And no Sylvia!
Marigold stared helplessly around her with a quivering lip. No Sylvia. Sylvia would not come. Would never come again. Marigold felt this as we feel certain things irrevocably. Was it because she had told Budge about her? Or was it because she had suddenly grown too old and wise for fairyland. Were the “ivory gates and golden” of which Mother sometimes sang, closed behind her forever? Marigold flung herself down among the ferns in the bitterest tears she had ever shed—ever would shed, perhaps. Her lovely dream was gone. Who of us is there who has not lost one?
3
It was the next day Budge came back—an indignant Budge, avid to pour out his wrongs to somebody. And that somebody was the disdained and disdainful Marigold, who had vowed afresh the night before that if Budge Guest ever spoke to her again she would treat him with such scorn and contempt that even his thick hide would feel it.
Budge and Tad had fought because their dogs had fought.
“My dog won,” gulped Budge. “And Tad got mad. He said Dix was only a mongrel cur.”
“He’s jealous,” said Marigold comfortingly. “And he has an awful temper. I heard that long ago from a girl who knew him welly.”
“I dared him to fight me, then—and he said he wouldn’t fight me because I was such a sissy.”
“He wouldn’t fight you because he knew he’d get licked even worse than his dog did,” said Marigold, oh, so scornfully. But the scorn was all for Tad.
“He wouldn’t fight—but he kept on saying mean things. He said I wore a nightcap. Well, I did once, years ago—when I was little but—”
“Everybody wears nightcaps when they’re little,” said Marigold.
“And he said that I was a coward and that I wouldn’t walk through the graveyard at night.”
“Let’s go through it tonight and show him,” said Marigold eagerly.
“Not tonight,” said Budge hastily. “There’s a heavy dew. You’d get wet.”
Happiness flowed through Marigold like a wave. Budge was thinking of her welfare. At least, so she believed.
“He said his grandfather had whiskers and mine hadn’t. Should a grandfather have whiskers?”
“It’s ever so much more aristocratic not to have them,” said Marigold with finality.
“And he said I wasn’t tattooed and couldn’t stand tattooing. He’s always been so conceited about that snake his sailor-uncle tattooed on his arm.”
“What if he is tattooed?” Marigold wanted to know. She recalled what Grandmother had said about that tattooed snake. “It’s a barbaric disfigurement. Didn’t you say anything to him?” Budge gulped.
“Everything I said he said it over again and laughed.”
“There’s something so insulting about that,” agreed Marigold.
“And he called me a devilish pup.”
“I wouldn’t mind being called a devilish pup,” said Marigold, who thought it sounded quite dashing and romantic.
But there was something yet worse to be told.
“He—said—I was unladylike.”
This was a bit of a poser for Marigold. It would never do to imply that Budge was ladylike.
“Why didn’t you tell him that he’s pop-eyed and that he eats like a rhinoceros?” she inquired calmly.
Budge was at the end of his list of grievances. His anger was ebbing and he had a horrible feeling that he was going to—cry. And back of that a delicious feeling that even if he did Marigold would understand and not despise him. What a brick of a girl she was! Worth a million Tad Austins.
As a matter of fact Budge got off without crying but he never forgot that feeling.
“I’m never going to have anything to do with him again,” he said darkly. “Say, do you want one of them gray kittens? If you do I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”
“Oh, do,” said Marigold. “The Witch’s are all black this summer.”
They sat there for an hour eating nut-sweet apples, entirely satisfied with themselves. To Marigold the tiny roses on the bush by the steps seemed like the notes or echoes of the little song that was singing itself in her heart. All that had once made magic made it again. And she asked Budge if he had told Tad about Sylvia.
“Of course not. That’s your secret,” said Budge, grandly. “And he doesn’t know about the password and the secret sign either. That’s our secret.”
When Budge went home it was agreed that he should bring the kitten the next afternoon and that they should go on a quest for the Holy Grail up among the spruces.
“I’ll never forget tonight,” said Marigold. Some lost ecstasy had returned to life.
4
But the next morning it seemed as if the night before had never been. When Marigold had sprung eagerly out of her blue-and-white bed, slipped into her clothes and run liltingly down to the front door—what did she see?
