. As Marigold went out, he asked,
“What is that young devil in petticoats up to now?”
Marigold thought he was referring to her
and wondered what on earth she had done to be called a young devil. Her conduct had really been very blameless. But she forgot all such minor problems when they reached the lone pine. Paula was awaiting them there—still rapt, still ecstatic. She had not, so she informed them, slept a wink all night.
“I couldn’t—thinking of all the people in the world who are going to be—lost.”
Marigold immediately felt it was dreadful of her to have slept so soundly. She and Mats sat down, as commanded, on the grass. Paula gave a harangue, mainly compounded of scraps of her father’s theology. But Marigold did not know that, and she thought Paula more wonderful than ever. Mats merely felt uncomfortable. Paula hadn’t even told them to sit in the shade. All very fine if you had the Lesley pink-and-white or the Pengelly brown. But when you hadn’t! Right here in the boiling sun! It must be admitted, I am afraid, that Mats just then was much more concerned with her freckles than with her soul.
“And now,” concluded Paula with tragic earnestness, “both of you ask yourselves this question, ‘Am I a child of God or of the devil?’”
Mats thought it was horrid to be confronted with such a problem.
“Of course I’m not a child of the devil,” she said indignantly.
But Marigold was all at sea. Under the spell of Paula’s eloquence she did not know what her ancestry ought to be.
“What’ll—we do—about it—if we are?” she asked unsteadily.
“Repent. Repent of your sins.”
“Oh, I haven’t any sins to repent of,” said Mats, relieved.
“You can never go to heaven if you haven’t committed sins, because you can’t repent of them and be forgiven,” said Paula inexorably.
This new kind of theology dumbfounded Mats. While she was wrestling with it, Paula’s mesmeric eyes were on Marigold.
“What would—you call sins?” Marigold asked timidly.
“Have you ever read stories that weren’t true?” demanded Paula.
“Ye-es—and—” Marigold was seized with the torturing delight of confession, “and—made them up—too.”
“Do you mean to say you’ve lied?”
“Oh, no. Not lies. Not lies. I mean—”
“They must be lies if they weren’t true.”
“Well—perhaps. And I’ve thought of—things—when Uncle Charlie was having family prayers.”
“What things?” said Paula relentlessly.
“I—I thought of a door in a picture on the wall—I thought of opening it—and going in—seeing what was inside—what people lived there—”
Paula waved her hand. After all what did it matter if Marigold did think of queer things while Charlie Marshall was praying? What did his prayers matter? Paula was after things that mattered.
“Have you ever eaten meat?”
“Why—yes—is that—”
“It’s wicked—very wicked. To sacrifice life to your appetites. Oh, shame!”
Shame, indeed!
Marigold writhed with it. It was intolerable to have Paula looking at her in such scorn. Paula saw the shame and promptly assuaged it.
“Never mind. You didn’t know. I’ve et meat—too—till last spring. I had an awful rash. I knew it was a judgment because I’d done something wrong. I knew it was eating meat—Father said so. He said the finger of God had touched me. So I vowed I’d never eat any more. Oh, how my conscience vexed me. It was awful how I suffered.”
There was real anguish in Paula’s voice. She stood, a flaming, fascinating figure under the old pine—a young priestess, inspired, devoted. Marigold felt she would follow her to the stake.
“What are we going to do about it?” said that detestable practical Mats.
“We are going to form a society for saving our souls and the world,” said Paula. “I’ve thought it all out. We’ll call ourselves the Lighted Lamps. Don’t you think that’s a splendid name? I’ll be head of it and you must do just as I tell you. We will live such beautiful lives that everybody will admire us and want to join us. We will be just as good every day as we are on Sunday”—here Mats emitted a “marvelous grisly groan”—“but we will be very exclusive. No one can come in who is not ready to be a martyr.”
“But what are we to do?” said Mats with a sigh. She must go where Marigold went, but her chubby personality had no heritage of martyrdom.
Paula allowed herself to sit down.
“First, we must never eat anything more than is absolutely necessary. No meat—no pudding—no cake—”
“Oh, I have to eat some,” cried Marigold sorrowfully. “Aunty would think I was sick or something and send me home.”