Budge and Tad walking amiably down the road with fishing-poles and worm-cans, while two dogs trotted behind in entire amity.
Marigold stood rigid. She made no response when Budge waved his pole gaily at her and shouted hello. Her heart, so full of joy a moment ago, was lead, heavy and cold.
That was a doleful forenoon. Her new dress of peach silk came home but Marigold was not interested in it. A maiden forsaken and grieved in spirit has no vanity.
But just let Budge Guest come to her again for comfort!
Budge came that afternoon but not in search of comfort. He was cheerful and grinful and he brought an adorable clover-scented kitten with a new pattern of stripes. But Marigold was cold and distant. Very.
“What’s biting you?” asked Budge.
“Nothing,” said Marigold.
“Look here,” expostulated Budge, “I came over to go Grailing with you. But if you don’t want to go just say so. Tad wants me to go to the harbor mouth.”
For a moment, pride and—something else—struggled fiercely together in Marigold’s heart. Something else won.
“Of course I want to go Grail-hunting,” she said.
They did not find the Grail but they found one of Grandmother’s precious pink-lustre cups which had been lost for two years, ever since a certain Lesley Reunion Picnic had been held on the spruce hill. Found it safe and unharmed in a crevice of the stone dyke. And Grandmother was so pleased that she gave them a whole plateful of hop-and-go-fetch-its to eat—which was symbolic. She would not have given them hop-and-go-fetch-its if it had really been the Grail they found.
5
Budge went home. He had a tryst with Tad for the evening. Marigold sat down on the veranda steps. The little streak of yellow sky above the dark hills over the harbor was very lonely. The sound of breakers tumbling on the far away outer shore was very lonely. She was very lonely—in spite of her jolly afternoon with Budge.
Aunt Marigold coming out, noted Marigold’s face and sat down beside her. Aunt Marigold, who had never had any children of her own, knew more mothercraft than many women who had. She had not only the seeing eye but the understanding heart as well. In a short time she had the whole story. If she smiled over it Marigold did not see it.
“You must not expect to have Budge wholly to yourself dear, as you had Sylvia. Our earthly house of love has many mansions and many tenants. Budge will be always coming back to you. He finds something in your companionship Tad can’t give him. He’ll come for it, never fear. But you must share him with others. We—women—must always share.”
Marigold sat awhile longer after Aunt Marigold had gone away. But she was no longer unhappy. A dreamy smile lingered on her lips. The new kitten purred on her lap. The twilight wrapped her round. Robber winds came down out of the cloud of spruce to rifle spices from the flower-beds in the orchard. There was gold of her namesake flowers all along the dusk of the walk. His stars twinkled through the fir-trees and right and left the harbor range-lights shone like great earth s
tars. Presently a moon rose and there was a sparkling trail over the harbor like a lady’s silken dress.
Yes, she must share Budge. The old magic was gone forever—gone with Sylvia and the Hidden Land and all the dear, sweet fading dreams of childhood. But after all there were compensations. For one thing, she could be as big a coward as she wanted to be. No more hunting snakes and chivying frogs. No more pretending to like horrible things that squirmed. She was no longer a boy’s rival. She stood on her own ground.
“And I’ll always be here for him to come back to,” she thought.
About the Author
L. M. Montgomery achieved international fame in her lifetime that endures well over a century later. A prolific writer, she published some 500 short stories and poems and twenty novels. Most recognized for Anne of Green Gables, her work has been hailed by Mark Twain, Margaret Atwood, Madeleine L’Engle, and Duchess Kate, to name a few. Today, Montgomery’s novels, journals, letters, short stories, and poems are read and studied by general readers and scholars from around the world. Her writing appeals to people who love beauty and to those who struggle against oppression.
Don’t miss more classic favorites from L.M. Montgomery
Anne of Green Gables
Anne of Avonlea
Anne of the Island
Anne of Windy Poplars
Anne’s House of Dreams
Anne of Ingleside
• • •
Emily of New Moon
Emily Climbs
Emily’s Quest
• • •
The Blue Castle
Magic for Marigold
Pat of Silver Bush
Mistress Pat
Jane of Lantern Hill
A Tangled Web
• • •
For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit www.sourcebooks.com.
L. M. Montgomery, Magic for Marigold
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