“Well, then, there must be no second helpings,” said Paula inexorably. They pledged themselves—Marigold thinking guiltily of the delicious little strawberry shortcakes Aunt Anne had said she was going to make for dinner.
“We must never read or tell anything that isn’t strictly true. Never pretend anything”—Marigold gave a gasp but recovered herself gallantly—“never wear any jewelry—and never play silly games.”
“Can’t we play at all?” implored Mats.
“Play. In a world where we must prepare for eternity? You can play if you like but I shall not.”
“What will we do if we can’t play?” asked Marigold humbly.
“Work. The world is full of work waiting to be done.”
“I always help Aunt Anne every way I can. But when I get through what can I do?”
“Meditate. But we’ll find lots to do when we get going. Now, Mats, if you’re coming in on this, come with all your soul. You must sacrifice. You have to be miserable or you can’t be good. You mustn’t forget for one moment that you’re a sinner. You can’t be both religious and happy in this world of sin and woe. We must live up to our name. And every time our light goes out we must do penance.”
“How?” Mats again.
“Oh, lots of ways. I put some burrs next my skin yesterday because I only wanted a second helping at dinner. And kneel on peas. And fast, I fast often—and do you know, girls, when I fast I hear voices calling me by name.” Paula’s face took on a strange, unearthly radiance that completed Marigold’s subjugation. “And I know it is angels calling me to my life’s work—singling me out—setting me apart.”
Mats had a hazy idea that it was going to be pretty hard to live up to Paula. But she meant to get to the bottom of things. “You’ve told us what we mustn’t do. Now tell us what we must do.”
“We must visit sick people—”
“I hate sick people,” muttered Mats rebelliously, while Marigold thought with a shudder of her experience with Mrs. Delagarde. Paula, she felt, would not have been a bit frightened of Mrs. Delagarde.
“And read the Bible every day and say our prayers night and morning—”
“I don’t see any use in saying prayers in the morning. I ain’t scared in daytime,” protested Mats.
Paula tried to ignore her and addressed herself to Marigold—who, as she felt instinctively, was a devotee of promise. You could never make anything of Mats—always chattering like a silly little parrot—but this new girl was after her own heart.
“We must hand out tracts—Father has stacks of them—and ask people if they’re Christians—you can ask your father’s hired man, Mats.”
“He’d leave if I did and Father’d kill me,” said Mats uncomfortably.
“Well, we’re organized,” said Paula. “Repeat after me, ‘Lighted lamps we are and lighted lamps we will be as long as grass grows and water runs.’”
“Ow,” whimpered Mats. But she repeated the vow glibly, comforted by recollections of other vows with the same implication of eternity which had proved to be of time when Paula grew tired of them.
“And now,” concluded Paula, “I’ll lead in prayer”—which she did, so beautifully and fervently, with her pale hands clasped a
nd her eyes fixed on the sky, that Marigold’s soul was uplifted and even Mats was impressed.
“There may be some fun in this after all,” she reflected. “But I wish Paula would repent in winter. That’s the best time for repenting.”
4
As the days went on, Mats grimly concluded that there wasn’t much fun in it. She was with them but not of them. As she had foreseen, it was very hard to live up to Paula. At least, for her. Marigold didn’t seem to find it hard. Marigold, who went about with stars in her eyes, so unnaturally good that Aunt Anne was worried. Good on the outside, at least. Marigold knew she was full of sin inside because Paula told her so. Marigold was by now wholly in the power of this pale brown girl and thought her the most wonderful saintly creature that ever lived. She grieved constantly because she fell so far short of her. Paula fasted so much—as that wan, rapt face and those purple-ringed eyes testified eloquently. Marigold couldn’t fast because of unsympathetic relatives. She could only refuse second helpings and “pieces” and writhe in bitterness when she heard Paula say loftily,
“I haven’t touched a morsel of food since yesterday morning.”
Neither could she hand out little time-yellowed tracts at church as Paula did every Sunday and as Mats flatly refused to do at all.
“You can amuse yourselves by being miserable if you want to,” said Uncle Charlie, “but I’m not going to have you making a nuisance of yourself as Paula Pengelly does.”